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livingdebJust a regular weekend day.
I got up and had leftover banana chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast with milk.
I cried during the song Jolene. The singer begs Jolene not to take her man. Goes on and on about how irresistible Jolene is and how her happiness depends on whether Jolene decides to take her man. Is she just paranoid?
Nope, it's a real threat. Beautiful song, too (we have Matraca Berg's version).
Then I went shopping. (Note to self: it is no longer enough to get to HEB before noon if shopping on a Sunday; one must arrive before eleven.)
I lazed around. Got an e-mail from my mom implying that she actually might like to create some floorplans for friends of mine who are building a house, because she wants more information. She likes to make floorplans for fun and she is really good at keeping the plumbing together, keeping the house a cheap-to-build rectangular shape and otherwise incorporating good design. She also recommended asking my brother to create some floorplans.
Someone from my doctor's office called with the results of my blood test from my annual physical. Everything's still good. My cholesterol is weird, though. The lady explained that although my total seems a bit high (218, when you want 140-200), it's because my HDL (good cholesterol) is so high (90, when you want greater than 60). I looked online for more information. The American Heart Association says:
Are my levels freakishly high?
Wikipedia says that only the bigger HDL molecules are protective. I wonder if most of mine are dainty. (A lot of things about me are daintier than average. Like my moles, for example. My quick rat-like heartbeat.)
In the past, my HDL count has ranged from 60 to 89, mostly falling in the 70s. So I'm probably not so odd in this way after all.
I made a gigantic batch of spaghetti. It's just a regular batch of spaghetti, but somehow it's eight servings. I forgot to buy any vegetables to sneak in there besides an onion, so I used a small amount of Robin's broccoli, chopped into eensy weensy pieces.
We watched "A Boy and His Dog," an old favorite of Robin's. It's not a warm-fuzzy movie; it opens with the bursting of nuclear bombs. It's surreal sci-fi that seems a little too realistic. See Don Johnson play a teenager (though he's in his mid-twenties). See his dog steal the show with his dry wit. Or read the book.
I read part of the essay, "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again," from the book of the same name, aloud to Robin. I always loved that title, though I suspected I might not like the book. I had decided it might involve kids telling someone it would be fun to stick his tongue on a metal lamppost in winter. It turns out to be about going on a cruise ship, something Robin and I have been wondering about.
It turns out I love David Foster Wallace's writing. I've read the first essay, where he talks about how he plays tennis better on tennis courts in poor condition than those in good condition, and it makes perfect sense. I've read part of the second essay about TV, and just when I think I don't really feel like reading about TV and commercialism, he'll go and say something very interesting. Like how it's pathetic that novelists can now just say what's on a person's t-shirt to describe them, but that these days that really does work. (I noticed him doing this himself in the cruise ship essay.)
So far I have experienced his writing to be something to savor. Most of it is read aloud-able. He has interesting observations on every day things, is very funny, and is not afraid of big words.
Then I did some dish washing and some laundry. And now I share my day with you.
I got up and had leftover banana chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast with milk.
I cried during the song Jolene. The singer begs Jolene not to take her man. Goes on and on about how irresistible Jolene is and how her happiness depends on whether Jolene decides to take her man. Is she just paranoid?
He talks about you in his sleep.
There's nothing I can do to keep
From crying when he calls your name, Jolene."
Nope, it's a real threat. Beautiful song, too (we have Matraca Berg's version).
Then I went shopping. (Note to self: it is no longer enough to get to HEB before noon if shopping on a Sunday; one must arrive before eleven.)
I lazed around. Got an e-mail from my mom implying that she actually might like to create some floorplans for friends of mine who are building a house, because she wants more information. She likes to make floorplans for fun and she is really good at keeping the plumbing together, keeping the house a cheap-to-build rectangular shape and otherwise incorporating good design. She also recommended asking my brother to create some floorplans.
Someone from my doctor's office called with the results of my blood test from my annual physical. Everything's still good. My cholesterol is weird, though. The lady explained that although my total seems a bit high (218, when you want 140-200), it's because my HDL (good cholesterol) is so high (90, when you want greater than 60). I looked online for more information. The American Heart Association says:
Low HDL cholesterol (less than 40 mg/dL for men, less than 50 mg/dL for women) puts you at higher risk for heart disease. In the average man, HDL cholesterol levels range from 40 to 50 mg/dL. In the average woman, they range from 50 to 60 mg/dL. An HDL cholesterol of 60 mg/dL or higher gives some protection against heart disease.
Are my levels freakishly high?
Wikipedia says that only the bigger HDL molecules are protective. I wonder if most of mine are dainty. (A lot of things about me are daintier than average. Like my moles, for example. My quick rat-like heartbeat.)
In the past, my HDL count has ranged from 60 to 89, mostly falling in the 70s. So I'm probably not so odd in this way after all.
I made a gigantic batch of spaghetti. It's just a regular batch of spaghetti, but somehow it's eight servings. I forgot to buy any vegetables to sneak in there besides an onion, so I used a small amount of Robin's broccoli, chopped into eensy weensy pieces.
We watched "A Boy and His Dog," an old favorite of Robin's. It's not a warm-fuzzy movie; it opens with the bursting of nuclear bombs. It's surreal sci-fi that seems a little too realistic. See Don Johnson play a teenager (though he's in his mid-twenties). See his dog steal the show with his dry wit. Or read the book.
I read part of the essay, "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again," from the book of the same name, aloud to Robin. I always loved that title, though I suspected I might not like the book. I had decided it might involve kids telling someone it would be fun to stick his tongue on a metal lamppost in winter. It turns out to be about going on a cruise ship, something Robin and I have been wondering about.
It turns out I love David Foster Wallace's writing. I've read the first essay, where he talks about how he plays tennis better on tennis courts in poor condition than those in good condition, and it makes perfect sense. I've read part of the second essay about TV, and just when I think I don't really feel like reading about TV and commercialism, he'll go and say something very interesting. Like how it's pathetic that novelists can now just say what's on a person's t-shirt to describe them, but that these days that really does work. (I noticed him doing this himself in the cruise ship essay.)
So far I have experienced his writing to be something to savor. Most of it is read aloud-able. He has interesting observations on every day things, is very funny, and is not afraid of big words.
Then I did some dish washing and some laundry. And now I share my day with you.
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no subject
on 2007-09-10 06:09 pm (UTC)