It's a new day.

I'm on a regime. It goes like this:

- Stop eating before I get to that point where my stomach is hideously distended and I want to puke. (Good one, don't you think? Hideous and puke are not words one should associate with mealtime.)

- No more than three slices of bread per day. (My first thought was to buy un-sliced ciabatta and cut it into thirds. I guess I'm the Barry Bonds of regime-making.)

- No cookies. (After the first day you'd think I was coming off meth.)

- Do something aerobic at least three times per week for more than 25 minutes. (This does not include walking around the house looking for my coffee cup, standing in front of the sink washing the endless stream of sippy cup rubber stopper things, swinging on the porch swing, no matter how vigorous the sway, or anything that is not jogging or biking. So that leaves jogging and biking.)

- Alcohol consumption is limited to two nights per week only. (Last night we went to a bbq with a keg of PBR and foul-tasting mojitos served from a mix out of a bucket. AND I HAD SAVED UP FOR THE FUCKING THING TOO. I must learn to ration better. PBR. Christ. I almost went in search of some old-school cough syrup.)

Jim is very excited for me:



Madeleine and Quinn seem to be unhappy about the cookie thing:

These are my peers.

Snippets from Sunday's critique group meeting.

Before we got started

Me: Larry, if you don't mind me asking, how much do you pay for your office space?

Larry: Oh! It's not really an office space. It's very small, you know. It's $159 a month.

Me: Well that's not bad - I was guessing 200 or more. Huh.

(discussion continues about office space needs for a minute)

Me: Well shoot, if I could find a space for a hundred fifty, I'd be tempted.

Larry: One hundred fifty-NINE, and yes, it was a good find - I found it from an ad in the Missoulian.

Theresa: A hundred fifty bucks? Does that included utilities?

Larry: One hundred fifty-NINE. Yes it does.

Me (now bored with this): Hmm, a hundred fift bucks is definitely managable...

Larry (looking at me as if I have a disability): One hundred fifty-NINE. It was a good find...

Mid-meeting

Me: Theresa, do you have another pen? Mine died.

Theresa (handing me a ball-point from a tire-shop in town): Sure

Larry (sitting up quickly, scowling at Theresa): Oh! Didn't you get my message? I asked that you return that pen to me - remember? I loaned it to you last week?

Theresa and Me, in unison: Uh...

At the close of the meeting

Theresa: So can you all write your addresses for me again - I seem to have misplaced them.

Me: Email or home?

Theresa: Home, please. I'm not very good at email.

Me: So you haven't received the messages we've been sending?

Theresa: Oh yes, I got those on the computer.

Me: Uh.

Note: I should probably mention, Chris, Theresa and Larry are all in their 70s. We have had to stop twice in the middle of a critique for Chris to find his glasses, and on Sunday, although it was 55 and raining, Larry was wearing womens' size 6 OP shorts. And he sat across from me. And there was no table. Are you picturing it? Yeah, like that.

There will be more where this came from.