This weekend has once again confirmed my lack of coordination. I tell you, I am like a baby giraffe or a muppet. Or maybe a muppet version of a baby giraffe.

Friday I was silkscreening some stuff with handmade screens and I was sitting at my drafting table on the rolling chair. I leaned to reach for a tissue to wipe up the paint and managed to fall out of the chair. I felt like the little old lady in the Lifealeart commercial.

Saturday I managed to injure myself once again. The flourescent light in the kitchen decided that it wanted to join it’s mate which had been taken down over a month ago. In removing the light box I managed to cut my finger and cut my foot on one of the clips that held the light in place. (will that force me to wear shoes in the house? Hell no!)

Sunday I decided to install my new mailbox. I managed to smash my thumb with the hammer (blood blister) and scrape my leg hauling off the old mailbox.

I hope the rule of 3s still applies. If it doesn’t, atleast my tetanus shot is still current.

Since I started this stroll down memory lane…

One of my earliest memories is of this album cover. I also remember listening to it with my dad. I don’t know how old I was but I recall my dad having a big ‘fro.

I don’t have that many memories of hanging out with my dad. He travelled a lot. But this album reminds me of him. I was his princess.

I remember my first record player. It was a little one that played 45s. I had my own collection of Raggedy Ann and Andy records along with a few random singles.

The second record player was the Fisher Price record player. Now that was a serious record player. I could play 33s on that one. In addition to Strawberry Shortcake, the Care Bears, and the Smurfs, I remember playing Prince’s Purple Rain, my 45 of Strawberry Beret, and the double album soundtrack of Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band by the BeeGees and Peter Frampton.

It was all about vinyl. I remember dancing around the basement (I grew up in the east so we had basements) with my mom. I remember the album covers. Lips Incorporated, Sugar Hill Gang, Michael Jackson, Stevie Wonder, Rufus and Chaka Khan, Tina Turner, the Pointer Sisters, the soundtrack to the Wiz…

I took care of my records. I made sure that they didn’t get scratched. I kept the jackets in good shape. There was a certain level of respect for records. CDs are fairly indestructable. I’ve destroyed many jewel cases and left many cds abandoned under the front seat of my car.

In case you were wondering, I still listen to all of the old stuff. Right now I am listening to Earth Wind & Fire. But it’s all mp3. One of these days I will go back to vinyl. I have a record player (just in case).

I’ll admit it. I have a Sunday routine. Any other day of the week I just wing it. But Sunday, there is a routine. Sometimes you just need to decide on a day to get things done.

As much as I enjoy sleeping in, back when I had roommates I would get up early on Sunday just to enjoy some quiet. I’d bake muffins or some other tasty breakfast treat, and enjoy my coffee, maybe read the paper. Then I would clean the house (I cleaned the house a lot when I had roomates).

When the roommates were gone, I started waking up later. I’d still bake stuff but just not every week. Sometimes I’d clean, most of the time I would not. When there were boys in the picture, I enjoyed loafing in bed and then grabbing a late breakfast.

Now that all is quiet, I listen to chillville on the radio, I get out of bed around 10. I change the sheets on my bed (cause it is the only way I remember to do it on a regular basis) and I do laundry. I clean up around the house and try and put things back in order after a week of leaving things wherever I dropped them when I came in from work.

Today, I woke up way earlier than usual. I woke up around 8 (probably because I passed out on the couch last night around 8ish woke up around 10ish and then fell back asleep). I made whole wheat biscuts and started the laundry. I spent a chunk of the morning on the internet doing research for a sewing class. Then I puttered around in my sewing room. I did the final fitting for the prom dress I am altering. I went outside for a bit to take care of my roses that had decided that they wanted to lie down. I made homemade veggie burgers (I have faith that the weather will improve and we will go back to the regularly scheduled grilling season). I returned to the internet to research composite lumber (for my fence) and dual-flush toilets (I need to replace the toilet in my bathroom and I am looking at the high efficiency ones). I made lunch for the next few days. I chatted with Megan on the phone and then I made quesadillas for dinner. Then it was guilty pleasure tv time. Every Sunday I watch Extreme Makeover Home Edition (and usually have a good cry during the heartwrenching moment when they move the bus). Then I fold laundry.

Back to that whole thing on appearances. Kids always pick up on differences. Even in the earliest stages of development they start to sort things out, group them by similarities.

My mom enrolled me in gymnastics when I was about 4. (It probably had something to do with the fact that my sister and I were using the basement couch to vault off of.) Anyways, I wasn’t all that coordinated. I blame it on the fact that my legs were way out of proportion with the rest of my body (and then there was the fact that I was chubby and lacking in upper body strength).
One day sticks out in my head. I was at gymnastics and I had decided to cover myself in white chalk. The chalk that we used on our hands to grip the bars. I thought nothing of it. I was wearing my leotard and I started with my legs. Then my arms. I don’t remember if I got to my face. I just remember my mom being mad and taking me to the restroom to remove the chalk.

Kids notice differences. I was convinced that my sister, who is several shades lighter than me, was adopted. When I was a preschool teacher one of my kids asked if the brown washed off. I had to explain that it didn’t (and I recall secretly wishing that it did).

About 9 years ago I made an attempt to domesticate this cat. Sure he may look like some average lazy-ass house cat, but that is only during the winter. As soon as spring hits, he is out the door. New baby animals, BEWARE. Louis was a dumpster diving kitty before we rescued him, part of him will remain that way forever.

Every year I take him to the vet and get lectured on what a bad pet owner I am. I should keep the cat inside. He will live a longer life (the cat is atleast 10, I think he has lived way past the lifespan of the average dumpster diving cat.

So, why am I babbling about the cat? Megan is concerned that one day I will be feral like my cat.

So what exactly does that mean?

I asked the Wikipedia.

“A feral animal is one that has reverted from the domesticated state to a stable condition more or less resembling the wild.”

She’s basically concered that lack of contact with actual human beings will ruin my whole ability to socialize/communicate with others. In some ways I agree (I might consider myself socially challenged), but in reading the definition it doesn’t say that being feral is a bad thing. It can lead to diversification of the species (but I don’t think that excuse is going to fly with Meg)

A while back, Meg established the rule that I needed to be out and about with people atleast twice a week. I could hermit all I wanted for the rest of the week. But there is a flaw in that requirement. Going out to a concert counts as being out and about with people. Even if I go alone. If I am not going out to meet up with people I am still capable of withdrawing completely.
One show that sticks out is the Of Montreal show I went to at Emo’s. I was tired, it was cold out, the venue was crowded and smokey. I was grumpy. I didn’t talk to anyone and I pretty much spaced out and enjoyed the music. Once I got past the doorman asking for my ID and stamping my wrist I was done interacting with people. Usually I am not that bad, but I find myself doing that more often lately. I caught myself zoning out a few times like that during SXSW.

My not meeting new people is partially my fault for closing myself off. But it is partially the rest of the world’s fault for not letting me in.

As for the cat, well, maybe he will be a full-time house cat in his next life.

I bought my first piece of exercise equipment a few weeks ago. I had been chatting with Meg about the fact that “my people” may look good but they drop like flies without warning. I decided that I needed more than pilates. I needed cardio. But I hate running (I feel like a muppet when I run). I used to do the whole cardio strip tease thing with Leslie but, the studio closed and I didn’t want to join the gym to take the class.

March is a good time to hunt for exercise equipment on Craigslist. Most people are cleaning out their garages and giving up on that new years resolution. I was thinking eliptical machine or exercise bike. Something that I could use while watching tv. Even better if I could find something for $50 or less.

I found a Gazelle for $50 and talked the owner down to $40. Unfortunately I don’t have a vehicle that could go pick it up. Then by total chance I found another one listed on Craigslist for $30. I called around to see if someone could go get it. I lucked out. Keely was downtown and she had $30 to pay for it.

I am now the proud owner of the Gazelle Supra. It’s slightly used, I cleaned it up (it was covered in red dust) and oiled it up. I replaced the batteries in the “computer). The model doesn’t exist anymore (the name has changed) but the new model costs about $279.99. The only thing missing was the cup holder. Which really isn’t that important. I attached some velcro to it so I can stick the remote to it.

So now I do my zero impact run on the Gazelle while I watch tv. I figure I can watch crappy shows like “The Search for the Next Pussycat Doll” as long as I am working out. It’s not as bad as if I was just lying on the couch watching such crap.

I feel better since I started on this quest. I don’t know that I will live any longer because of it. Will it make me more coordinated. Make me less muppet-like should I decide to take up running? Who knows? Health aside, I just want to look good naked.

I have never dated a hairy man but apparently friends of mine have. One in particular has dated enough hairy men that she should be a professional manscaper by now. From using clippers to going all out with the Epilady (even I wouldn’t subject someone to the Epilady). I was curious about the manscaping thing so I googled it and found this article, “Manscaping 101 with Marcel“.

I am not afraid of dating a hairy guy, but how do you know that your date isn’t sasquatch? There are some signs that indicate that he may be a wookie under that shirt. There’s the wearers of 2 shirts. Even in the heat of summer they wear 2 shirts to keep the hairs from sticking out like a porcupine. On occasion you can make an assumption based on the amount of arm and leg hair. Then there are the hairs that stick up over their collar, total wookie trait.

Do I dare discuss odd hair patterns or hair in odd places? I can’t help it. I think it is really weird that when guys start balding, hair starts to migrate to other places. Like their lower back or their ass. Then there is the ear hair or the caterpillar eyebrows (although I think that if they were really awesome eyebrows like Pi Mei’s…, nah I would still make fun of them).

Ok, I am going to stop now before things get worse.

Is there a need for something a little more permanent?

Many say that in order for small businesses to survive it is better to avoid hiring full time employees. I begin to wonder if the same applies to aspects of life.

I think that love would require a set up that is a bit more permanent. For example, Em and I were discussing the fact that it would be hard to find someone who loved us as much as Meg does. I am not saying that it is impossible, I am just saying that it would be hard. Meg has been a permanent fixture in my life for the last 7 years. For the longest time she was the last person I talked to before I went to bed.

That aside, I think that sex is definitely something that could be contracted (friends with benefits even). Or outsourced to our battery operated friends (Although, I am told that really good sex usually involves some sort of emotional connection).

Why do I bring this up? I’ve been scrolling through old emails and found this…

The thing I had to realize about dating – or perhaps it would be moreaccurate to say that I’m still learning it – is that one need not invest everything in a relationship at the beginning. It helps reduce the fear of rejection, and it keeps one from going too fast,expecting too much, and being let down.

That’s right, that whole issue of emotional investment. Do you stick your toe in the water to test it out? or do you jump right in?

Something for you to ponder.

I don’t text. Sure, I am a blogger. I write for all the internet to see. I write the way I talk. Most of the time I write what I have shared with Meg or what I plan to share with Meg. Texting is way to limiting.

There are some people that live by text messages. I just can’t do it. I spent 2 hours on the phone with Meg yesterday. We talked about some pretty heavy stuff. Stuff that required more than a few abbreviated words. I needed to hear how the tone of her voice changed. I could tell that she was scared, upset, excited. Things that text messages can’t share.

There are a few occasions that text messages would be useful. During SXSW it’s a little noisy to be using a cell phone and most of the calls I get are about scheduling. Next year I may decide to turn on text messages for the month of March.