I rise from the clutches of lethargy

Thursday, Aug. 10, 2006, 8:41 p.m.

Firstly, you guys ROCK with the question-responding-to. I feel like I almost know enough to stalk you with now. (And just when I thought everyone had gone off and left this diary for dead! I am enheartened.) Those of you who de-lurked to post -- you are now on the radar of People Whose Diaries I Will Someday Visit And Haunt. Beware.

Secondly, you know what's awesome? When you finally get a few moments of quiet to yourself to sit down and write something (because it's been something like three weeks and those readers of yours who are still hanging on, blundering around in the echo-y darkness that is your diary site deserve some words on a page, dammit), and then you discover that you have so much to say that you can't think of a single word to actually write.

THAT is awesome.

Let's see, the past few weeks have been ... blughrfl. In a nutshell.

There has been work (too much), sleep (not enough), movies (many) (some including CAPTAIN JACK SPARROWdroool), scuba (entire weekends of), Physical Fitness Sessions Of Certain Doom (at which I improve), marriage counseling (always a joy), music (except when my fucking iPod decides to wear the frowny face -- which, what is THAT all about?!), training (to KILL!), mushrooms (magical but scary), cigarettes (lots of), a tiny bump on my arm (bug bite? Or skin cancer? Or what?), fish ("Swim and poop, that's what we do"), trashy magazines (can Keira Knightley disappear, please? I have Depp-watching to do), dirty laundry (gets washed when smells bad), a tan (yay!) and less booze than one may have expected.

I have also taken about 32965098237 photos of The World In General, to which Husband says, "Why are you taking pictures of your FOOD?" and I have no response other than, "Smile!" I have uploaded a bunch of them to Ye Olde Flickre Albumme so I can tell myself that they are Art.

So, since there's no possible way for me to decide what to write about, maybe I'll just start with Topic Number One and work my way on through them until a) My fingers hurt, b) Husband returns from the gym, c) I get distracted, or d) all of the above and then some.

Work

Work has sucked major donkey dong lately, because somebody decided that it was time to give ME some "responsibility." I don't know if you guys know this or not, but the main, primary, first-of-all, Numero Uno reason why I have not even attempted to get promoted in two years? Is "avoiding responsibility." I have never been able to understand why, in the Army, people work their tired asses off studying mostly-worthless trivia to pass a review board, compile mounds of paperwork, give up hours and hours and hours of free time, and do more sucking up than an Oreck XL just so they can make a few extra bucks per month and get blamed for everyone else's mistakes.

I thought I had it made, staying at the rank I am. I thought I'd never have to deal with other people's bullshit to that extent, because "I'm just a lowly peon." Except it turns out that if you stay a "lowly peon" for long enough in the Army while still doing your job well, people in charge think, "Oh, she is competent! She can handle extra work! Let's see her demonstrate some leadership qualities!"

Note: "Demonstrate leadership qualities" is code for "do everybody else's damn job."

Thus, for my remaining ten months in the Army (barring stop-loss) (which, NOOOOOO!), I plan to do a lot of cursing under my breath and praying for the spontaneous combustion of my co-workers.

My immediate supervisor, who is getting to gleefully abandon his job by attending additional job-related training classes this month, summed it all up during one of our many disgruntled conversations the other day.

I said, "Man, Fort Stewpid is Hell."

And he replied, "No way. I'd re-enlist for Hell."

Sleep

Thanks to the 15-hour workdays I have been putting in on a fairly regular basis, most of my sleep-time is filled with dreams which generally include one of the following themes:

- Anger

- Otherworldly beings

- Angry otherworldly beings

Also, now that we have a fish tank dripping its watery ass off in our bedroom, I have the added bonus of waking up eleventy-zillion times per night to go to the bathroom. YESSSS!

Movies

I am addicted to movies, especially the kind that Husband likes to look at, snort at, and announce, "NO. NO NO NO." In fact, I have now developed a nearly foolproof test for picking out movies because of this -- I hold up a movie, and if he either recoils in horror, looks at me like I'm insane, or loudly states, "GAY," I know I've made a good choice.

Some of those have recently included:

Dirty Pretty Things
Soylent Green
and
He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

I recommend them all highly, especially if you like Audrey Tautou, Charlton Heston, subtitles and/or psychoses. Husband would rather watch The Hills Are Full Of Bloody, Barely-Human Creatures Who Want To Dismember, Rape And Eat You.

Despite the difference in our general ideas of cinematic genius, Husband and I do share a love of stupid humor, special effects and Kevin Smith, which is why we happily saw Talladega Nights, My Super Ex-Girlfriend and Clerks II. We eagerly await Snakes On A Plane, as should all living people who are just DYING to hear Samuel L. Jackson lose his mind over those "motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!"

Scuba

As I mentioned a few entries/weeks ago, Husband and I have been getting our scube on of late.

This past weekend, he went ahead and got his diver's certification. I, of course, was a Child Left Behind, because apparently I have extra-buoyant ankles which float eagerly toward the surface at any opportunity. Of course, I didn't know at first that that was the reason I couldn't hover effortlessly underwater like Husband and his friend, so I thought I was just some kind of freak who couldn't even control her own breathing. When I finally found out that it was my floaty ankles' fault, I was mildly relieved. That is, I was relieved until Husband's friend referred to my problem as "inner cankles."

(Thanks, dude. Or, as the waitresses at a certain Florida restaurant now call you, "Cankle-Man.")

Anyway, I'll be able to finish up my certification in a few weeks, at which point he can kiss my negatively-buoyant ASS, and the diving adventures can begin. Underwater photography, here I come!

Physical Fitness Sessions Of Certain Doom

There isn't a whole lot to say about my improving Physical Fitness other than that I no longer wheeze like a herd of geriatrics whenever I attempt to complete a two-mile run, and I am considerably closer to Abs of Steel (if I can ever be rid of the Love Handles of Disappointing Permanence).

Marriage Counseling

For the enlightenment of all: The day you have to explain to your marriage counselor what "ass to mouth" is, is the day you will die a little inside.

Also -- according to her, my particular "anger style" is a mix between "Moral Anger" and "Hate." A pleasant combination, don't you think? Plus, I apparently "always need to be right."

Any surprises here? No? Moving on ...

Note: I'm going to have to do one more, and then end this entry on a To Be Continued, suspenseful-ish note, because Husband is getting antsy, and I'm missing out on some quality Cuddle Time.

Music

I am about to hate myself for admitting this to anyone other than my conscience, but ... I actually caught myself humming Paris Hilton's new single (which I've affectionately nicknamed "Whore Sounds") more than once.

SHUT UP. That motherfucker is CATCHY! As are the diseases living in Paris Hilton's lady-parts, come to think of it ... but even that is no comfort. All I need now is a Lindsay Lohan "tune" on my iPod, and I will have disappointed myself nearly to the point of no return.

Oh! Hey! Remember my Magical Mystery Mix Chain Challenge? well, I finally got it together to send out the CDs, and when everyone who got/is getting one posts their guesses about the song list (which is, I hope, sufficiently challenging), let me know, so I can post the actual song list after the last person is done. There were something like nine of you, so make sure you let me know when you're done -- I don't want to forget and leave anyone out.

(Pssh! Like I could ever forget any of you!) (Except, I could. I have a terrible memory. But the love is still there, I promise. Smooches.)

To Be (eventually) Continued ...