Dear Diary . . . day by day

Thursday, March 29th, 2001 - The day after David's birthday

This entry has nothing to do with its title, really. I was just trying to avoid public mention on the actual day of his birthday. David hates his birthday. I can't say I understand it, but I try my best.
What a mix the last few days have been. Overall, I'd say my mood is about the best it's been in recent memory. Oh, so nice. But this is despite allergy season, which was sneaking up and hit full force, oh, about Tuesday. My head hurts all the time, in a yicky sinus-pressurey kind of way. My nose is stuffed up; my chest is congested. See, when I get allergies full on, I usually develop a real infection from it. Oh, such a lovely, dainty-flower trait to posess, but fuck it - I don't want to be dainty-flower anyway. Not that sinus infections imply kick-ass or anything, mind you, but more of a - let's call it down to earth. Granola is a smancy name for it - I'm sure I used the term "Granola Girl" in this journal before. (Hey, that covers the "flower" without the "dainty".)
Fun with labels with Heather. It's all in the marketing, ain't it?
Sigh.
You're all going to have to forgive me if tonight's entry is a little disjointed. I'm both exhausted but too wound up to sleep, so I sit here and chitter at you. I just got back from "The Playgirls and the Vampire", which I went to with Susan last minute this evening. I can't remember the last time I did something impromptu like that, and it was fun. The movie was a badly-dubbed Italian vampire -castle in the woods and nymphettes stranded, Oh No! kind of movie, which was a scream in the ha-ha way, not the holyshit! way which it was meant to be.
I seriously doubt if that last sentence parsed, too, but I jus' doan' care, y'know?.
The five "dancers" were each beautiful in that sultry Italian way, and their bodies were the subject of much display and admiration. Funny how that was risque for the late 1950's because of prudism and, well, now because of PC/feminsim. 'Cept it's ok, 'cause it was made back then. I really do mean that; it just sounds like I don't.
Anyway, I kept wondering about how women survived with their waists so skinny. The corsets were only bustiers and girdles, but I guess they did the trick. It was only later, towards the end of the film, did I realize that these women had actual flesh on their bodies and the full hips and chest made the waist look smaller by comparison.
Neat trick, isn't it?
Anyway, I couldn't help wincing as these chicks tick-tocked their way around on teensy stilettos. Never once in the movie did a woman wear flat shoes, not even the stern-faced maid (with the bullet bra under her staid clothing, of course). Do they know what that does to your back! What are they thinking?
The "dancing", oh, it was hilarious. These women sorta wobbled back and forth on their heels, trying to wiggle their hips,just a little. A blond did a painfully awkward strip-tease; her shoulders were scrunched most of the dance. In front of them, their manager hopped back and forth, trying to encourage them to dance better as he danced a comedic gig. Very funny. But I could dance circles around the whole lot of those people, all at once. Give me my little dancing sister, Holly, and we'd Ka-POW them out into space! Then maybe our next movie we could go up against BOTH the Robot and the Aztec Mummy at once! Hot damn! What should I call us? The Dancing Sisters of Death makes us sound like bad nuns. Maybe we should be nuns! Yes!
Wow, ok, my left hand just made a painful cracking sound. I mean, yes, was definitely painful. Stopping writing now, going to sleep. 'Night!

Exercise log:
23 minutes on the precor. 100 situps. Stretching. Yay me.
Writing log:

I'm currently reading:
Whispers from the Cotton Tree Root edited by Nalo Hopkinson

Reading off and on:
Unlocking the Air and other stories by Ursula K. LeGuin
Starlight 2 anthology edited by Patrick Nielsen Hayden

My new PO Box is:
Heather Shaw
P.O. Box 13222
Berkeley, CA 94712-4222

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