What is it that I do with entries that kills them when I don't mean to? Sheesh.
Anyway. I said something about how the first third, about pot, reminded me Jon Krakauer's victory joint and burning a hole through his father's tent in Into the Wild, at least for a while, until I remembered Eric Schlosser's style from Fast Food Nation and decided I wouldn't've made the Krakauer connection if I hadn't read his much less personal Under the Banner of Heaven so recently.
I also said something about how the title was disingenuous (the subtitle is inconspicuous) since only one third of the book is about pot.
But I forget what I said.
After a year and a half of hanging out mostly upstairs or in the den, this weekend I reclaimed my study. There had been the occasional thwomping onto the futon to watch "My So-Called Life"* or read a book, or the rare occupation of my desk by present-wrapping or coloring book coloring, but I haven't regularly hung out in my study since I got a laptop. It is now dark at 5:00, and somehow I find myself here, writing and reading and listening to music.
The room still needs to be painted. Would painting it a color less objectionable than the current bastard cousin of blue be stupid since replacing the swirly green carpet is not yet a project I'm up for?
I haven't given up on the water closet yet. RDC is convinced the walls cannot be salvaged but must be papered, and I hate wallpaper on some principle I can't articulate. Damn it, I am going to scrub and patch the two do-able walls--one of which didn't have paper to start with. And scrub over the toilet and prime just to cover the tagging. And generally debate the fate of the under-window wall.
Blake's happy to have another study to play in. He spends his days in RDC's office, either in or on his cage, or in a cave on a shelf in a bookcase, or on the chair seat between his legs. On my desk, I keep stuff he can gnaw on, like snippets of cardboards or blowcards, and he loves throw pens off the desk, and then there's my desk organizer thingie, with shells and stones and his old tail feathers and a little Snowy. Snowy's on a keychain and, with his front right paw lifted in his jaunty stride, does not stand well, so he leans on a piece of seaglass. Blake clambered up on my pencilbox and tugged on the bone in Snowy's mouth. Besides being in one molded piece, Snowy isn't one to give up a bone, so he tumbled down on a startled Blake. When Blake figures out that his feathers are up there, plus my little pewter knight, Snowy won't be guard dog enough to keep him down.
* I firmly believe that movies should be in quotation marks and books in italics, to distinguish between, e.g., "A Room with a View" and A Room with a View, and have treated television series like movies. But television shows have episode titles, like magazines (italicized) with articles (in quotation marks). Writing The West Wing's "War Games" but then "My So-Called Life" is inconsistent. It's a problem.
Precor Elliptical 30', 20/20 incline, 12/20 resistance. Three whole minutes with two 2-pound handweights. I had intended 45' but that wasn't going to happen after the weights, when my strides per minute dropped from the high 120s to 108-110.
One length of the gym in lunges, and I restrained the left hamstring that hurt for a whole week after the weights fiasco of two weeks ago. That's why I was doing lunges, figuring I'd let the weights be for a bit yet.
Ten push-ups. Ten, OMFB. The two-minute plank hold from last winter? No more.
Bah.