The Road Leads Where it's Led

I've been feeling fairly useless lately. Just seems to be one brain fart after another. Which is fine, you go through periods where you feel smart and sharp and witty and then...

ummmmmmmmmm........durrrrrrrrrr...

Somebody should get me a helmet and a drool bib. Then I'm all set.

Lee's been out sick so I have to cover her part of the job while she's gone, which means later nights than I was anticipating.

[Carrie's unpacked boxes cry out to her: "Why have you forsaken us!?"]

Shut up boxes. Once you're unpacked, then I'm just going to break you down and then what good are you?

After some much needed wheelin' and dealin', I managed to make it to bellydancing with Sharon. It was by far the most awake I've felt in the past two months. It was amazing. And funny enough, the second class was much easier than the first and I have to say, we were rockin' the booty-shakin' a bit. Not quite to the level I want to be, but holy hell, it's only been two classes.

I had the hardest time doing hip rolls when I was on my toes.

In ballet, if you rise up on releve [insert fancy French accent mark over that last "e"], you have to keep your torso and hips firm. Since, generally, it means you're going into a turn or some other fancy trick. My body has been trained NOT to be loosey-goosie when I'm on my toes and I internalized the fight with my hips that refused to roll and my booty that would not bounce and my chest that would not budge.

"LOOK BITCH, YOU'RE NOT IN BALLET ANYMORE [thank God] !!! GET WITH IT!!!"

By the end, I had trained it pretty well. Still a long way to go, but I'm always pleasantly surprised and excited about new goals for myself.

I'm not stopping until the sheiks of Arabia ask me to do the dance of the Seven Veils [ps--this totally reminds me of Skinny Legs and All--read the book, people, read the book. You won't be sorry.]

And like we did before, we went to Hooters for beer and girl talk. Appropriate, eh? I spill my guts to her about CARRIE'S NEVER ENDING REIGN OF ROMANTIC BULLSHIT. It's okay. It's safe in her hands, and I imagine the rumors around me are ten times more interesting than the truth--

"I heard you sacrificed a goat to the God of War, in exchange for sleeping with Junebug while his mother cried, battling cancer of the elbow!"

Yup. Don't you forget it, either.

And I told her about this blog. So if you're reading this, welcome Sharon. Keep all arms and legs inside the blog. We wouldn't want you to short-circuit or anything.

There's work to be done, but not just yet. Sadly, I have to sit around and wait for the temp attorneys to do their thing until I can do my thing. And there's work to be done upstairs (though, obviously NOT on floor 14, which doesn't exist, those of you following along at home)but I have to be down here with them. So I'm here instead.

I totally did Retail Therapy over lunch today. So much of my money was wrapped up in the move, I did what any sensible girl does in such times: bought myself pretty underwear, a new nightie, a redonkulously expensive skirt (well worth it) and a nice top for work. Sometimes I think shopping is better than sex. Sometimes. Well, really only when I'm feeling cynical about the whole endeavor.

Here's cynical:













Here's how far PAST it I am:





Yeah, it's like that. I think I'm gonna get like 10 new vibrators and a goldfish.