My stupid back is still all jacked up, ever since Christmas when it randomly got hurt and I couldn’t walk for a couple of days. So I went to the doctor a few weeks ago about it and since then I’ve had x-rays and have been going to physical therapy twice a week. Turns out there are all kinds of things wrong with it. I had evidence of vertical shear, likely from a fall I had a few years ago, and my disc spaces are narrowing, and I have mild scoliosis, but the biggest things right now are that my sacroiliac joint isn’t working quite right, and my sacrum is sort of out of alignment and wedged into my pelvis. Or something. I’ve heard a lot of doctor-speak about it lately and it’s all starting to bleed together. And my hip flexors are too tight. I can’t even keep track of it all. It hurts and it has caused me to miss some stuff I’ve really been looking forward to and I want it to get better.

My physical therapist says I can continue to do stuff that doesn’t hurt, and I should avoid stuff that does hurt. So I’m not walking on the treadmill so much, but I can still use the recumbent bike, and I try to avoid lifting stuff and sitting in hard chairs for long periods of time, but I can still golf.

Oh, yeah, did you hear? I am learning to golf. I am a baby golfer.

Golfing is okay because it doesn’t seem to aggravate the parts of my back that are messed up, and it’s strengthening some of my core muscles so that’s good. Plus, it’s all part of my ten-step plan to be a better yuppie. I don’t really know what the other nine steps are, but I’ve been spending an awful lot of time wearing polo shirts and khakis at country clubs lately so I assume the transformation is occurring as planned. One of these days someone is going to discover my poor white trash roots and my rise to LPGA stardom will be instantly thwarted.

I used to swear that I would never ever play golf. How boring. How stupid. How uppity. And then all of a sudden I found myself at a driving range taking my first feeble swing at a golf ball and the rest is history. I have my own golf clubs now, and a glove, and a little towel, and I’m wearing sporty visors. Visors! A country club in town has been offering free clinics to women and so my friend and I have been going twice a week for a few weeks, and I love it. I’m stressed beyond belief at work and it all seems to melt away when I’m hitting golf balls.

I’m nowhere near a real course yet. I need to get more consistent on the range before I attempt to play actual golf. Baby steps for a baby golfer, is what I’m doing.

In other news, it is my solemn belief that Mondays are still shit, even though tomorrow’s Monday is a holiday and I may spend part of it at the pool.

Mondays are shit. I really, really hate them.

I can never think about myna birds without thinking of Superfudge.

It was a million bajillion degrees earlier this week, and now it’s 54 degrees and I have lampshade hair. And that’s a bad thing.

I am incapable of dressing appropriately for the weather at this time of year because it’s always hotter than ten hells upstairs in my house, and so I sweat all night while I’m sleeping, and I wake up sweaty, and I take a shower and then I get out of the shower and I’m sweaty, and I dry my hair and I keep sweating, and then I get dressed and I walk outside and sometimes, it’s 54 damn degrees. And I should have worn a jacket, and I shouldn’t have bothered sweating through drying my hair since I now have lampshade hair. At least it’s clean lampshade hair, I guess. But I’m chilly and I’ve been chilly all day and that means my nipples keep wanting to poke out because they’re cold, except half the time only one nipple pokes out, like WHAT THE HELL?!?! Why does that one have to be all out there? I go in the bathroom and try to push it down and sometimes it works.

After a string of loud clangs, cursing, and various forms of “ow” coming from my office, my coworkers suggested that if I’m going to keep bumping into everything, I should start bringing in old t-shirts to pad all the corners and drawer handles and stuff in my office. Seriously, my legs are black and blue. At least I am wearing pants today, because I look dumb enough with the lampshade hair. Another of my coworkers tugged at a loose string on her shirt and ended up pulling a hole into the shirt right where her boob is. She’s been wearing a name tag over it all day, which I find awesome and hilarious.

Last night I finally sort of cleaned out my fridge after neglecting it for weeks and weeks. I haven’t really been cooking, and all the leftovers in there were weeks old, so I threw that shit out. I also had three half-gallons of milk. See, I rarely drink milk and mostly just use it on cereal, but I get paranoid about it going bad, so I often throw it out randomly. I think we’ve had this discussion before. So I had a jug of milk that was half-used and I meant to throw it away, but I forgot to put it out with the trash on trash day so I left it in the fridge until the next trash day so it wouldn’t stink up my garbage. And then I bought a new jug. And then I got bronchitis and wasn’t touching dairy for a few weeks. So then I had two questionable jugs of milk and a craving for cereal, so I went out and bought a third jug of milk and used it. Last night I finally remembered to put those first two jugs out with the trash, and let me tell you, it was total science experiment time up in there. The contents of the original jug were brown and chunky, and possibly glowing in the dark. I also threw away two half-empty boxes of cereal because I am paranoid about bugs and stale cereal, and so if I can’t remember the last time I ate cereal I will throw it away and get a new box. My parents are going to crap their pants when they read this, because this is definitely not how they raised me. It’s a neurosis I’ve developed as an adultish person.

Speaking of being an adultish person, I had Peanut Butter Crunch for dinner last night, and for breakfast this morning. And guess what I’m having for dinner tonight? And when it runs out, I have a box of Fruity Pebbles all lined up and ready to go.

In other news, I don’t think Ben and Jerry’s is nearly as good as everyone else seems to think. It has too much stuff in it.

Here’s what is in my fridge now that I cleaned it out: Diet Dr. Pepper, a half-bottle of grape juice, beer, a half-jug of so far not questionable milk, and 800 million condiments.

In exactly two weeks I’m supposed to be giving a presentation at a conference in DC and I’m not even entirely sure what it’s about now, to tell you the truth. I guess I ought to look at that.

I severely overcommitted myself between work things and work-related volunteer things and non-work-related volunteer things, and if you haven’t noticed, it’s made me kind of spastic. I’m working on getting my head back into a space where I can write regularly and have it make some sort of sense.