not a shrinking violet

Welcome to twenty seconds of my caffeine-besotted inner monologue:

* It is, too, cool to decorate one’s bathroom entirely in lemon verbena soap.
* Hmmm. Four whole Claussen dill pickles. Chaser: a tumbler of V-8. Twice. Think I’m craving salt, maybe?
* Oops, cancel that. I forgot. I already have enough pink shoes.
* Hugh Jackman’s nose curves downward just a bit too much, otherwise I would lurrrrve him. But the hook-nose, it has wrecked any chance for us.
* Why must I be tortured by bits of food left in the sink? That aren’t mine?
* Okay, there’s this buzzing noise. Do you hear a buzzing noise?

caterpillar sis

Why am I even in bed? Look, I’ll just spare you, and, like, go clean something.

Only a tea-’tard would brew before bedtime. Even if it is Monkey- Picked Oolong.

I’m getting a new roommate next week. I’m deporting the current one to Texas. Call it a two-fold Valentine’s Day gift to myself.

I have four reasons, for those of you asking “why:”

Any guesses?

It’s back, albeit watered-down. Since I am all about this positive-reframing stuff, though, I’m calling it ‘Repackaged Asshat Limerickery.’

How to:
1. Simply excise Asshat Marcia’s picture, full name, phone number, description of identifying hairy moles/warts, and physical and e-mail addresses.
2. Add snark, sprinkle liberally with sass.
3. Serve with a side of finely-minced pleasegostraighttohell.

And you get:

There was once an Asshat named Marcia
Of whom no one at all was a fan.
She was a nosy, self-righteous, insufferable bore
Her poor husband - he tried - but could take no more,
So now he lives with a man.

It’s nearly the end of yoga class. We’ve been beaten into hamburger by Mr. Power Yoga himself.

Okay, hang on. You who’ve done yoga understand this isn’t an oxymoron: it is not merely relaxing and stretching. Hatha Yoga is better described as a series of held poses - or for you gym-rats - isotonic strength moves. It can be made to be easy, but it certainly doesn’t have to be. Serious practitioners are more than relaxed; they are strong, graceful and fluid movers, deep breathers, and have a danglingly-serene posture, to boot.

Back to my point.

So, we’ve spent the final ten minutes in a professional yogi-guided exercise in deep relaxation. All are deeply meditative (or so I imagine). I’m paying no mind to my mind, just my body. I got the jive goin’, y’all. I’m at peace.

And out of the blue, my brain snaps back on:

“You know, I’m really diggin’ it, babe. This feels great, but wouldn’t a Dunhill be just the shit right about now?”

It was years ago, but I used to associate with these two brothers clowns (the one on the left far more than the other, in part because he was cuter, funnier, and not married *).

* Which is good policy, generally speaking.

UPDATE: That would be the brother on the viewer’s left! (Thanks, Dave!)

In Ye Olde Yuma tradition, tomorrow’s trip (that was not to Yuma) was rescheduled. Translated: that live-blogging par-tay at the Dulles C Terminal bar will have to wait. So will trying to snag a first class seat and the resultant in-cabin antics where I somehow manage to lose my pants.

The only possible upside to this? I won’t be missing my first yoga class on Wednesday night, during which I will sustain yet another ass-kicking.

Let’s see if I’m singing the same tune then, shall we?

Revolution is what societies do instead of committing suicide, when the alternatives are exhausted and all the connections that bind men’s lives to familiar patterns are cut. To be a revolutionary is to love your life enough to change it, to choose struggle instead of exile, to risk everything with only the glimmering hope of a world to win.

– Andrew Kopkind

It’s back! It’s the very first NASV Linky-Love fest.

But let’s take a minute, first, and have a rest-in-peace moment for the old site, besmirched, where it used to be ‘Friday-Night Linky-Love. Okay? Come on, get your lighters out and sway.

Oh…feh. I’m so over it.

Anyway.

Serendipity had its way with me today. Not that I minded one bit:

It’s my first three-day weekend (for which I’ve been local to enjoy it) for months and months. I have a compressed work schedule, such that I work ten-hour days and get every other Friday off. It happens on pay-day, too, so I’m giggling like a schoolgirl all the way up to DC to accomplish some high-impact shopping. Betsey Johnson and Steve Madden, here I come.

It will be a welcome break from blocking IPs and addressing policy memos to a group of assholes who are unable to acknowledge that the two people who wrecked their marriage, all by themselves, are the only two people who can fix it, ultimately.

Getting e-mails from April because she’s blocked and can’t read up on me, huh? Thanks to this lovely thing called the internet? And IP addresses? And intelligent tracking? I have the link for that e-mail she sent you (you AOL users aren’t as anonymous as they’d like you to think); now I can use that new program I have to figure out the password.

Let’s see what else I have:

Date: Jan 27 15:01:59
Referer: http://awasteofbiomass.com/index.php?p=25
Agent: Mozilla/4.0 (compatible; MSIE 6.0; Windows NT 5.1; Student User)

You’re reading all about me; fascinating, isn’t it? Fascinated, aren’t you? I know, I know…you just can’t help yourself.

There’s more…oh, my - it says “Student User.” You’re not much the type for school, methinks, Marcia. Oh, I remember, you work there (what - do you clean toilets?). And at 3:00 in the afternoon? Using the ol’ work computer to conduct personal business - I wonder what the boss would think?

Seeing as you deserve it (and more), I’m posting your IP address for the entire world to see:

198.146.216.9

Oh, it gets better still - would you look at this?

Next week: again, I board an airplane. I’ve been briefed that my destination features “lots of sand, but no water.” As though I should find such an environment to be a novel one.

Anyway, Tuesday’s post(s) will be live from the C-terminal bar, Dull-ass. Be there or be square.

Today’s 1630 class hurts my knees. This instructor was doing far too many squats for such crunchy patellas as mine, making aspirin a real after-dinner treat. Yeah, the Wednesday Tae-bo class has a different flavor altogether, compared to Monday night’s old-fashioned ass-kicking.

To review: Monday - gooooood. Wednesday? Not so much.

But it’s a moot point - for the next eight Wednesday nights, anyway - I’ll be taking yoga instead. And then everything but my knees will hurt.

Because that instructor sumbitch? He craaaaazy.

I got goosed.

Status: Room reserved for Operation Code Name ‘Georgia Writer’s Workshop.’

Despite the fact that I’ve been pegged, uh, otherwise, I got one of the cheaper ‘island view’ quarters, and contra to Velociman’s advice to get a suite. I’m someone who’d splurge on the One and Only Club, but spending $150 a night on a room at the Day’s Inn, when I could spend half that?

Or maybe I’m full of it. Maybe I’ll miss the 1000 thread-count sheets, the in-room jacuzzi, and the girls’ pajama party if I’m absent from the Oceanview Block.

Well, someone should tell me why I need the suite, or the difference is being spent on a bikini. I need something to wear on the beach, while camera-snapping surreptiously (for purposes of blackmail, of course) at a skinny-dipping Acidman.

This? This is Sniffles, an Italian Greyhound pup.

You may now consider your cute quotient to be well in excess of US RDA.

(He’s not yet mine, but it’s just a matter of time. Besides, Marley needs a little brother.)

Dear Little Miss Spandex,
I never thought I would be the one to say this, but:
You peppy, hyper- energetic mini- muscle- woman, all singin’ along with the music while my heart rate’s up at 46,000: you totally kicked my ass.

Ow. I can’t blog coherently because all twelve IQ points have been sequestered to figure out what the hell just happened.