The diet is not going well. I don't like forcing myself to eat so much fruit. Fruit is low on my list of edible objects. Naturally, I eat it. I'd die of scurvy if I didn't, and that would be terribly embarrassing in this day and age. But it's not something I voluntarily touch on more than a monthly basis. Now I have to eat fruit every day, and I'm sick of it. I'd rather have a carrot than a banana. I eat a lot of carrots on my diets. Crunchy and filling. I don't eat them to the same degree my brother used to, though. He turned yellow from drinking too much carrot juice, positively yellow. Of course, my brother wanted to be a breatharian, so that just shows you how much common sense he was burdened with.

I have painted my toenails. The polish is part of my free Estee Lauder gift which I received as a thank you for buying my foundation from them. Now I look just like Elizabeth Hurley. Well, my feet do. These free gifts are always a mixed bag, literally. They inevitably promote the current season's color scheme which is never your best color. The Elizabeth Hurley paint-by-numbers kit comes in a garish navy, red, and white box containing a jumble of cosmetics such as a blush the color of Georgia dirt, a surprisingly attractive gold and sienna eyeshadow duo, lipstick that reminds me of the orange stuff my grandma always wore in the 60's, and a tiny eyeshadow applicator that is totally useless because it doesn't fit inside the eyeshadow box and so is clearly designed to be instantly lost. One must suffer for beauty. Apparently, one must also rely on the junior high method of applying makeup with one's little finger while squinting at the teensy mirror inside the eyeshadow box because one cannot find the damned applicator. Beauty is so complicated.

A venture to Hillsdale shopping mall this weekend netted me a faceful of frustration and a fabulous pair of shoes, both obtained at Macy's. My post office has been extremely erratic lately, returning mail at random to senders saying our address is no good. It's fine, we've been here a year and a half, I don't know what the problem is. Well, my May Macy's bill was returned, and naturally they were concerned about that. So they called me at home on a Friday night. I don't like being called at home on a Friday night. I'm deeply displeased with the United States Postal Services on this account. Off I went on Saturday to Macy's to pay my bill. But it wasn't easy. The store directory revealed an absence of a customer service counter. No payment center, either. No nothing. I went to a register to ask. Turns out you can pay your bill at any register. Weird. I paid it, cursing the USPS.

Then I went shoe shopping. There they were: beautiful, sand-colored high heeled slides, my size and perfect for my summery outfits, comfortable enough to wear to work, and on sale. Alas, my Macy's card had a "suspend" on it. One missed payment, and they cut me off? The scoundrels! How un-American. I had them call a manager. I always have sales people call a manager. This is the only way to get anything done in life. They sorted it out and removed the suspend. My shoes went home with me. My spleen did, too, but I'll vent it in the appropriate direction tomorrow when the USPS is actually open.

Tonight we are having steak and margaritas for dinner because I'm craving protein. The margaritas are just to celebrate summer. They have no nutritional value, of course, although I'm hoping they count towards my eight glasses of water daily. Probably not, huh? The grocery clerk gave me a conspiratorial look when he rang up my little bottles of tequila and mixer along with the rest of my groceries. It made me terribly self-conscious. Still, I felt some glee at not getting carded. Isn't that the most pathetic thing you've ever heard? 41 years old and I still think there's a remote chance someone might think I'm not old enough to buy liquor. What a joke.

My concession to health this evening is to serve salad instead of hot, delicious baked potatos piled up with golden butter and cool, smooth, tangy sour cream. Fruit for dessert, of course. I'm in a summery mood. The peninsula has settled into long, warm, sunny days with a cooling breeze at sunset, ideal summer weather. In fact, it's ideal grilling weather but we don't have a grill so we're doing our cooking inside. And since we don't have an outside table either, we're doing our eating inside. But hey, the doors are wide open! Flies can come in and land on our food and everything, just like the great outdoors.

Another week of work looms. Another week of not being able to get to garden centers before they close, of bringing my lunch to work to save money so I can pay off my credit cards, of changing the cat litter and doing laundry and wishing I could find some girlfriends who lived closer than San Francisco. Real life is so dreary sometimes. I've always hated it. Me and Branwell Bronte. I'll have another peach, thanks.

Past Life The Index Next Incarnation