I’m in the beginning stages of a couple of writing projects, and in the middle of production at work, and at the end of a month full of out-of-town visitors and weekend trips, and somewhere in between all that I had a shitload of laundry which I’ve just now done. How are you? Don’t mind me; I’m trying to catch the hell up.
Really, I sort of feel like I left my life out in the rain (yes, like the MacArthur Park cake) and now that I’ve brought it back in to dry out (which, no, you wouldn’t do with a cake), I’ve forgotten how to wear it (and okay, now I’m making a sort of sweater analogy here) and lost track all the little places where I stretched it to make it fit right (because of course it’s a fat girl’s sweater), and things are a little itchy and uncomfortable at the moment but I’m sure I’ll break it back in eventually.
One of the stretchy things I haven’t been able to figure out is how we went to the gym all these months. Apparently the mornings used to be longer and I used to be not so tired. I know from experience that when you actually do start working out regularly,things sort of amazingly take care of themselves so that you do have more energy, and time expands, and your molecules totally rearrange themselves so that you are cuter and smarter. I know this, and yet still I wait for the perfect gym-going opportunity to appear in the mist like Brigadoon. Still, I’ve been biking to work whenever I can. Which is well, about once a week. Whatever. Brigadoon. I’ll let you know when I find it.
*Seriously, I forgot that the lyrics to that song were that demented. Donna Summer needs to be commended for her non-enunciation skills in her version.
Plug #1 for the day is for the Photo Project at Elastic Waist. I’ve got a photoset up, where the only Before shot is of me as a 4-year-old (because that really is Before lots of things). Plug #2 is for the new issue of BUST hitting the newsstands this week, because in addition to my usual Poptart column, there’s an interview with Debbie Harry conducted (via very long-distance phone call) by yours truly. BUY IT. And if it’s not at your newsstand yet and the previous issue is still there, the one with my column about Olivia Newton-John in it, you should buy that one, too. I’m just saying.
arrgh i hear ye re the waiting for the mist moment…
And Debbie Harry! That is bloody brilliant 🙂
Soooo glad you’re back with a post! I was beginning to worry. I think you’re a riot and check your blog each day for something new. PS. I’ve ordered your Mackerel Pudding book to give as a Christmas gift.
I tried to dry out a cake once…it was the top tier of my wedding cake. You know how you are supposed to keept the top and then eat it on your first anniversary? Well, I was married in Chicago and lived in Denver at the time. My mom wrapped up the cake, put it in the cooler and by the time we drove back to Denver, the ziplock bag had a hole it in and the cake was soggy. So I put in on a baking rack to dry out…and when I came into the kitchen a while later, my dog was standing there on his back legs licking the frosting off the cake. That’s when i decided that drying out a cake was a stupid idea.
“Spring was never waiting for us, girl
It ran one step ahead
As we followed in the dance
Between the parted pages and were pressed,
In love’s hot, fevered iron
Like a striped pair of pants
MacArthur’s Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet, green icing flowing down…”
Once she started taking her anti-schizophrenic medication, she just couldn’t write lyrics like she used to.
i used to drink in an “old skool” kind of bar, the kind with the old timers at the end of the bar who never seem to order but always have a drink. i was told that one of those old timers was the guy who wrote “macarthur park”, i don’t really think i ever drank with jimmy webb…but i tell people that anyway. heh.
Debbie Harry – that is so cool! She’s an interesting comparison to ONJ, now that I think about it; two seventies blondes who twisted the archetype a little.
I picked up a full set of Weight Watcher recipe cards at the Salvation Army last weekend, and had to have a dinner party in their honour, although I didn’t make any of the actual dishes (there isn’t enough gelatin in the world).
Dave Barry once had a readers-write-in thing to pick the worst song of all time. He ended up writing two (hysterical) columns about the responses, and That Song won. Or lost, depending on how you look at it.
Boy, most of those photo sets at elastic waist were depressing. . .the first three I picked to view were all before and afters after weight loss surgery.
As soon as I hear that nostalgic first chord of ‘Last Dance,’ I get really turned on. That’s sexin music!