Gurgle
A man on the elevator was talking about how he's lactose-intolerant but just ate a pastrami sandwich with cheese and mayo. He was powerless to its allure.
He is me when confronted by ice cream. Because really? I don't care what ice cream does to my stomach or my thighs or my whatever-innards. There is nothing better than ice cream. I think even — dare I say it? — french fries are not as good. (By saying this, I have entered a new phase of my life. The Ice Cream as Goddess Phase. EVERYTHING is different.)
Anyway, this week has been eventful in its uneventfulness. My body shut down from head-to-toe exhaustion (but not the Lindsay Lohan/Mariah Carey/Britney Spears kind; I don't have to check into Promises or anything) and I slept all day Tuesday and Wednesday. Sleep like that is extraordinary when you have the luxury of taking it: You are just on another plane, when getting up is not an option and there is absolutely nothing twittering in the back of your mind to keep you awake or worried or alert. The flowers in my garden even started to grow, I think because I was asleep long enough to stop staring at them. I hate to cook; my garden is my watched pot.
Last week, we were talking about the effects of magazines on everyday life. I said that every time I walk through the art department of an outdoor-lifestyle publication in my office, I look at the pictures on the designers' screens and want to be THERE, in those photos. My friend Amy said, "Yeah! I know! I think, God! My life sucks! Why aren't I spelunking?!?"
Totally.
He is me when confronted by ice cream. Because really? I don't care what ice cream does to my stomach or my thighs or my whatever-innards. There is nothing better than ice cream. I think even — dare I say it? — french fries are not as good. (By saying this, I have entered a new phase of my life. The Ice Cream as Goddess Phase. EVERYTHING is different.)
Anyway, this week has been eventful in its uneventfulness. My body shut down from head-to-toe exhaustion (but not the Lindsay Lohan/Mariah Carey/Britney Spears kind; I don't have to check into Promises or anything) and I slept all day Tuesday and Wednesday. Sleep like that is extraordinary when you have the luxury of taking it: You are just on another plane, when getting up is not an option and there is absolutely nothing twittering in the back of your mind to keep you awake or worried or alert. The flowers in my garden even started to grow, I think because I was asleep long enough to stop staring at them. I hate to cook; my garden is my watched pot.
Last week, we were talking about the effects of magazines on everyday life. I said that every time I walk through the art department of an outdoor-lifestyle publication in my office, I look at the pictures on the designers' screens and want to be THERE, in those photos. My friend Amy said, "Yeah! I know! I think, God! My life sucks! Why aren't I spelunking?!?"
Totally.
posted by Marla at 3:01 PM
1 Comments:
I am so into the "overheards" lately. The other day on Bedford Avenue in unfortunate Williamsburg which I unfortunately call home, one of the izod-wearing no-asses (boy, in this case) was barking into his cell phone, "Like, I achieve erection but NOT orgasm!"
I just got back from Boston, where the ice cream is nearly perfect and absolutely shames everything NYC has to offer in the frozen dairy department. Just sayin'.
I like your bloggy.x
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