Cowlick!

My new crew cut has alerted me to a cowlick I didn't know was there. I look like this:


Well, actually not quite. But I realized this morning as I was driving to work that I have cultivated a seriously lesbian look.

Oh well.

Am I missing something?

I'm sorry. This Missoni stuff everyone's going nuts over is just ugly.

It's like the 70's are not only back, they're puking all over the fashion world.

Bleeeee.

I will not eat the pissy biscuit

This is gonna take a lot of cheese to fix, Velma.

I know it's Friday, and the sun is out after a fuckin' dark, dreary...rainy? No, biblically DELUGE-Y, week. And it's also payday. But several things have conspired to put me into a really, REALLY filthy mood. Care to know? Well, I'm gonna spew here, so if you don't, move along.

Okay.

The goddamn plantar fasciitis is back. Some may remember a few summers ago I had it mostly in the right foot. Very painful, and took nearly the entire summer of that year to pamper it, do the stretches, hobbling around like a gimp...until it finally went away sometime in the fall, only to have it rear its ugly...um...head this year, trying its luck with the left foot. Why you little bastard, I oughta...

And then.

You know when you put in hours and hours on a project (which should be simpler, but with a hierarchy of assholes up the 'chain of approval' that you have to pacify at every step...and they take their friggin' time over every piece, don't get me STARTED), complete with all the paperwork, on-line parts done and approved, finances and funding set and ready to go live...and as you're one final, tiny, inconsequential step away from pressing GO on the whole frakking thing, and getting that shit up and running, the person who STARTED the thing in the first place (but has no part in planning, building, implementing it, doing ANY of the pissing legwork, just says "I think we should do this, can you get that done?") changes his mind about a major, foundational - goddammit- GAME CHANGING part of the project?

Yeah. There's that.

And then I went and spotted an ex (from WAY back) on facebook and I don't want to be friends, (hereby promise I won't to reach out in that direction) but I am now sad that I had to get curious, look at the profile, and see that face again. I'm not sentimental in the least tiny bit, have no current feelings for that gadgie, and I'm happily married and all - but the feeling of nostalgia and melancholy I have now has bitten me on my charming, cotton-tailed arse. I don't know what it is - lost youth? Regrets from days gone by? Whatever it is - I am sad. But more importantly, feelings of sadness can't just sit there in a brain-corner and be sad for a while and then fuck off back to wherever they came from - oh, no - they have a tendency to exacerbate their bad selves by the fact that just feeling sad PISSES ME RIGHT-THE-FUCK-OFF.

So I'm more angry than melancholy. Which I suppose is healthier? Or easier to move on from? I don't know. It has still soured my quiche.

And a soured quiche is unforGIVeable.

But enough whinging.

(I hear you say.)

Right.

It's a beautiful day, it's Friday, it's payday, and I've finally broken the 9 pound weight loss plateau. Started in the spring, and the first 9 pounds took about a month to go. I know about plateaus - they're a bitch, but they're natural, and you have to be patient and keep working at it. But damn, that sucked. So it took me 6 weeks of work, eating nothing but veggies, fruit, lean proteins, and working out like some kind of ...I don't know...some maniac who works out a lot...hovering at the 9 pound mark. And yes, finally, after all that work.

I have lost ten.

Who wants a drink?