A Girl...

All Fiery Irish Clip and Curl

So I did not go to the beach on Saturday. It was cold and overcast and windy and while walking from the car to the cheesesteak shop, the air actually misted on me. Boo. There was much cursing throughout the day.

Instead of lounging the day away on the sand wearing a big floppy hat and big round sunglasses, Ethan and Teddy and I wandered aimlessly between a variety of equally mind-numbing activities, including but not limited to eating nachos, seeing a movie, laying on concrete steps, and watching episodes of Strange Love, VH-1's 40 Most Awesomely Bad Love Songs, and the episode of Little House on the Prairie where Mary goes blind. I brought out my pioneer hat with the yarn braids and everything. Also, we drove around in the fog. It was very scary.

Here are not one but two boring slideshows of a fraction of the million and two pictures I took while laying around on the concrete steps and benches just inside the Life Sciences Building on the Berkeley campus. I share them here not because I care and not because I think you care but because I can't just delete them and I also can't stand the thought of letting them languish unseen on my harddrive.

Note to self: Buy bronzer or promise first-born to the devil in exchange for a less corpse-like complexion.

Sunday. There was sun. I could have gone to the beach on Sunday, I suppose, but to be frank, I was still a little mad at the beach for the wind and cold and mist stunt it had pulled the day before, so instead I went to the gym for the first time since October and the second time since May and the third time since February of 2004, even though I have been paying $34 a month all along. I still loathe cardio and I still love weight machines and stretching to the point that two days later I still cannot fully extend my hip flexors, the parts that enable one to walk and stand more like a human and less like a robot (easy, Will).

After the gym I took my horribly gross and sweaty self shopping. In my gym clothes. Because I have no social conscience. I bought me some rad velcro shoes, a flowy yet flouncy off-white wrap skirt, and a bunch of obnoxious T-shirts, as per usual. I came home and showered and did a fashion show for the cat and then took pictures of the back of my head because I was in love with the way my wet braids looked with my new so-ugly-it's-cool striped shirt.

In the further chronicles of Leah Is a Concert Whore, last night I went to a show of a band I'd never heard of. The Frames are, as lead-singer Glen said, "a moderately successful Irish pop band that enjoys a nice Corona. It's so Western!" The word must have gottten out that the lads were in town because 95 percent of the audience was Irish and I could tell this because 1. everyone around me had an Irish accent, 2. I think I spotted my Ireland-born friend Ian back by the beer bar, and 3. when the band led the theater in a round of what I can only suppose was Ireland's national anthem, 9.5 out of 10 people were singing along at the top of their Guinness-soaked lungs. Bloody terrific!

Postscript: At the concert, Ethan's roommate, who I only kinda sorta know, grabbed my ass and did not get pounded by my jealous and overly-protective-of-that-which-is-his-no-longer ex-fiance. The non-pounding was a good sign that things are moving in the right direction, and the grabass was okay too.