Just mixed up a big batch of homebrew pale ale, which is cooling in a bucket in the bathtub so I can add the yeast and starting waiting for it to gestate into beer. That, and I recently caved into my creeping sense of apathy and let my gym membership lapse, saving me $50 a month and leaving me to my own devices, fitness-wise. Which is probably for the best -- toward the end, I was getting horribly bored with the weight machines, and started doing lunges and push-ups. Which require no weights and no machines and no gym. I resolved to stay in some semblance of "shape" anyway, but the Italian soup Janine whipped up tonight (of which I devoured two enormous bowls) bodes ill. Good thing the New Year isn't far away -- I had a good resolution a couple of years back, maybe I can make another one.
Doesn't look good, though -- I'm slipping into that awful, no-pressure, carefree comfort zone in which I don't even feel like keeping in shape's that big a deal, but damned if anything's going to keep me from this book! Something about an briar patch...
Monday, November 14, 2005
Monday, November 07, 2005
Tomorrow on the Freeway
Picking up where I left off with one of the worst weeks in recent memory, revolving mainly around the continual success of my Metro to get me to work followed by its continual failure to get me back home. There's still something wrong with the alternator belt, which I'll have to work out sometime tomorrow between five and six in the morning. It'd be smart to figure it out now, but I'm sleepy.
This, paired up with my work situation, in which I'm "monitoring" construction activity to guard against violation of pristine archaeological resources. A worthwhile endeavor, although the construction is taking place in an area that's been previously churned up numerous times before. Which means I'm watching men dig holes for eight (and this week 10!) hours a day. It's actually a pretty good opportunity to scribble some chapters in my Nanowrimo work, but writing fiction while standing or while perched on an I-beam is oddly uninspiring.
Place of my birth, I'm a-comin'.
This, paired up with my work situation, in which I'm "monitoring" construction activity to guard against violation of pristine archaeological resources. A worthwhile endeavor, although the construction is taking place in an area that's been previously churned up numerous times before. Which means I'm watching men dig holes for eight (and this week 10!) hours a day. It's actually a pretty good opportunity to scribble some chapters in my Nanowrimo work, but writing fiction while standing or while perched on an I-beam is oddly uninspiring.
Place of my birth, I'm a-comin'.
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