Angela isn't here right now.

May I take a message?

I'm totally freaking out right now.  I just logged in to Typepad as You Know Who and my fingertips are buzzing.  I feel like I just hacked into DARPAnet and am poised to communicate my insurrectionist message to hundreds of unwitting strangers.  (Recycle!  It's important.)

Or like I broke into her closet and am parading around in these heels

or these?

or these?

or these?

 

and wondering whether you can tell I'm not her.  (Or am I?  Which pumps do you like best for summer?  Vote A, B, C or D!  Also, do you know why they're called pumps?  Aw, yeah.)

Seriously, guys, ten people read my blog, which is just as well, because - contrary to what you may have been led to believe - it consists primarily of me moaning about vegetables.  Ace has already confessed that "when I see a picture of produce, I just skip that day's post.  Are you mad?"

So the pressure to perform here is kind of intense. 

Knowing this gig was coming, for the past week I've been trying to come up with observational humor.  Everybody loves that!  I even watched Comedy Central Presents and laughed at that guy who does the sound effect of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese.  Here's what I came up with:

"Hey!  Have you ever noticed, when you see a blond woman with a huge pashmina and an SUV, you automatically assume she's a Realtor (R)?" 

That's as far as I got.  I couldn't really do anything funny with it, because Realtors (R) kind of depress me nowadays.  (Also: blondes in pashminas.)  I recently stuck my toe in the house-hunting waters of Northern California, only to pull it right back out.  Half a million dollars for an 800 square foot tear-down is sobering, and since looking around, I can't go jogging without seeing a thirty-something young woman taking out the trash in front of her nice, landscaped, 3BR/1.5BA fp/hw/granite/gas/shwr-over-tub/dw/wd and staring at her, thinking, "Who ARE you, that you can own a home here?"  And then I think about wriggling into something slinky and hanging around the lobby of Google. 

I didn't even do anything blogworthy this weekend.  I had this crick in my neck, see, and...[snoring]...

I actually did have a wicked crick in my neck (technical term) on Saturday morning, that woke me up and was so awful I couldn't sleep in any orientation; it caused me to blubber around the house and hate on my insurance provider, whose website kept sending me Error! messages and whose customer service only worked M-F 9-5, making me blubber further - I actually sought out a therapeutic massage therapist who promised to take me in that day. 

But not before I came across this chain called Massage Envy.  Have you heard of it?  The kids on Yelp call it "the SuperCuts of massage."  It's a place you join, for $59 a month, which includes one 1-hour massage a month, with additional massages running $39/hour.  And unused ones roll over. 

I didn't go, because I didn't want to fool with the bargain basement when I was in need of true sorta-medical attention, but I'm dying to know more about it.  It seems like such a good deal.  I mean, right now I spend $0 a month for 0 massages, so it would be a lot more than that.  And somebody on Yelp suggested, why not just go every other month for a high-grade $120 massage?  Except that I would never go for a $120 massage, because that's insane.  Yet somehow a monthly mediocre massage for $60 seems like a wise use of funds.  (Not to mention, I've had totally weak $100 massages.  Not naming any names, but it starts with W.W. and its web site is here.)  Have you ever been to a Massage Envy?  Would you do it?  Would you do it if you were me?  Me, who am not You Know Who?

Oh, you so wish she was back right now. 

So anyway, the masseuse advised me to not do my long run this weekend, which meant I had a pleasantly sedentary weekend, going out to see Of Human Bondage (huge eyes) and staying home to watch Center Stage (huge teeth).  We watched Of Human Bondage 74 years after it was first shown in the very same theatre.  Ace's dad, who is turning 75 imminently, would have been a year old when it came out.  Heeby jeebies.  Center Stage just made me want to go on a diet and have a career in the arts.  And get my teeth capped. 

Anyway, unlike Some People We Know, I do have a day job and it's, well, it's...

Comments

[Kateastrophe]

I just snorted with laughter.

You, I like. We should be friends.

[Brittany]

I feel your pain... I'm semi dreading April 17! At least you have done your part, and successfully, I might add.

I paid $30 for a massage once, and have never been in so much pain... of course, it was a deep tissue massage... so I don't know... I guess if you have $60, go for it! Just not deep tissue. Ouch.

[Alternate Angela]

Who are you and how can I read your blog?

[Girl, Dislocated]

I am sure I'm going to feel weird logging into her account too!

And, judging by this post, I'm guessing you manage to make moaning about vegetables interesting. . .so where do we go to read about produce??

[TasterSpoon]

Oh! I didn't want to seem like a shill. I'm at www.tasterspoon.com - I'm gearing up for another vegetable post, so you might want to wait a few days.

[Anonymous G]

This was hilarious!!!

Throwing in the shoes was a good touch!

:-)

[Jass]

Heheh thanks for the laughs!

Love the shoes bit!

[RisibleGirl]

The massage thing has me intrigued. I'm 48 years old and have never had a massage, except for the kind that the DH gives when he wants something. ::wink wink:: ::nudge nudge::

Somehow, I don't think that counts.