Big toe assault.

I have on the most ridiculous pair of hole-y socks today. They didn’t appear to be any different than all the other black sock-y drones in the my sock drawer, but I put them on and….wow. The heel on the left sock is gone, as well as the big toe portion on the right. It’s on days when I have a wardrobe malfunction such as this that I am really grateful that I have the choice to go home every day at lunch.

Update - it is now afternoon and I have on un-hole-y socks. They're Halloween socks, sure, but no holes.

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It’s been a pretty boring week over here at the home turf, which is just what I needed after my wild weekend of ballet and museums. Yeeah.

Last night Chicago got hit by a thunderstorm. A wild, winter thunderstorm. I woke up to lightning, and I tend to still do the “1-1000, 2-1000, 3-1000….” count to see how many miles away the lightning is from the time that I hear the thunder. Last night, though, there was a huge flash of lightning and I don’t think I had even finished saying "1” before there was a huge clap of thunder. It sounded like it was right on Chicago Avenue. Steve jumped up and checked outside, and sure enough, all the streetlights were out. But the electricity inside the apartment was still on, which was bizarre. Eh, it wouldn’t have mattered if the power had gone out inside anyways, seeing as how I have that awesome knack for waking up 10 minutes before my alarm is scheduled to go off. Hooray for anti-anxiety medications that pretty much never let you get a restful sleep. Hip, hip.....blech.

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I sent an email to Steve this morning, telling him that if he ever wanted to get me a totally awesome gift, he could plan a surprise trip to Toronto to, among other things, get Mojo’s picture taken by this guy. If you have a Flickr account, you should add him as a contact, because his photos totally brighten my day. That Great Dane that’s up right now...frickin’ precious.

I know that I live in a vast metropolitan area, and that there are probably several great animal photographers right here (I think many of them rent some advertising space on my vet's office walls), but hey! I’ve never been to Toronto, or anywhere in Canada, for that matter.

Toronto Trip is just a pipe dream for now, though, what with the fiscal situation and all, so I'm just going to have to settle for my slightly-blurry-because-he-never-stops-moving snapshots of my little guy. Specifically, these ones are of Mojo being tortured in the backseat of the car, because Steve had run into the grocery store to buy something, and Mojo can’t stand it when someone leaves the car without him. I think he was convinced Steve wasn’t coming back. I tried explaining that Steve was picking out wine and beer, and that that's a complicated process, but you know, Moj wasn't having any of it.





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Sidebar: I have 8 voicemails on my cell phone right now that I’m avoiding listening to. I hate listening to voicemails. I hate leaving them, too, and tend to blather on about blah blah blah and oh, did you hear about blah, blah, blah, and so give me a call back blah, blah, blah. So impersonal, I can’t stand it.

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I’m thinking of taking dance classes here. This won't be happening any time soon, because I still have to take a trip there to see what the place is like, plus I’m pretty much FlatAss Broke, at least for a little while. Seriously, I have not been able to get myself out of debt for about two months now. Thanks a lot, new glasses.

Anyways, the other itty, bitty, wee thing that's keeping me from joining these dance classes just yet is the dress code. Black leotard and flesh-colored tights. I’ll repeat: black leotard and flesh-colored tights. The Badunkadunk I'm carrying around isn’t really cut out for a leotard or tights of ANY color. Combine that with the fact that, historically, I have never had the nerve to venture out of the house in that sort of getup....you can see my reservations. That’s why I want to go to the place and see who else is in the beginners’ classes. Which is sort of a terrible thing to do, but hey, if my cellulite is the only cellulite dancing [jiggling] around the place, well, you know, that won’t do.

In the meantime, my running partner and I are continuing on with our running regime. Which is, you know, I call him up, or he calls me up, and we venture out. As we begin running we talk about all sorts of things, until we get to the point where I have to tell him if I talk anymore, I’ll drop down dead right there, somewhere in the square made by Ashland, Division, Western and Grand. It's an okay system for now. I'm just excited for the time when I won't feel like Death for the majority of the run, and we can talk our ears off about B-list movies and how awful the chairs at the Music Box are to our Badunkadunks.

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Over and out, Internet.