February 28, 2005

Welcome,

70,000th visitor.

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February 14, 2005

Happy Valentine's Day

Via reader Daniel, this— which is salacious and depressing at the same time.

It reminds me of a line from the 1970s movie Outrageous!, in which Craig Russell played a hairdresser whose upper-crust female clients prattle at him about renovating their houses.

He remarks to a friend of his, "they should renovate their shitty little lives."

How lovely to be in a marriage that includes—15 years after my husband and I started going out—tickle fights.

And, if I'm ever murdered please let the cops know that those thumb-size bruises that occasionally appear on my thighs are from martial arts sparring with the husband, and it's all playful stuff.

And that I'm a lucky, lucky woman.

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February 12, 2005

Oh, Thank God.

I thought I was losing my mind, but it's only early menopause sending my hormones out of whack again, without any regard for the calendar whatsoever. So I'm losing my purely theoretical fertility along with my looks—but my juicy little brain is intact.

I just want to buy the world a big bouquet of roses, just in time for . . . what are we supposedly celebrating this weekend? [I'm afraid I never was much of a girlie girl in most senses. But I look like one, and I do make a mean omelette, which seems to make all the difference to my spouse.]

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February 11, 2005

I Spent Yesterday

. . . cleaning a friend's house for $50. It's a good workout, though it takes a day for my respiratory system to recuperate from breathing in that much dust, and it's not particularly good for my hands.

I'm still trying to think of other ways to generate revenue, and I've had some great ideas. The trick is to find the ones that don't require initial capital investments.

The money is out there; I just have to find it.

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February 10, 2005

Suddenly, We're Talking About Sex Again*

And I wonder what it says about you people: you seem obsessed. I'm not sure it's healthy. Sex, sex, sex. You should take long walks or cold showers or something.

My husband and I, like all good Republicans, take T'ai Chi. On Wednesdays, we are in sequential classes. Last night I ran out of the house in a hurry, and wasn't wearing my wedding ring when I showed up at the site where we meet to get our Chi on. And there was the Overly Friendly Guy, being Overly Friendly, as usual. I've never been able to figure out what the deal is with the OFG: whether he's attracted to me, or just doesn't have the social skills to speak naturally. I can't figure out whether he has Asberger's syndrome, mild mental retardation, a slight case of autism, or is just an engineer.

But it's awkward. If I knew for sure that he'd figured out I'm married, I could make myself be nice to him. I really could. But he's friendly to me in a way he isn't to any of the other women (or men, for that matter) in our particular group, and I find myself being just a little bit cold to him, just in case. Then, of course, I feel guilty. What if he does have Asberger's, and I'm being unkind? The memories come flooding back about what it was like at 12 and 13 to have breasts suddenly appear on my body, and the slight inkling that all the men who suddenly started striking up conversations with me at bus stops might just be trying to pick me up—but no way to be sure.

Last night I'm wearing a favorite T-shirt: one of those that appears to be made from fabric with old writing on it that describes a once-premium commodity (in this case, indigo dye). The graphics are muted, and the writing isn't necessarily legible to someone who isn't right on top of my tits. The effect is supposed to be something like a seventeenth-century ad, made into a fabric—and then a shirt.

"What does your shirt say?" asks the overly friendly guy.

"It's about old dying materials," I tell him, and then turn to one of the women. "Can you read my boob, here, or is the writing too small?"

"It's a little too small," she remarks, and we laugh in a friendly way. Situation de-fused, thank goodness.

The beginner's class ends, and my husband shows up for the advanced class. We say hi to each other. "Kiss me," I tell him under my breath, and he does, though we rarely engage in PDAs at Chi central.

"Was that for someone else's benefit?" he asks.

"Yes. But I could be wrong," I tell him. "You know what an egotist I am."

"I know."


* The title is adapted from a James Thurber story, one of his cute pieces set in a bar. Entitled "Midnight at Tim's Place," it contains the line: Suddenly, we all had another drink.

I've always loved that story, and I can actually recite most of it aloud. Scary.

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