Sometimes life is tough.
But why dwell on it? Instead, amuse yourselves with all the interwebs have to offer. There's this. And then there's this. Not to mention this, which never gets old, lemme tell you. It's an Adventures classic!
In other cheerful news, which I am very sure you have been waiting for with bated (baited?) breath, as of today I am officially one pound below my goal weight, so maybe I will stop bothering you with details of my food plan and exercise ambitions. You're feeling more cheerful already, aren'tcha? I can tell. Despite that (uh, the scale success, that is) no one saw me nekkid on my day off, which is not how the universe is supposed to work out. Oops, sorry, that's dwelling. Go look at Ewan McGregor, who is a sop to sexually frustrated women everywhere. As far as I am concerned. Ahem.
xoxo
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
call signs
Did you know that Angelina has a new inner thigh tattoo that she won't identify, saying that it's "only for Brad"? Aw, sweet. Anyway, according to jezebel, the latest theory--based on what you can see of it in a Vanity Fair photo spread--is that it says "Whiskey Bravo" for Brad's real initials (William Bradley). That has lead to numerous commenters figuring out just what theirs would be, which is kinda more fun than your stripper name or whatever. Mine (I'll save you the trouble of figuring it out by your own selves) would be Alfa Juliet Hotel. Which would make a sucky, sucky tattoo.
However! Wouldn't you like to stay there?
Our room service is always prompt, the robes are leopard print, and OMG there's good soundproofing.
xoxo
However! Wouldn't you like to stay there?
Our room service is always prompt, the robes are leopard print, and OMG there's good soundproofing.
xoxo
customer service fail #438793 plus...
he coulda been a contendah!
I stopped in Dunkin' Donuts on my way to work today, like the good little Boston white trash girl that I am. Whereupon I proceeded to try to buy a medium iced ($2.50-something with tax) with a twenty dollar bill. The cashier looked at me. "Oh. I can't change that. Do you have anything smaller?" Closer perusal of my wallet yielded a five which I hadn't known*** I had and of course I could have used my debit card if absolutely necessary, even though using plastic for purchases under ten bucks makes the baby Jesus cry. But, seriously? How does a place whose reason for being is to serve coffee fail to have change for a twenty at 7:15 in the morning?
The universe then immediately compensated me for this minor annoyance by allowing me to listen in on a bit of fascinating conversation from two guys, one black, one white, both probably ten years older than me. Apparently they were catching up on, or discovering, various acquaintances they had in common. Talk turned to "Danny". (What is it about that name?) One guy recounts that someone told him Danny had passed away, and he went home and "cried his eyes out" because, man, he knew Danny since kindergarten. Then two or three weeks later he saw Danny walking down the street and it blew his mind! Reports of his death had been, y'know, greatly exaggerated. Other guy says, thoughtfully, "You know, I've got to say I've always been disappointed in Danny. Do you know what he could have been?" Oh, yes, first guy knows. Champ. Danny coulda been the champ. Ali trained Danny. Marvin Haggler's people trained Danny. They all thought Danny was the one. But Danny's bright future, all Danny's promise, went up his nose. Apparently. Oh, Danny. Just say no to drugs, kids.
Now, I know very little about 1980s boxing (as evidenced by my huge trivia fail in same), certainly not enough to figure out what Danny's last name is. But now I kinda want to know. It could come up again.
xoxo
***and as I was typing this out it occurred to me why I had that five. D gave me a hundred dollars cash yesterday to buy something for him. One of the other bills he gave me was a fifty. I probably tried to give that poor woman in Dunkin' Donuts a fifty thinking it was a twenty, and thus this is NOT a customer service fail, but instead evidence that no one should make me do anything that early in the morning. Sigh.
I stopped in Dunkin' Donuts on my way to work today, like the good little Boston white trash girl that I am. Whereupon I proceeded to try to buy a medium iced ($2.50-something with tax) with a twenty dollar bill. The cashier looked at me. "Oh. I can't change that. Do you have anything smaller?" Closer perusal of my wallet yielded a five which I hadn't known*** I had and of course I could have used my debit card if absolutely necessary, even though using plastic for purchases under ten bucks makes the baby Jesus cry. But, seriously? How does a place whose reason for being is to serve coffee fail to have change for a twenty at 7:15 in the morning?
The universe then immediately compensated me for this minor annoyance by allowing me to listen in on a bit of fascinating conversation from two guys, one black, one white, both probably ten years older than me. Apparently they were catching up on, or discovering, various acquaintances they had in common. Talk turned to "Danny". (What is it about that name?) One guy recounts that someone told him Danny had passed away, and he went home and "cried his eyes out" because, man, he knew Danny since kindergarten. Then two or three weeks later he saw Danny walking down the street and it blew his mind! Reports of his death had been, y'know, greatly exaggerated. Other guy says, thoughtfully, "You know, I've got to say I've always been disappointed in Danny. Do you know what he could have been?" Oh, yes, first guy knows. Champ. Danny coulda been the champ. Ali trained Danny. Marvin Haggler's people trained Danny. They all thought Danny was the one. But Danny's bright future, all Danny's promise, went up his nose. Apparently. Oh, Danny. Just say no to drugs, kids.
Now, I know very little about 1980s boxing (as evidenced by my huge trivia fail in same), certainly not enough to figure out what Danny's last name is. But now I kinda want to know. It could come up again.
xoxo
***and as I was typing this out it occurred to me why I had that five. D gave me a hundred dollars cash yesterday to buy something for him. One of the other bills he gave me was a fifty. I probably tried to give that poor woman in Dunkin' Donuts a fifty thinking it was a twenty, and thus this is NOT a customer service fail, but instead evidence that no one should make me do anything that early in the morning. Sigh.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
i'll stop talking about baseball soon
Like, in November. Be patient.
Did anyone see any of that Red Sox game last night? I came home in the midst of that third inning. At first it was gratifying. But soon enough I started feeling sad for the Toronto pitchers who just could not get anyone out. When your team goes ahead 5-0, you feel good. It's a comfortable lead. The night's looking promising. When your team is leading 9-0, and an inning is just going on and on and on, it starts to be less pleasurable. That's not a comfortable lead; that's a pile-on. It may be my excess supply of empathy, but I hate to see anyone humiliated. Except for A-Rod and possibly That Bastard Lackey. (I'd probably add JD "Nancy" Drew to that list, but do we think he's capable of caring about anything enough to *be* humiliated? I seriously doubt it. Anyone who sits out a game because of neck stiffness on the same day Pedroia is filmed fielding grounders from his knees 'cause he can't put weight on his broken foot but wants to keep his hands sharp, and while about six other important players on his team are on the DL has no shame. Obviously. They've got trainers and massage therapists available to work on your poor widdle neck, Nancy. Look into it.)
N E Way, yes, I felt sorry for the Toronto pitching staff. It also made for a boring game, such that eventually D put some show about alien abductions on. ( Did you know that's pretty much all that's on the Learning Channel these days? Alien abductions and Big Foot. Learning, my ass.) If I had been smart, I'd have gone upstairs, 'cause I've got the first DVD of the second season of True Blood waiting, and that, my friends, is a not-so-guilty pleasure. Instead, as usual, I didn't start watching it till 10:30 and promptly fell asleep before there was even one sex scene. What good does that do me? I ask you.
In summary, I recommend closer sporting contests and more perverted vampire sex. You heard it here first.
xoxo
Did anyone see any of that Red Sox game last night? I came home in the midst of that third inning. At first it was gratifying. But soon enough I started feeling sad for the Toronto pitchers who just could not get anyone out. When your team goes ahead 5-0, you feel good. It's a comfortable lead. The night's looking promising. When your team is leading 9-0, and an inning is just going on and on and on, it starts to be less pleasurable. That's not a comfortable lead; that's a pile-on. It may be my excess supply of empathy, but I hate to see anyone humiliated. Except for A-Rod and possibly That Bastard Lackey. (I'd probably add JD "Nancy" Drew to that list, but do we think he's capable of caring about anything enough to *be* humiliated? I seriously doubt it. Anyone who sits out a game because of neck stiffness on the same day Pedroia is filmed fielding grounders from his knees 'cause he can't put weight on his broken foot but wants to keep his hands sharp, and while about six other important players on his team are on the DL has no shame. Obviously. They've got trainers and massage therapists available to work on your poor widdle neck, Nancy. Look into it.)
N E Way, yes, I felt sorry for the Toronto pitching staff. It also made for a boring game, such that eventually D put some show about alien abductions on. ( Did you know that's pretty much all that's on the Learning Channel these days? Alien abductions and Big Foot. Learning, my ass.) If I had been smart, I'd have gone upstairs, 'cause I've got the first DVD of the second season of True Blood waiting, and that, my friends, is a not-so-guilty pleasure. Instead, as usual, I didn't start watching it till 10:30 and promptly fell asleep before there was even one sex scene. What good does that do me? I ask you.
In summary, I recommend closer sporting contests and more perverted vampire sex. You heard it here first.
xoxo
Friday, July 9, 2010
momentous things are occurring
Momentous, I tell you!
First of all, despite a couple of hiccups--like that Red Sox game that shall never be spoken of again--Ubaldo has reached numero quince. Say it with me: KEEEEEN-say. Doesn't that sound good? Sadly, Mr Jhoulys Chacin, Ubaldo's fellow Rockies pitching staff member, has been demoted from starter to long relief, a role he sucked at on his first try. So, (as I said) sadly I had to dump him, and just after I finally learned how to pronounce the boy's name. There's just no real utility in holding onto a long reliever, as far as I can see. I will miss his Ks, however. But! Since I know that some of you, by which I mean "all", don't care as much about the Colorado Rockies as I do, let's move on to something else momentous.
I have this particular dress in my closet. I haven't been able to fit into it since 2004, but unlike the rest of my clothes that particular size, I haven't given it away or donated it. Primarily because I have very fond memories of wearing it to a particular event in the summer of 2003, and I am *such* a chick about such things. I try to suppress this tendency towards imbuing certain objects with sentimental meaning because AS YOU KNOW that way leads to ruin, and an appearance on Hoarders. But this dress I kept. It's a black sheath, square-necked, thin straps, just to the knee, and very fitted. It's a Joan Holloway kinda dress, okay? Last night when I was getting ready to go to bed,and thus looking at myself nekkid in the mirror and thinking about, y'know, joining a gym, I got it into my head to try on that dress and see how close I was to being able to zip it. As motivation to actually start lifting weights, not just thinking/talking/typing about it. Or something. You see where this story is going, right? Not only could I zip it, it actually fit. Sweet Mary, mother of god. I was shocked. (There goes the gym motivation.) Now, there are two problems. The first is that I no longer have the lifestyle in which I have any reason to wear this dress. This is a dress to wear, if not to the same function I last wore it, to a nice restaurant and then later be zipped out of by a handsome gentleman. It is Teh Sex. The second is that this dress has been living its life for the past six years in the spare closet next to a fuzzy angora sweater which I also no longer wear (that one's been too big!) and it is covered with fuzz by osmosis. I mean *covered*. The tag says dry clean only--it's cotton but it's lined--and I think if I take it to my friendly local dry cleaner, they will laugh at me and ask whether I really think the dry cleaning process will get that off. I suppose maybe if I spend about three hours of quality time with a lint brush, or a roll of duct tape, first. Nevertheless! Momentous!
And, finally? As some of you know already, I got a new phone last night, and thus will no longer be mockable. For that reason, anyway. I.like.it. I still do not have the internet in my pants, 'cause I ain't paying for a data plan, plus I think the internet in my pants is a bad, bad idea, but if you text me now, I can actually text you back. Easily. Welcome to 2005, Andrea!
Now, I gotta go, because I have more work to do. Let's hope this publishes, 'cause I've been writing it all damn morning.
xoxo
First of all, despite a couple of hiccups--like that Red Sox game that shall never be spoken of again--Ubaldo has reached numero quince. Say it with me: KEEEEEN-say. Doesn't that sound good? Sadly, Mr Jhoulys Chacin, Ubaldo's fellow Rockies pitching staff member, has been demoted from starter to long relief, a role he sucked at on his first try. So, (as I said) sadly I had to dump him, and just after I finally learned how to pronounce the boy's name. There's just no real utility in holding onto a long reliever, as far as I can see. I will miss his Ks, however. But! Since I know that some of you, by which I mean "all", don't care as much about the Colorado Rockies as I do, let's move on to something else momentous.
I have this particular dress in my closet. I haven't been able to fit into it since 2004, but unlike the rest of my clothes that particular size, I haven't given it away or donated it. Primarily because I have very fond memories of wearing it to a particular event in the summer of 2003, and I am *such* a chick about such things. I try to suppress this tendency towards imbuing certain objects with sentimental meaning because AS YOU KNOW that way leads to ruin, and an appearance on Hoarders. But this dress I kept. It's a black sheath, square-necked, thin straps, just to the knee, and very fitted. It's a Joan Holloway kinda dress, okay? Last night when I was getting ready to go to bed,and thus looking at myself nekkid in the mirror and thinking about, y'know, joining a gym, I got it into my head to try on that dress and see how close I was to being able to zip it. As motivation to actually start lifting weights, not just thinking/talking/typing about it. Or something. You see where this story is going, right? Not only could I zip it, it actually fit. Sweet Mary, mother of god. I was shocked. (There goes the gym motivation.) Now, there are two problems. The first is that I no longer have the lifestyle in which I have any reason to wear this dress. This is a dress to wear, if not to the same function I last wore it, to a nice restaurant and then later be zipped out of by a handsome gentleman. It is Teh Sex. The second is that this dress has been living its life for the past six years in the spare closet next to a fuzzy angora sweater which I also no longer wear (that one's been too big!) and it is covered with fuzz by osmosis. I mean *covered*. The tag says dry clean only--it's cotton but it's lined--and I think if I take it to my friendly local dry cleaner, they will laugh at me and ask whether I really think the dry cleaning process will get that off. I suppose maybe if I spend about three hours of quality time with a lint brush, or a roll of duct tape, first. Nevertheless! Momentous!
And, finally? As some of you know already, I got a new phone last night, and thus will no longer be mockable. For that reason, anyway. I.like.it. I still do not have the internet in my pants, 'cause I ain't paying for a data plan, plus I think the internet in my pants is a bad, bad idea, but if you text me now, I can actually text you back. Easily. Welcome to 2005, Andrea!
Now, I gotta go, because I have more work to do. Let's hope this publishes, 'cause I've been writing it all damn morning.
xoxo
Thursday, July 8, 2010
hate on elizabeth hasselbeck...
and support bodyworkers everywhere.
M2 sent me a link this morning, asking me to sign a petition demanding The View apologize to LMTs for slandering our entire profession. I did, of course. I won't ask you all to sign it, since it's written from the point of view of a massage professional, but should you like to register your own displeasure by writing to The View and telling them they suck for implying M2 and I and all our colleagues are whores, I would not dissuade you. Want to see what we're talking about? This.
But the whole thing about Al Gore supposedly trying to get frisky with a therapist reminds me that someone once told me they had worked on him and that he specifically asked that his glutes and his abdomen not be left out. I wish I could remember who said that to me. It obviously wasn't one of my massage school classmates, and I'm fairly sure it wasn't one of our instructors. So it was either someone I took a seminar from or with or someone I worked with at The Evil Massage place.
Anyway, it occurs to me that perhaps that is the kind of thing that would lead to misunderstandings with a therapist who is inexperienced, especially one who didn't go to a good massage school and/or really doesn't know deep tissue work. I do glutes in probably 90% or more of the massages I give, because a.) it feels good and b.) most people need it. If you haven't had an elbow stuck into your piriformis, you haven't lived, yo. And when I've done it on people I haven't worked on before, I am always surprised at the number of people who've had lots of bodywork who tell me no one's ever done their glutes before and OMG why not? 'cause that was really helpful. In other words, there are a whole lot of massage therapists out there neglecting that part of the body, apparently, and if you haven't been taught to do it as a regular part of a treatment, maybe you do think it's somehow weird and inappropriate for a client of the opposite sex to ask for it. Abdominal work, on the other hand, is something I rarely do, even though I know how and am fine with doing it, because that weirds out most clients. Most people don't like their bellies touched, even if it would be good for them. It's a vulnerable area, plus people have all kinds of shame issues about exposing theirs. So, again, if it weirds you out as a therapist, too, having someone specifically ask for it might make you uncomfortable.
None of this rules out that Al Gore isn't just a skeezebag who made an inappropriate advance, of course. You know how American politicians are. But it just made me wonder. People are capable of misconstruing other people's intentions.
But, in any case, you know you hate those women on The View anyway. Don't you want to tell them they're ignorant just for me and M2?
xoxo
M2 sent me a link this morning, asking me to sign a petition demanding The View apologize to LMTs for slandering our entire profession. I did, of course. I won't ask you all to sign it, since it's written from the point of view of a massage professional, but should you like to register your own displeasure by writing to The View and telling them they suck for implying M2 and I and all our colleagues are whores, I would not dissuade you. Want to see what we're talking about? This.
But the whole thing about Al Gore supposedly trying to get frisky with a therapist reminds me that someone once told me they had worked on him and that he specifically asked that his glutes and his abdomen not be left out. I wish I could remember who said that to me. It obviously wasn't one of my massage school classmates, and I'm fairly sure it wasn't one of our instructors. So it was either someone I took a seminar from or with or someone I worked with at The Evil Massage place.
Anyway, it occurs to me that perhaps that is the kind of thing that would lead to misunderstandings with a therapist who is inexperienced, especially one who didn't go to a good massage school and/or really doesn't know deep tissue work. I do glutes in probably 90% or more of the massages I give, because a.) it feels good and b.) most people need it. If you haven't had an elbow stuck into your piriformis, you haven't lived, yo. And when I've done it on people I haven't worked on before, I am always surprised at the number of people who've had lots of bodywork who tell me no one's ever done their glutes before and OMG why not? 'cause that was really helpful. In other words, there are a whole lot of massage therapists out there neglecting that part of the body, apparently, and if you haven't been taught to do it as a regular part of a treatment, maybe you do think it's somehow weird and inappropriate for a client of the opposite sex to ask for it. Abdominal work, on the other hand, is something I rarely do, even though I know how and am fine with doing it, because that weirds out most clients. Most people don't like their bellies touched, even if it would be good for them. It's a vulnerable area, plus people have all kinds of shame issues about exposing theirs. So, again, if it weirds you out as a therapist, too, having someone specifically ask for it might make you uncomfortable.
None of this rules out that Al Gore isn't just a skeezebag who made an inappropriate advance, of course. You know how American politicians are. But it just made me wonder. People are capable of misconstruing other people's intentions.
But, in any case, you know you hate those women on The View anyway. Don't you want to tell them they're ignorant just for me and M2?
xoxo
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
no pain, no gain
Oh, hey, kids. Look at that. It's July 7th and I haven't written a single post this month. We'll have to remedy that, won't we? I hereby declare blogcation to be over.
So what shall we talk about? Despite the title, not strength training, because I still haven't started that yet. Not that I don't look in the mirror nekkid just about every day and say to myself, "Andrea, if you were lifting right now, you'd look awesome." Maybe I don't *want* to look any more awesome than I already do (ha!), did you ever think of that? Maybe if I looked any more awesome even more persons with y chromosomes would feel entitled to my conversation just because I own a vagina and leave my house occasionally. Maybe instead of lifting weights, I should take up some of your martial arts so I could take down said annoying male persons with one punch*** Besides, as I told Mr Indemnity a few years ago when he steadfastly refused to go to the free trial class at the kickboxing gym with me (I found the postcard on *his* coffee table), hitting stuff is FUN. But alas, I know I am incapable of martial artistry. I know because D took, I dunno, three years of kenpo karate when he was a little kid (until basically our house burned down and our life was severely disrupted for a bit and then he didn't go back to it), and karate involves remembering all sorts of complicated series of moves and doing them just right in order to advance to your next belt. I lack the motor coordination for that. I can barely follow along in yoga, fer crissakes. I do, however, like to hit things.
Did you notice that huge digression there? With the parenthetical asides n' all? Keep that in mind, it'll be important later. Hand to god. (I was gonna give you yet another digression about how bad my mother was with this, such that you would be driven to say, "Ma! I know there's a point to this story. GET TO IT." But you'll just have to settle for another parenthetical aside instead.)
What were we talking about? No pain, no gain! Writing-style, that is.
Over the long weekend (the epic**** details of which I will spare you), I had a couple of people ask me for my blog address. This was after I had made a statement that I don't write any more and was told in return that blogging *is* writing. Well, all y'all know I don't believe that. At least, I don't believe my blogging is real writing. I was challenged to explain that, and I couldn't. Not coherently anyway. And then, having read, these kind and writerly people sent me some very nice compliments about The Adventures and told me to, and I quote, "STFU about the 'not-real writing' thing!"
So, I was pondering, as you do, why I felt that way, and how I might more coherently explain it. And it came to me that the reason I feel that is that IT'S TOO EASY. Man, writing fiction is hard. Believe me, I spent a good ten years learning and practicing, and while one's results do get better over time, it doesn't ever get easier. There is so much to worry about: plot, characterization, dialogue, believability, prose style, emotional impact, entertainment value. Writing a blog? All you need to do is have an idea pop into your head and then write it down in a vaguely entertaining manner. It's not hard if a.) you have ideas and b.) you have a writing style capable of keeping people from falling asleep and drooling onto their keyboards. It doesn't even require editing. If it did, would there be all those digressions and parenthetical asides in this lovely piece of prose you're reading right now? I think not!
Now, I suppose there are people out there--brought up in different sociocultural milieus from me I would imagine--who don't subscribe to the idea that all good things require hard work. I don't know what my rebuttal to them would be. I'ma think on that some more.
Meanwhile, you all stay hydrated; it's hot out there. And use some product in your hair. Yeah.
xoxo
*** I fear that at least one of my new readers, unaccustomed to the style and tone of Adventurous rants, thinks I'm about *this* close to snapping and taking out a few people with a semi-automatic weapon. Or a nail file. One of the two. Long term readers are welcome to add testimonials in the comments that I am really a very sweet person who does the metta meditation and who exaggerates her annoyances for humorous effect. Well, most of the time. But, seriously, not in danger of punching anyone. Especially if one of yous will go to the kickboxing gym with me and let me hit stuff there instead.
****I was gonna say EPIC, but I decided that adjective is only going to be used from now on when Our Lil MILF reappears in my (your/our) life again.
So what shall we talk about? Despite the title, not strength training, because I still haven't started that yet. Not that I don't look in the mirror nekkid just about every day and say to myself, "Andrea, if you were lifting right now, you'd look awesome." Maybe I don't *want* to look any more awesome than I already do (ha!), did you ever think of that? Maybe if I looked any more awesome even more persons with y chromosomes would feel entitled to my conversation just because I own a vagina and leave my house occasionally. Maybe instead of lifting weights, I should take up some of your martial arts so I could take down said annoying male persons with one punch*** Besides, as I told Mr Indemnity a few years ago when he steadfastly refused to go to the free trial class at the kickboxing gym with me (I found the postcard on *his* coffee table), hitting stuff is FUN. But alas, I know I am incapable of martial artistry. I know because D took, I dunno, three years of kenpo karate when he was a little kid (until basically our house burned down and our life was severely disrupted for a bit and then he didn't go back to it), and karate involves remembering all sorts of complicated series of moves and doing them just right in order to advance to your next belt. I lack the motor coordination for that. I can barely follow along in yoga, fer crissakes. I do, however, like to hit things.
Did you notice that huge digression there? With the parenthetical asides n' all? Keep that in mind, it'll be important later. Hand to god. (I was gonna give you yet another digression about how bad my mother was with this, such that you would be driven to say, "Ma! I know there's a point to this story. GET TO IT." But you'll just have to settle for another parenthetical aside instead.)
What were we talking about? No pain, no gain! Writing-style, that is.
Over the long weekend (the epic**** details of which I will spare you), I had a couple of people ask me for my blog address. This was after I had made a statement that I don't write any more and was told in return that blogging *is* writing. Well, all y'all know I don't believe that. At least, I don't believe my blogging is real writing. I was challenged to explain that, and I couldn't. Not coherently anyway. And then, having read, these kind and writerly people sent me some very nice compliments about The Adventures and told me to, and I quote, "STFU about the 'not-real writing' thing!"
So, I was pondering, as you do, why I felt that way, and how I might more coherently explain it. And it came to me that the reason I feel that is that IT'S TOO EASY. Man, writing fiction is hard. Believe me, I spent a good ten years learning and practicing, and while one's results do get better over time, it doesn't ever get easier. There is so much to worry about: plot, characterization, dialogue, believability, prose style, emotional impact, entertainment value. Writing a blog? All you need to do is have an idea pop into your head and then write it down in a vaguely entertaining manner. It's not hard if a.) you have ideas and b.) you have a writing style capable of keeping people from falling asleep and drooling onto their keyboards. It doesn't even require editing. If it did, would there be all those digressions and parenthetical asides in this lovely piece of prose you're reading right now? I think not!
Now, I suppose there are people out there--brought up in different sociocultural milieus from me I would imagine--who don't subscribe to the idea that all good things require hard work. I don't know what my rebuttal to them would be. I'ma think on that some more.
Meanwhile, you all stay hydrated; it's hot out there. And use some product in your hair. Yeah.
xoxo
*** I fear that at least one of my new readers, unaccustomed to the style and tone of Adventurous rants, thinks I'm about *this* close to snapping and taking out a few people with a semi-automatic weapon. Or a nail file. One of the two. Long term readers are welcome to add testimonials in the comments that I am really a very sweet person who does the metta meditation and who exaggerates her annoyances for humorous effect. Well, most of the time. But, seriously, not in danger of punching anyone. Especially if one of yous will go to the kickboxing gym with me and let me hit stuff there instead.
****I was gonna say EPIC, but I decided that adjective is only going to be used from now on when Our Lil MILF reappears in my (your/our) life again.
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