Just back from dinner with a friend...

"the" friend, sorta.
I mean, I have several very close, very dear friends, but she has been my friend for
gulp
18 years.
And I have 2 friends I've known longer (a frightening 25 years each!!!), but they are both elsewhere in the country and less a part of my daily life.
So that's what that means.
The point is, it's her birthday Friday so we had to celebrate.
With lobster and wine and tiramisu and calamari (no, probably NOT in that order, fuckwit) and so much talking that I'm pretty sure I have laryngitis.
Good.
Goooood times.
She is a good sounding board because she is so level-headed, and yet allows for my way to be good, too.
Does that make sense?
Anyway.
It was really nice.
(and could I possibly use "good" a few more times??? Good god.)

And I am finally remembering to be excited for the start of a new school year--
I shall have some free time and my darling children shall have some mental stimulation,
and I shall have some mental stimulation,
and all will be well.
Did I mention my sailing class?
Yes, in Utah.
Yes, I find that slightly repulsive, but I can live with it.

It's a full moon.
Last night it was blinding me, as I tossed
and as I turned.
Since Hawaii, I can't seem to sleep before 2 am; pesky time zones.

I think my new year's resolutions will be this:
(what? it's a new school year!)
1. stop eating so much
2. be consistent with your workouts you slacker-ass
3. live the best life I can live and let the chips fall where they may
Yup.
That's it.

My blogging groove has been
way
the fuck
off
lately.
For months and months, actually.
I think I started writing for an audience...
and that's never a good thing.
For a long while I was writing for me and loving the audience--
it was an exhibitionist thing, like, we don't BLOG because we don't want anyone to read, right??
That's retarded, of course we don't.
But I somehow stopped feeling comfortable just letting it all hang out.
I know, you probably couldn't tell.
(picture me sticking my tongue out at you, all Maori warrior styles.)
(Oh! speaking of which: watch A&E's reality show about Gene Simmons)
But it's true: I became inhibited.
I'm not sure why, nor am I in the mood (at this moment) to dissect exactly why and/or how that happened.
But I'm going to work on it.
I guess that's another resolution.
So what I meant there was that I am censoring myself for my audience, not so much that I'm writing FOR an audience...
more like I'm not-writing FOR an audience.
Ugh.
fuck.
Why in the name of baby jesus do I consider myself skilled at communication???
I should be smacked.
(yes, there. yes, like THAT. Pervert.)

Ok.
To bed for me.
And no, you can't come with me.
Well...