Why are rugs so amazingly expensive? It's insane.
While on the plane yesterday, I had to open the lavatory door for six people who couldn't figure out how to do it (I was in the very rear, sitting right across from it). Everyone handled their embarrassment pretty well, and one of the little old guys I helped was sooo sweet. But that seems like a pretty high number for one plane ride to not be able to open the door.
Well, go ahead and call me a sentimental fool, but for the first time I can remember, Dad has a picture of the two of us on his desktop. I am on his desktop. That actually means a lot to me; is that sad?
Today, I had some fruit on the bottom soy yogurt that Jennie left behind. It wasn't bad, though it did have a rather outrageous amount of calories. And right now, my first time trying red zinger tea. ...after it cools down enough.
Speaking of cooling down, Dad turned down the temperature of the hot water in the basement last night, but he did it in the dark, so he couldn't see that he turned it down to Not Even Tepid. I was prepared to forego my bath this morning, but luckily Dad came home for his goof-off time and put everything to rights with the water heater(sort of; it's still a little cold).
Red zinger just does not smell good. I'm having difficulty steeling myself to drink it.
Be my Netflix friend! (ahem, Brad). And Ben K, we're only 68% similar, not the 80something% you said.
Right now, I'm reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being, by Milan Kundera. I stole it fr
om Ben's bookshelf, and he says he didn't even finish it, because he didn't like it. Ooh, someone should start a website for books sort of like the friends section of Netflix, where you say what you're reading, and can rate past books, and have friends and compare your taste. Brilliant. Anyways, I was just thinking that, unsurprisingly, I have rather different taste in books than Ben, and so far I really like this. Well-written modern fiction is not often something that I read, so this is new territory for me. I typically think of a piece of fiction as being plot with philosophical ideas laced throughout it. The Unbearable Lightness of Being, though, seems like a book about philosophical ideas with occasional snatches of story illustrating them. It's weird. And I don't think I like that, but what I do like is the array of flawed characters. In the third chapter, one of the main characters stands around wondering if he's in love or not. Actually, let me just make this an excerpt:Now he was standing at the window trying to call that moment to account. What could it have been if not love declaring itself to him?
But was it love? ... Was it simply the hysteria of a man who, aware deep down of his ineptitude for love, felt the self-deluding need to simulate it? His unconscious was so cowardly that the best partner it could choose for its little comedy was this miserable provincial waitress with practically no chance at all to enter his life!
Looking out over the courtyard at the dirty walls, he realized he had no idea whether it was hysteria or love.
And he was distressed that in a situation where a real man would instantly have known how to act, he was vacillating and therefore depriving the most beutiful moments he had ever experienced ... of their meaning.
He remained annoyed with himself until he realized that not knowing what he wanted was actually quite natural.
I just thought that nicely captured what is, for me, a very real sensation. Red zinger tea is disgusting. Uch!!
