Something Joanna and I used to do (well, we did it once, but it was so much fun we really should have done it more) is sit on a bench in a relatively crowded walkway and make up stories for each person who passed. That guy, for example, hasn't had sex for a year. That girl's allergic to strawberries. He's hoping the wind will blow her skirt up. She's embarrassed about her shoe choice. &c.
I've tried to do this by myself, but it's just not as fun to smirk when no one's smirking with you. Where are you, slightly-mean-willing-to-laugh-at-self-and-others-but-overall-good-people of San Francisco?
My dog loves the new playground they just opened across the street from my apartment. We went there late on Saturday night and the dog went fucking batshit. He climbed up to the top of the structure, lept across the shakey bridge, and catapulted himself down the slide before we could say, "Mind the gap!" I thought he was kind of freaked out at first but it turns out he LOVES to slide, as he continued to do that for the next twenty minutes. He likes the curly slides the most and he's tried to master climbing back up them but the still-smooth plastic is no match for his pampered paws. When Aaron and I started swinging, he attacked us, trying to jump up onto our laps and succeeding in pushing us around wildly. That was the most fun I've had in a long time and I suspect he feels the same way. All hail the playground!
Here is what I have done today: printed out an envelope and stamped it. Why, why couldn't the person who assigned it to me have done this? Here is what else I have done: paged the owner to call the office. In the time it took for someone to IM me to do this, they could have done it. I...I don't understand. Is it a superiority thing? Are the taking pity on my obvious boredom? Because, you know, that doesn't really make it better. It's kind of annoying, really, knowing that's all I'm good for.
I have excellent news. Instead of staying at a hoity-toity hotel and going $275 in the red, Aaron and I will be enjoying ourselves on a luxury sailboat for our anniversary--for free! Well, sort of free as I am going to shove some money under Katie's mattress to thank her for it and take her out to dinner and the like, but come on -- two nights on a sailboat in Santa Cruz or a snobby hotel in Monterey? The choice, my dears, is obvious. Actually, there is no choice, that's how obvious it is. I am very excited. This will be my first real time in Santa Cruz (the first time I showed up at 1am and had to navigate around campus with a comforter and a backpack wrapped around myself and left the next morning at 10am and got stuck in ridiculous traffic in which it took three hours to travel five miles) and we are going to have a loverly time.
My beautiful red hair has faded to that of diarrhea brown. I guess you could also describe it as Reese's Peanut Butter Cup brown or fuzzy chocolate lab puppy brown, but I don't like it; thus, diarrhea brown. It's about time for a visit to the hairdresser but I really can't justify the expenditure at this point in time. Also, damn you Dove volumizing-for-color-treated-hair shampoo and conditioner! Damn you to hell! You coaxed me in with your glorious fruit-ish scents and your promises of brilliance. You left my hair smooth and shiny and perfectly curly and unfrizzy the first few times. Oh, you knew what you were doing all along, didn't you? Didn't you! Look at me Now, Dove! My hair is limp, lifeless! This from the scalp that has produced many a, "Jesus Christ, you do have a lot of hair don't you?" from every hairdresser that has had the pleasure of taming my unruly mane! You've killed my volume! And for that, you must pay -- I banish you to Aaron's head! No more will you relish in lathering up my thick silky hair -- let's see what you can do with two centimeter's worth of coarse boy hair! Huh? Huh?! How you like me now, bitch!
I called my mum during lunch and we discussed holiday plans -- when you're dealing with four different families (my mum, my dad, my stepdad's kids and his ex-wife, aaron's family) you have to plan these things months in advance. We're going to be heading home for both Thanksgiving and Christmas and the week after Christmas (which happens to be my birthday) my mum's coming down here to help my brother move in (yes, he's moving to San Francisco -- he follows me everywhere. When I moved to Santa Barbara, he came not three months after I did. It's only taken him a year to follow me here) and she's going to kidnap me from work and take me for one of our infamous several-hundred-dollar shopping sprees (I never said I wasn't spoiled. In fact, I think I've insisted upon it). My mum's great; everyone thinks so. I was telling Sam at lunch today about how my mum used to live here and how she was the first female attorney ever hired at the first law firm she worked at and Sam was like, "Your mom's so cool." And it's so true. Yay my mum!
one year ago today: "Only five more hours until I get to sit in an airport for four hours."
two years ago today: nothin.
three years ago today: "nothing in my life ever came with a guarantee"