The weather has been freakishly dry and warm. So dry that North Texas burst into flames. So dry that my eyes burn and I gave Eric a shock on his neck when I kissed it tonight.
The warm's nice, though. I left work early today because it felt like a sacrilege to be inside on an 85-degree day in January. Eric and I went to dinner and ran errands on our bikes for a few hours tonight. We aren't the most compatible bike riders; he's a racer and a darter and I just can't do that anymore. Before I had a car I rode everywhere and considered myself kind of a biking badass, so it's painful to admit I've become a big cautious chicken.
Still, it was fun, and I feel good-tired now. I miss the way I felt in my body when I rode all the time, kinetic and springy and graceful. I wish that were enough incentive to get me out on the bike more than a few times a month. Unfortunately, it's apparently more important to me that I sleep during the extra seven minutes it would take me to ride to work each morning. Pa-the-tic.
The possum's gone, so far as I can tell. Nary a scritch nor a thunk last night. All day I vacillated between wishing we'd beaten it to death with a rake for good measure and worrying about whether it found a safe place to sleep today. Poor horrible revolting homeless possum.
What else? I haven't washed my hair since Thursday. Our water pressure is for absolute shit right now, and the landlord's been out of town. Meanwhile, I just haven't been moved very often to stand under a lukewarm trickle for a half an hour waiting for the shampoo to ooze off my scalp and down my back. Fortunately, I usually look better if I skip a few days. In fact, my hair has looked fantastic until about six hours ago, when it started looking like I washed it with movie popcorn. So now I know: five days is the absolute maximum on the no hair washing.
Oh, and look! Eric took his first ride in a convertible this weekend, accessories and all!
We were trying for a sassy Thelma/Louise look, but my friend Jillian pointed out that he looked more like he was about to take his place in line for his weekly potato ration. If Soviet housewives wore Ray-Bans and had a tendency to clap excitedly over the prospect of a car ride, I'd have to agree.
Finally, this is how we dry our hands in our possum-free bathroom, courtesy of pinprick:
Can you read the top left one? 'Cause it says "fuckity shitbag." That and "shithole" were Christmas presents, and my heart swelled with pride as Eric and I opened them under the tree as my whole family looked on.
So that's what's been up with me. I think that's plenty, don't you?