Time To Be Serious About Happy

My coworker asked me the other day if I'm a vegetarian.  I laughed.  I'm a true Omnivore at its finest (and I'm convinced a Meat-O-Saur in a past life).

"No.  Are you?"

"No.  Just wondering.  You always have lots of vegetables in the fridge."

I told him that I just really like vegetables, and my low blood sugar is more stable if I eat well.  In truth, I was tickled he asked such a question.  Not normally the type to ask people about life things.  He nodded and agreed and busied himself further on his computer.  And that was that.

Though I don't consider myself a health nut by any means.  But, sometimes all I want to do in the whole entire world (times ten) is be in my kitchen and chop a bunch of vegetables and drink a glass of wine and munch on crisp tasty roughage and mix up a yummy Dill Dip and nibble on a polska and some hummus and get happy from the wine and the involvement of it all.  That can be so deeply satisfying, there ends up being nothing else I really want out of my day.  It's accomplishment.

And maybe it's mostly the wine, but I am perfectly okay with that.  I tell you what, I can't think of a time when wine doesn't make me giddy and elated, and I am sure my friends who partake passionately in the vino feel the same way.  I've started to question why I don't incorporate this into my daily life.  Besides work, and, well, driving a car.  But other than that, I think I need to take getting buzzed on a regular basis much more seriously.

One Mission Shy of A Space Cadet

                   

                     You smell suspiciously like peanut butter.

     Favorite Song of All Time:

               Piano Sonata No. 14 in C sharp minor (Moonlight Sonata)

I’m not sure if my inability to count backwards from one hundred by sevens is due to my usual mathematical retardation, or if it really is because of the whiplash.  Besides the counting (or, not counting), my greater concerns are the blanket fogginess and absence of firing synapses in my brain.  (I accidentally wrote “bread” before I wrote “brain” . . . Precisely my point?) 

Hi, yes.  I am here because the synapses are not firing in my bread.  My bread is synapseless.  Devoid of synapse.  Please reinsert the synapses in my bread, before it’s too late!

She asked me to remember these three words: 

pink  
tissue   
and . . .

something else, but I have since forgotten.  Anyway, what’s important is I remembered at the time, but only with great effort.  The swirling thoughts of exactly how to remember three entire words was strangely overwhelming.  I wasn’t sure how to manage it.  After careful and fumbling consideration, I recited them just fine, but I could still hear the wheels in the doctor’s head turning about my mathlessness. 

One hundred minus seven?  I have no idea. 

It’s tragic, I know.

I’m still sore after five days, but this time sore because my lovely LMT drove her fingertips deep into the little knots in my shoulders.  Hurts.  So.  Good.  I’m glad we were (are?) instant friends.  Waste no time.  Since I’ll be seeing her three times a week for a month, I suppose it’s good we have rapport.  And, it helps that she’s a Cancer.  ‘Cause I’m a Cancer.  And Cancers like Cancers.  ‘Cause we cut through the junk, get to the meat, and delight in mutual understanding without having to explain It.  Plus, she has cool tattoos and speaks in metaphors.  It’s really a jolly time, now that I think about it.  A jolly, aching and painful time.

The Way March Eighth Unfolds

Morning

I am already starting to regret the half a Paradise cinnamon bun I just scarfed, starting with the middle and working outward.  It was quite the helping, since the whole bun was about the size of my face.

Modesty?  Not today. 

           "I don’t know why I think I can get by with using small Post-Its. 
            I just can’t get my point across in 2 ½ inches." -KT



Afternoon

I am so over this day. 
Are you over this day? 
I am So. Bloody. Over. It.


Of note: An Evolution
    
     Ridiculous
     Ricockulous
     Ridonkulous
     Stupid
     Stoopid
     Super stupid
     Super stoop
     Stoopy stoop
     Ristoopulous
     Ricockustoop
     Ristoopucock



Eve

Rocked out on the treadmill and got up to 6.2 mph at 8% incline.  Only for thirty seconds, but man that thirty seconds sure does feel like twenty minutes.

Now my legs feel like thin spaghetti noodles, my back feels like rotini, and my mind feels clear like a smooth alfredo, even though I had beans and rice for dinner. 

And on the bus home I thought of nothing except KT's beans and rice song, sung to the melody of a Beethoven Symphony.  Playing over and over again, it helped to stave off the hunger pangs and concentrate on more constructive things, like chewing my gum in time with the melody.

Oh, and I
 finally caved. 
   Kind of a no-brainer
     at $9.99, wouldn't
       you say?