6:12 p.m. - 12.08.2003
Everybody's Workin' For The Weekend
I had a good weekend. Uneventful - but productive.
It consisted of a lot of inane and crazy comments and observations by my self, to myself, hoping I could remember them all to write in here. No such luck. I wish d-land acted like IM, so you could all watch tv with me and suffer through all the little snide remarks I have to say on everything I see on tv. Wanna come over later?
Anyway, so yeah, productive weekend. Took in some movies, some exercise, and gave my apartment a much needed cleaning. Man I need to clean more often. I've lived on my own for a good ten years but I still feel new to the whole domesticity game. I've done 5000 loads of laundry yet each time I read all the printing around the dials and buttons as if trying to pilot a submarine for the first time.
I also bought a Swiffer Wet Jet. Damn things sure get dirty in the corners you don't go in. I swiffered all around the non frequented areas and all this grayish-blackish stuff built up into a huge ball. And there was a fine layer of this dust-like substance lying over everything. I took to calling my new discovery "dust".
Curious about this "dust" phenom, I broke out my Junior Woodchuck Bio-Chem set and placed the specimen, or "dust", under the microscope. A cursory examination of the chemical construct of the specimen, or "dust", shows that its composition is in fact 96% - me. While waiting for the results to tabulate, at the very same moment I coincidently happened upon an article in the new Glamour* about the importance of "exfoliating". My lack of seems to be the cause of my "dust".
Later, I cross-examined this "dust" with what I call "lint" found in my belly-button. They are cousins. And equally delish! Okay now I'm just rambling.
So yeah, I cleaned. And frenched. Mucho frenching. But I didn't know cats had toungues like sand-paper. Kind of a mood killer really.
*let it be known that among other unsolicited mags, Glamour finds its way into my mailbox once a month. The story goes like this:
My dad is an OB/GYN doctor. So he used to get all these crazy magazines for his waiting room for free. Well my parents moved and then divorced, and somewhere in that whole mess, the magazines started coming to my mom's new address in my dad's name.
So for the last few years my mom has had a free subscription to all these girly mags. Well, my dad and I have the same name. I moved into my mom's house temporarily at the beginning of the year. When I left and forwarded my address to Seattle, they assumed I was him, and so now I get a truck load of OB/GYN waiting room magazines each month. Things like Glamour, and Redbook, and Women's Yoga.
Wanna know something about the miracle of waterbirth, or the benefits of giving birth doggy-style? just let me know. I'm a wealth of information on the female bod.
So, if you even bother to come back now and read more amishboy, and I happen to reference an article I read in Glamour or Redbook or the like - know that there is nothing I can do about it - they just show up in my mailbox. I mean, I have to read them you know, it'd be a shame to just throw them out. If you should doubt this story based on the BS nature of this blog, this fact can actually be verified by itzie. Sometimes I pawn the mags off onto her unsolicited by virtue of her being female (even though it's a fact that shouldn't make one naturally interested in reading Glamour. But at least slightly more interested than myself.)
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