As soon as I started typing this, I turned to look out the big open garage door that's attached to my "office" and made direct eye contact with two men sitting on the sidewalk across the street.
Stop. Off to a terrible start already. First of all, how can a person make direct eye contact with two other people at the same time? They can't. (I think, isn't it, you can only actually look a person in one of their eyes at a time? Or if you're me, none of their eyes at a time because intimacy makes you feel like you can't breathe? I'm pretty sure that's how it goes.) Second: I am sitting almost in the BACK of my building, looking THROUGH a garage and ACROSS the street. I have to squint to see what time it is on the giant clock across the room, and I think I can see eyeballs forty yards away? Really? Because that's like saying I can gauge distance off the top of my head, as if I can throw out measurements like "forty yards" and be anywhere close to resembling something that possibly might be kind of accurate.
Blogging at work is hard because sometimes you take three hour breaks to, you know, work. And you forget what you were on about. (By "work" I of course mean balancing Quickbooks whilst wiping away the occasional Joan Baez-induced tear.)
It turns out that those two guys just like to eat lunch on the sidewalk, but it was still kind of alarming. It really looked like they were intently watching me, and that's not just my post-adolescent imaginary audience talking. My saying out loud to my coworkers, "Are those guys watching us?" surprisingly did not prompt any gentle accusations of paranoia but did lead to one of my coworkers demonstrating how folks in some Asian countries use the bathroom.
SUNDAY CONFESSIONS, THE WEDNESDAY EDITION:
On our way out a couple weekends ago, I picked up a bottle of nail polish remover for some stupid reason and realized it was leaking. Probably because of all the heavy objects I'd piled on top of the basket where I "organize" my nail polish accoutrements. Anyway, we were sort of in a rush because we were going to the Barcelona vs Juventus game and I wanted to get there eighteen hours early as usual so I could get a seat/a beer/a grilled cheese or two before it started. (If I HAVE to watch sports, it had better be soccer and it had better be in a softly lit room with access to beer and grilled cheese and a chair. Make note.) I performed a vague groping in the general area surrounding where the bottle had been lying to make sure none of my precious things had been soaked in acetone (my dirty sweatshirts and souvenir stuffed animals were safe, thanks for asking) and then dropped the bottle in the kitchen sink on our way out the door. Okay, NOW here's the confession part: That thing stayed there for the rest of the weekend. Two days. Days during which I cooked two breakfasts and washed several rounds of dishes, all while working around the bottle. The thought to do something with it did not cross my mind once. I just accepted it as part of the landscape of the sink. And now here's the other confession part: On Monday night, when Diego was cooking dinner, he dumped the rest of the nail polish remover out and threw away the bottle. When he stuck his head into our bedroom to tell me, I was a little bit annoyed for a second. Because how DARE he remove what was essentially a bottle of poison for which I had zero plans from an area in which we prepare food. The fucking nerve, right?
Speaking of Diego, we were laying in bed together on some night in the past few weeks and he plucked a couple of longish hairs from the area just under my belly button. At first I was like, "Hey, ahh, no" but then I thought, "Maybe if I lay here long enough he'll paint my toenails and shave my legs for me, too." CONFESSION: There were more than "a couple" hairs. Salon, shmalon.
Classical music in concert is boring. We went to Vivaldi's "Requiem" at Carnegie Hall a few Sunday nights ago and it was fun for about the first hour. We filled our pockets with the complimentary cough drops (acoustics, bro) and felt cultured and people watched. And then we learned how long ninety minutes can really feel, especially when songs are in Latin. We were also overstuffed with meat from one of those Brazilian places with the red and green blocks AND coming down from Electric Daisy Carnival the day before, so. I never thought I'd say a parking lot in New Jersey was more fun than Carnegie Hall, but here it is. I think Diego preferred Requiem to when we went to see The Glass Menagerie at Player's Theater, though, based on the fact that at the end of
that performance he said "THAT'S IT?" All caps, because Hispanic. Don't worry, everyone heard him. (Although, to be fair, I always have thought the ending kind of sucks. I'll marry you, Laura.) This weekend we're going mini golfing if I have anything to do with it.
OH! I just reminded myself that this
past weekend, I was at my mom's house watching the entire third season of Orange is the New Black. We realized it was a beautiful weekend, though, and decided that we should spend at least some of it outside instead of holed up with Pennsatucky. So we moved the TV out to the deck. Problem solved, plus it sort of counts as a confession. (Um, anyone else finished and ready to discuss? Personally I thought the second season was better but I did love all the backstory in this one. Also, raise your hand if you still care about Piper. No hands? THOUGHT SO. )
Sorry the pictures have nothing to do with anything, these are the only ones I have access to right now.
Also, sorry for all the references to "SEVENTEEN SUNDAYS AGO" and "A FORTNIGHT FROM THE SECOND TUESDAY IN NOVEMBER 1813." It's been a while. Becky, sorry for ruining your linkup. I hope we can get past this. Also, sorry about that one time in third grade I wrote that girl a note that said I'd be her "secret friend." It's been on my mind lately. I feel bad.
