My body is WIPED OUT from a Laban workshop last night with Liz Valdez (no relation to Juan) and from a new training regimen the head trainer at my gym gave me. Then again, I'm sure the sangria pitchers we shared afterwards didn't help matters either. Owee. But I'm gonna be supafly once it's all over, hurray!
(Yes it's a superficial entry, but these days, I really have no life except my imaginary one. I go to work, I come home and sleep. That's about it. Actually, no that's not strictly true. Lately I've been trying to squeeze in a social life of sorts, but my body will never be able to withstand the pace in the long run. Soon, I'll have to become a hermit again, just to avoid getting overexhausted, which leads to illness, which leads to decreased income, which, when you think about it is deeply depressing, considering that I'll gross just under 15,000 and that's while working three jobs. Something is very, deeply wrong here.)
But here's what has been entertaining my mind lately:
A Prayer For Owen Meany. Gotta dig that John Irving. I think this week may become a John Irving festival. I just finished the Cider House Rules, and I think my next stop is Widow For One Year.
Solitaire. But not just the regular stuff. Tri-Peaks, Spider, and all that good stuff. I'm a little Sudoku'd out right now.
What I'd do if I won the lottery. Bye-bye debts, put some in savings, share some with my immediate family, and then take me and my girlfriends (which happens to include my mom, stepmom, sisters and cousin Janice) to some tropical island for three weeks where they've got a celebrity spa and we all can come back looking gorgeous like Halle Berry. It's a pleasant fiction.
Reading Mr. Cranky. This review of Borat is so succint. I wish I could express what I feel about all the hullaboo surrounding this movie so well. (I mean for pete's sake, I just said "hullaboo," obviously I'm wallowing deep in a miasma of inarticulateness. And droppping ridiculously multisyllabic words in hopes that y'all think I'm clever. Heh.) Well played, Mr. Cranky. Well played.
Fallen Angels. The Noel Coward play I saw at the Saidye on Monday night. The ladies were the bomb, (especially Claire Coulter! I mean, she's all kinds of awesome. Whoa.) the men were competent, and the token pretty boy was a waste of flesh and space. Even his not-inconsiderable loveliness could not counterbalance his utter crappiness. I must be growing more mature if I've grown so unwilling to dismiss the utter insipidity of the mind-scramblingly beautiful. Good.
A Cow With Horns. The video clip of my dad in Nigeria documenting the cows he passes on the way to work, just before one of them began to charge after him. Poor Dad. It's always an adventure for him every time he goes over. I wish I knew how to upload the clip for y'all to see it. It's money, Baby.
Okay, now I'm off. And just so you know yet another piece of totally insignificant news about me (I told you my life is boring right now):
Tune in next week for my review of my first experience playing Dance Revolution at Eileen's this coming weekend! Thrills! Spills! And hopefully, Skillz!
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