Tuesday, June 4, 2013

Day 4: Sometimes a Day Is Just a Day

I typed "random utterances" into Google Images and got some truly strange pics, but also this one, which I fell in love with.

Today I sat at on the patio at Starbucks with a nice medium-sized dog, whose owner assured him she would be right back, she promised, very very soon, and he's gazing at her adoringly with a look of "I don't understand a word you are saying but I love you" and it was very cute, and then when she finally did come back, he was all over her face in a frenzy of licking joy, and she smiled at me and I said, "Listen, I have teenagers; nobody in my house is that happy to see me," and every person on the Starbucks patio guffawed.

Is it because I'm from California that I call that outdoor dining area a patio? I'm pretty sure that's not what Starbucks calls it, but I can't think of another word.

I have to go to Starbucks three more times before Thursday because of my Home Equity Line of Credit; I have these two credit cards (which are associated with our HELOC rate in some complicated way that I've decided not to understand), and I have to use each of them twice a month or I get charged $15. Apiece. And I don't have to use them at Starbucks, but at $2.41 for a large coffee, I can go a long time before I have to add money to either account, and one less account I have to add money to (the kids' lunch accounts, Mimosa's bus pass) is a good thing.

So. I'm hanging in there with the weight loss thing, dutifully logging my food, eschewing snacks that I might have eaten out of boredom, choosing protein and fiber, rah rah rah. Scale goes up, scale goes down. I'll weigh in on Sunday, as per usual. And tonight is zumba, but I'm seriously considering going tomorrow instead. It's been hot, I haven't been sleeping well, I'm fatigued, wah wah.

(I'm sure I'll go, it's just fun to consider playing hooky.)

I must admit, my Tuesday night class isn't as fun as it was. The population has changed, there's a new clique of front-row girls, and I don't like them as much; they're very posture-y. And the Italian Spitfire's routines feel less dancey and more exercisey; like, we do a dozen jumping jacks, and what's fun about that? Particularly if you're arthritic and (it turns out) a little incontinent.

In other news, why was I Googling random utterances? Because it's something I keep meaning to mention. Husband and I both do this — suddenly say these out-of-context things— and I find it hilarious, both the saying (which in my case is usually inadvertent — only after I say it do I realize how ridiculous it sounded) and the hearing. For example:
  • Me: What are you giving me for Cinco de Mayo?
(Ah, the joke was on me, as he did in fact give me a present on that festive day — a tea-bag-squeezer thingy that he informs is called a Tea Infuser, except I think he just made that up.)
  • Husband: What does a donkey know about fruit compote?
(He's actually quoting someone, but I don't know who or what.)
  • Me: Do you think other people think much about our bathroom towels?
(His response: Noooo . . . do you?
Me: Yes. Yes I do.
Husband: Do you think about other people's towels?
Me: When they're awful like ours are, I do.)
  • Husband: Jackets for everyone!
(Again, a quote. But also a great line. And motto.)

Never knowing what the other person is going to say — it keeps life juicy-fresh!

Time to go change for zumba. Yeah, I'm totally going. Woo.

—Lady C, whose stomach is growling — and I'm just early enough in this new diet to be kind of thrilled by that (like, my fat might be eating itself right now!)


  1. Mr. Lady Chardonay (aka Husband, aka Heterolifemate)June 4, 2013 at 9:50 PM

    Because I know EVERYONE will want to know: The quote is actually "what does a donkey *understand* about fruit compote!" It is from a WONDERFUL book called "The Possessed: Adventures With Russian Books and the People Who Read Them," by Elif Batuman. While working on her PhD in comparative lit, she spends one summer in Samarkand (don't ask); while touring around the historic village of Shahrisabz with 2 friends, one of whom was actually from Samarkand, she encounters a small group of elderly men insisting that they purchase tickets for "the historic sites" (evidently a long-running scam). The native quickly slams the door on this scheme, asserting that not only do they not need "tickets," but that the "sites" in this village are all pretty shabby. One of the old men comes out with the fruit compote line as a way of standing up for his home town. It's all on pp. 221-2.

    And it certainly is true that neither of us always knows what the other is likely to say -- in fact, I'm not always sure of what *I'm* likely to say!

    1. WHAT are you giving me for Samarkand's Day of Independence, hmmm?

      (It's not till Sept. 1, you've got some time.)

      love you, cute boy!