Reading: Franco Ferrucci, The Life of God (as Told by Himself).

Learning: that I can reflect on three days and remember nothing new to me. Actually I relearned that tidbit. Also I relearned a date for the fall of the Berlin Wall more specific than November 1989: the ninth. That I don't remember the difference between associated and assimilated knowledge, and that everything I come in contact with cannot associated. I need to seek out stuff to assimilate.

Listening: Santana, Supernatural, mostly because of "Smooth." That Lauryn Hill track I skip every day.

Viewing: Sunday: plenty of magpies on my own stretch of the Highline Canal. CBS Sunday Morning, 60 Minutes, Simpsons (taped, since 60 Minutes was 90), X-Files season premiere, CNN's Millennium (taped, since it's concurrent with X-Files); nothing Monday; nothing today unless I go to a gallery at lunch. Which I'm thinking I might.

Moving: Sunday: Walk three miles. Monday: Yoga for Flexibility. Tuesday: step.

9 November 1999: No More Titles

At least no more titles in the [title] tag, since I usually forget to change them from day to day.

CBS Sunday Morning is trying to change its demographic. I think. For six Sundays, it's going to profile popular performers who've stood the test of time. Sting this week. Next week Smokey Robinson. Also it featured a story with William Least Heat Moon, which is how I always think of the man who says he writes as Least Heat Moon but functions day-to-day as William Trogden. He said when he wrote, he wrote in the presence of something he cannot describe, but now during the interview, the interviewer was talking to Trogden. I can relate to that. I lovedBlue Highways and plan to get his new book, River Horse, for my father for Christmas.

Then I went for a walk and saw all the magpies I missed Saturday and saw Bailey and Casey (the golden retriever dog and black Lab puppy that embody my theory of how to name dogs in Denver) and met a chocolate Lab puppy named Murphy. Murphy Brown. Another I met at the pound was named Hershey. I think chocolate Labs get named after their color more than yellow or black ones do because they're more unusual.

Then I dusted.

Somewhat.

HAO saved me from that and we went shopping. "But you shopped yesterday!" exclaimed RDC. He's such a boy. We went to Express, for which HAO had a coupon. I tried on my first strapless gown. Pink. What can I say, pink looks good on me. They didn't have lavender. The dress looked okay on me, because I do have a good back and shoulders, but is one meant to do anything in a strapless but stand around? I cannot imagine dancing in such a thing. Or lifting my arms. Not that lifting my arms would've made my breasts pop out; the dress was a damn sight more constricting than that. When I'm dressing up, I prefer to have two breasts. I can deal with the one when I'm exercising. This dress gave me one. A sales clerk suggested I untuck some cleavage. Ow. All that boning, cutting across tender flesh? Exposing cleavage at all? Eek.

DMB wants to buy me a dress for her wedding, speaking of which. I told her I already had a dress in mind and she asked, "But wouldn't you like a new one anyway?" I foresee cleavage. She bought hers--her cleavage, I mean. If I had known her when she was buying, we could've traded. I am also to have my hair professionally braided. That should be great. I should bring RDC along. Braiding is not among his hair-playing-with skills.

The stretch pants HAO wanted to go with the skirt and jacket she bought earlier were too snug to teach in. She suggested that and I regretfully agreed, regretfully because she looked great in them. We consoled ourselves at Godiva. Also we saw Barbie, who had just bought presents for her sister from a store called Bebe, in which we'd never gone. Until then. I tried on skirt-and-top combination that was backless except for tying behind the neck. I knew I'd hate it and I did--I cannot stand the feel of something pulling my neck down. Furthermore, you could see side cleavage, which hasn't a hope of looking sexy or anything but bovine. The skirt, of course, was divine, a dark lavender taffeta'd linen-weave silk. I tried on another skirt, purple with a black lace overlay. You have to be swaver than I'll ever be to wear such stuff.

I forgot to get cartridges for RDC's pen so I stopped again at the mall after work yesterday. The Colorado Pen Company is just inside the main entrance: I made my purchase and went outside again immediately to wait for the next bus with my book. And did I mention I went another time last week to buy RRP's wedding present? Enough mall.

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But that wasn't the only shopping I did. I was in an extremely bad mood in the morning and stalked off at lunch to stomp it off. I strode to the Tabor Center to buy folded wedding gift wrap, since that will pack better than rolled. Of course, the first store at the southwest entrance is Jungle Jack's, a toy store. I have wanted my own Babe for a long time, and now I have him. Then I got my favorite lunch and, in a much better mood since the conversation the lunch clerk and I had (involving a lot of "Fa la las," Babe-style) headed back to my own building bearing gift wrap, lunch, and wallet, with Babe on top, to see my ex-boss (from Hateful, Inc.) leaving my building. Gulp.

We had a few moments of awkward chat. He was pleased to see me 2.5 years ago, tapping my shoulder at an ATM and saying hi. It had been nine months since I left Hateful, Inc., during which he too had left the place. It was, after all, hateful. I think he wanted to clear the air, and I was happy to. So we had that conversation then and we didn't need to have another now. Unfortunately, I in my oversensitive, even-more-self-involved-than-usual state was startled into a hello, when otherwise he would not have even recognized me (in sunglasses, after 2.5 years, and rounder). Startled, but not articulate. At least I'm still at the same job.

I put Babe on my guest chair and made a sign: Talk to the pig. I don't know where that rude brush-off expression, "Talk to the hand," originated, but I made use of it. I wanted Babe to be able to butt against people's knees and yell, "Take that, you big bully!" but he didn't. And people did talk to the pig, and to me as well, but about the pig, which I could handle.

So I was glad to get home, find the louvres replaced in the living room and the closet door fixed, pet my buddy's head, and do some yoga. I can accept that I need to work on my breathing and my balance, but I cannot forgive myself being unable to do some poses because my bulges are more of an obstacle than my lack of skill.

When RDC came home he wanted to go to the Cherry Cricket for huge greasy burgers but by the time I finished my yoga he asked how I felt about mussels instead. Much better, thank you. So we went to Le Central and had mussels. I ordered "les coquillages au pistou" and the server asked me in English. My accent is atrocious, I know, but I thought Le Central hired all French majors for a purpose. It's not a snooty French place by any means--we go there for coquillages et all-you-can-eat (surely a Usan, not a French, concept) pommes frîtes at eight bucks a plate. It is a country French place. We took DMB there once and I salivated at "lapin" on the menu, written in chalk on a blackboard on the wall, and after I translated she told me that if I ordered rabbit she'd never speak to me again. I think I got fish instead.

Tonight I'm going to step and then we're going out to supper with RDC's dissertation adviser, his wife, and SPM and JMJ. We're going to Carmine's, and with six people and one of them SPM, I'm sure we'll order a larger variety of dishes than the H's and I did. Since Buca di Beppo is now apparently not coming to Denver, Carmine's is now the next best thing. No pope's table, though.