| ::: ::: Journal entries: :::
::: Reading: God, nothing. Does this week's Star magazine count? Check out: Artifact:
I have been LOOKING for that flipflop, too. | Thursday, February 17, 2005 On Monday, JB and I went out for a shmoopy Valentine's Day dinner at the Space Needle restaurant, which is better known for its view than its cuisine, and rightfully so - both of us sort picked at our mediocre entrees, too bad considering the price of admission, but the Lord He Be Moving In Mysterious Ways, because our blah dinners left us with plenty of room for the GIANT chocolate heart (sadly not anatomically correct, how great would that have been? trailing chocolate-raspberry arteries, marzipan aortic valves) that appeared when it came time for dessert. My new motto: always leave room for dessert. Well...not so much "new", that motto, maybe more like "fervently renewed". The Space Needle restaurant rotates, which is a disconcerting experience for those of us who are what you might charitably describe as directionally impaired. I was very careful throughout our meal to limit my water intake, because the last thing I wanted to do was get up and go to the bathroom. I have a hard enough time navigating my way back to the table in restaurants that are NOT constantly rearranging their layout, thank you very much. The outer wall of the building is stationary, so as the rest of the room turns, it gives the appearance that the windows are slowly sliding by, changing the outside view as they go. Scraps of paper started showing up on the window ledge bearing notes scribbled by other dining patrons: "HI IS ANYONE ELSE FROM BILLINGS MONTANA?", "We just got engaged!", and the matter-of-fact "I like coca-cola." The notes - ripped matchbook covers, napkins, business cards - cruised by us all night long, weird little vignettes from the other tables. I wanted to write our own note, something that seemed normal on the surface but was secretly offensive, but I couldn't figure out how to casually work in the term "Dirty Sanchez". I wore a dress and heels that night, a definite anomaly in terms of my regularly scheduled 7-PM-and-later outfit, typically a baggy t-shirt and Old Navy pajama bottoms combo that JB rather hurtfully referred to as "godawful" the other night (earth to JB: am striving for comfort, not fashion award. Also, sometimes? Your mouth, it does not think before it flaps in the wind.) Sure, some may have questioned my choice of a sleeveless dress on a night that hovered around 30 degrees, but the constant shivering and protruding goosebumps probably added a certain something to my ensemble, a je ne sais quois that whispered a single message to all that view me: "I am stupid." Secretly, I just wore that dress because it's loose through the waist and thus can disguise the consumption of, say, a huge enormous gargantuan chocolate dessert. I may have felt like an anaconda digesting a sheep, but by golly, my dress didn't show it. ::: The rest of my week has been fairly humdrum, except for an exciting moment last night when I fed Dog a cherry tomato. Would she eat it? Would she drop it in disgust? The questions hung in the air and the tension mounted, as I stood in the kitchen and watched her roll it around in her mouth. Sadly for my walls and floor, the eventual outcome was that she bit the tomato, but didn't carefully wrap her lips around her teeth the way us salad-eating humans have learned to do. The effect was similar to a stomped-on packet of ketchup, and that, well, that was Wednesday night at MY house. |
