I’d like to say it was 14 inches of snow, followed by an ice storm, followed by power outages — Hello, PNW! — but it wasn’t.
I’d like to say it was 5 days on a private island soaking up sun, surf and umbrella drinks with the man of my dreams, but it wasn’t.
The truth is I was just….
… writing.
… doing professional reading in current thinking on indie publishing, traditional publishing, social media, blogging.
… combing through a whole lotta years of paperwork looking for some information I needed. Mercy!
… encouraging the G-Pup up and down the stairs, inside and outside, as she heals from a torn nail after slipping on the ice. Poor baby!
… going to Matinee-land to see The Iron Lady — Meryl Streep is a force of nature and my favorite female actor.
… going to Matinee-land to see Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, which was most excellent, even though I got lost a time or two. I need to see that again.
… exercising. Help me, Rhonda!
… living my sucky, sugar-free life. 14 days and counting. Wahoo. I couldn’t even work up enough of a wahoo to put an exclamation point after it. Told ya. Sucky.
We did Date Night With Friends Saturday night. We met at a centrum and inhaled popcorn (Not me. That stuff will kill you.) while Tom Cruise, I mean Ethan Hunt, scaled the exterior glass wall of the mother of all skyscraper hotels, as the mother of all sandstorms approached, using only his feet for purchase, and a pair of electronic suction hand gloves. If anything, this action/adventure/thriller is about how to complete the mission when technology fails. Good times.
I wanted those gloves.
I needed those gloves.
My gloves were MIA.
This happens to me all the time. I have a box of single gloves. Don’t know why I’m keeping them. Maybe I think the glove fairy will show up with the matching gloves.
We needed cash for the show. The most expedient thing to do was hit the drive-through bank en route. As we approached the window, Mr. G, honey hit the button for the driver’s window. It bzzzzed down about half an inch and whined about how frrrreakin’ cold it was outside.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ll just jump out and run up to the drive-through window. It’s all good.”
So I did. I finger-waved to the little camera guy just to be friendly. I live in Canadaland, ya know.
I jumped back in the car and we sped away within the suggested speed limit. I swears!
Me: Oops.
Mr. G: Oops, what?
Me: I think my gloves are in the drive-through lane.
Mr. G: (Sigh) Check the floor.
Me: Nope. I’m pretty sure they’re in the drive-through lane.
Mr. G: (Sigh) Check your purse.
Me: Nope. I’m pretty sure…
Mr. G: (Sigh) Okay.We’ll go back.
Me: No time.
Mr. G: (Siiiigh) We’ll make a quick check on the way back tonight.
See. I’m one of those people. One of those people who take their gloves off in the car, in the restaurant, in the theater, in the… set them on their laps, on the table, on the bar, on the… and promptly walk away.
The special people.
People with a fat glove budget.
People with a box of single gloves.
People with no gloves.
In the car, I mostly lose one glove, so we know where I mostly lose my gloves. Yup.
After the IMF completed their mission impossible, and after a large skim milk cappuccino with cinnamon (that kept me up until 5:30 in the morning), we sped back to the drive-through-house-of-money where Mr. G, honey crept up the circular drive while I kept my eyes peeled for thin, black leather gloves.
If it hadn’t been for the fingers, I never would have spotted them. Oh, where was my camera! They were side by side, and less than pancake thin, and snow-covered, and riddled with tire tread.
The treaded dead.
It was a horror.
I need these ~
Not for signing, not for safety, not for clubbing, not for…
I need them so that I can spot my gloves in my lap, or across the road, or on the exterior glass wall of the mother of all skyscraper hotels .
I need them so my gloves don’t become the treaded dead.
I don’t like it when it’s 9:00 pm EST and I am just sitting down to write a post.
In 2012, I’m trying to get my exercise in at the beginning of the day, in at the middle of the day.
In 2012, I’m trying not to wait until the end of the day to exercise. It’s just not going to happen. It can get sporadic. Ask Papa 2011. He’ll tell you. Well, once he finishes slapping his thigh and snort-laughing.
So.
When I would have been posting in 2011, I’m exercising in 2012. It just wasn’t attractive the way the writer’s butt was creeping over the edge of the seat.
Okay. That’s not really true. But it could be true before 2013, if I don’t do some serious shake & shimmy in the current year of our Lord.
I tell you, I did some serious shake & shimmy today. Twice. My joy is putting a little hip action in my runway walk.
I might have been doing a little of this…
Except I don’t sound anything close to that when I’m belting out the lyrics. Good thing no one can hear me.
I can totally move like Jagger. Totally. Not. I don’t think I should be able to, do you?
Moves Like Jagger by Maroon 5 with Christine Aguilera. It’s in my iTunes, on my iPod.
Hello, Monday!
Okay.
Good-bye, Monday!
And that’s how you write 200+ words on why my homework blog post is late.
I know. I know.
