more reportage

Because I know you want to know what I'm up to when I'm not taking pictures of various parts of my body.

This evening I spent a long bus ride listening to the conversation, in person and on cell, of the young couple sitting behind me. They were on their way home from work: him in a suit, her in a nice dress. And, oh, they are getting married, apparently *this weekend*. The bride-to-be is a little, um, tense. She's panicking because she doesn't have the hairdresser's cell number and the salon owner will not give it to her. Oh, the hairdresser has *her* cell number and she has the directions and she has confirmed that she knows where and when. But what if she doesn't come??? Oh, she knows she's just being crazee, but...what if she doesn't come? She can do her own hair--she's good at hair--but what about the bridesmaids? Who will help them? Who? And she knows she's being crazee, because a few days ago she was like this about the DJ. But, still. What if she doesn't come?

I wanted to turn around, pat her neurotic little head, and say sympathetically, "Oh, darlin', you sound like me planning a funeral. Doesn't it suck when you have to depend on a bunch of other people doing what they're supposed to do? Aren't the possibilities for them to fuck something up endless? I feel ya." Or, y'know, give her an Ativan. One of the two.

Meanwhile, remember how I told you about how Rome was making me yearn for a villa and some servants of my own? Holy fucking god, that was until I hit episodes 3 and 4 of season two. I was not prepared for the, shall we say, graphic violence. Of the torture-y variety. I am not horribly squeamish. I've seen a bunch of horror movies, including a couple of those Saw flicks, not to mention some of that really twisted Korean shit. But you go into that knowing what you're getting. Last night I'm watching a nice, albeit "realistic", historical drama and suddenly there's a well-dressed upperclass middle-aged woman rather nonchalantly ordering her henchman *to cut her rival's face off*. That's after the rape and horrendous beating, of course, 'cause one has to work their way up to that. I guess. Anyway, I take it all back. I'm glad I live in 2010, even if I can't refuse to get up til I've fucked somebody. Sexual frustration and going to work every day is better than getting your face cut off.

And, finally, I bought the new Stephen King book. It has 1074 pages. Even in trade paperback, it is a heavy mofo. Mr Indemnity and I were discussing the pros and cons of getting a Kindle the other day, since he says the new one is coming out very soon. We will put Mr King's opus squarely on the pro side. On the other hand, my biceps and delts are feeling like I worked out today and I'm only on page 128. So getting a Kindle might be anti-physical fitness. That would be a con. Decisions, decisions.

xoxo