Day 4

On Tuesday, I decided to go rollerblading when I got home from work. And I know some of you are saying, "but you work at a roller skating rink. I don't get it." Well, rollerblading for me is actually a decent workout, since I'm used to traditional skates. Plus serpentining through my neighborhood is always a challenge. But before I set out for my 20-minute journey, I took off my jewelry. And one piece in particular never returned to my right hand's middle finger: The ring.

I cannot find it anywhere. I moved everything in my bathroom, tore the couch apart, even overhauled my bed in an attempt to find the closest thing to a tangible soul I have. This ring has been with me since my sophomore year, and has been with me through thick and thin, from being stolen, washed, stuck in doorframes, you name it. People steal it to play with, stare in awe at the three intertwined bands. My finger is actually slightly deformed because of its permanent place on my hand.

James told me I was being ridiculous, and I should just buy a new one. Never. I knew the day would come when the ring would no longer be a part of my life, I just wanted a little more control over that date. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

the unchecked world of magazine copy

So I was skimming through the NYT this morning, and I came across the word "vomitrocious." Granted it was in a fashion article in T magazine, but still. I haven't decided how I feel about it.

Although the outfit being worn by Paris Hilton that it was describing warrants the invention of a new way to say hideously ugly.

I'll get off the couch eventually

For the past week (with the exception of yesterday), my day has been sad but predictable: wake up around 9:30, lay in bed until 9:56, stumble downstairs and plop myself on the couch, watch needless hours of terrible yet addictive daytime television, get up and eat a sandwich, argue with my sister about watching Malcolm in the Middle or Dr. Phil, then eat dinner and go to work. Pathetic. I have, today, finally dragged myself out of the living room and will soon attempt to finish unpacking. Part of the reason I find myself stuck on the couch is that I have not taken any of my clothes out of the suitcase, so I don't have anything to wear anyway.

All that is about to change. I'm tired of sitting and watching commercials clearly aimed at middle aged women sitting at home. I'm tired of not putting on real clothes until after 4 in the afternoon. And I'm tired of feeling like a lazy butt who contributes nothing to society. Granted, I know this will change in two weeks when I move and have a "real" job (even though I've been writing for two publications since I've been home and worked 7 days a week at the fabulous Rollarena). But I thought I would put some goals, in writing, to help myself feel less like a doof:

SUMMER GOALS 2008:
-write every day outside of journalism. This could be a handwritten letter, a poem, a short piece about a man walking down the sidewalk.
-watch no more than an hour of television a day.
-Wear my hair three different ways each week. (The blob on top of my head gets old.)
-Eat two pieces of real fruit a day.
-Cut down on my potty mouth. I don't swear too much anymore, but I still say inappropriate things, and usually at the most inappropriate times. That's a problem.
-Call a friend each week to just say hello and that I appreciate them.
-Improve my spelling and verbal vocabulary skills.
-Do some sort of legitimate exercise at least every other day. Walking counts, because it doubles for a mental exercise too. My head is always clearer after a good stroll.

irony

During my Contemporary American Poetry final today, our class consisted of three things; puppies, pastries, and poems. One of the women in the class brought in her two beagle puppies, one of which slept the whole time and the other kept hiding in corners and relieving himself. (The building is being gutted next week for a remodel, so not a big deal.) However, toward the end of the hour our professor, Laurie Lamon, was reading some poems from a collection she has coming out next spring.

As she was reading, a large lawnmover drove by outside, on its way to the next assignment. And and after she made a comment about poetry exposing the mundane yet universal aspects of human connection, she asked someone to close the window, so the noise of the world outside would not interfere.

I have faith in the next generation

What do children read? Hint: Harry Potter's not No. 1

it's just understood

When you advertise a BBQ, the menu is an easy assumption: hamburgers and hot dogs, maybe some baked beans, some sort of fruit, and a beverage. If a desssert gets thrown in, all the better.

Sodexho, Whitworth's food service provider, has changed their definition of BBQ to now mean chicken with an excess of ambiguous sauce, cheese tortellini (which, when sitting outside in the ever-so-sweltering 60 degrees, gets cold in about five seconds), and moldy strawberries. Granted, today they threw in some fresh blueberries, of which I had like half a plate because they are so scrumptious, and I was also first in line after they changed out the tortellini, but seriously. What happened to the good old days of following through on age-old cultural customs?

Bring back the burgers. That's all I gotta say.