Well, I'm leaving for Albany in a few hours. I'll be gone until Monday. Hopefully my brother will let me use his slow-ass computer so I don't miss too much in the lives of people I don't actually know. I'm not looking forward to the 5 hour drive all by myself.

My weird dream saga continues. Last night I dreamed that I had two cabbage patch dolls, one named Anna and the other named Nicole (weird coincidence? blech). I brought them home to my parents' house and my mom went ballistic. She started throwing them at me and out of the window and into the front yard. She said she didn't want them in the house. I think she was jealous of them.

Last night for real I talked to my mom on the phone. Apparently I am supposed to go to a party with her on Sunday afternoon, but I forgot all about it. I made plans to drive down to my boyfriend's house and say hi to his parents and pick up his rollerblades. My mom of course got all upset by this. I'm trying to figure out if I can do both. My mom gets jealous when I have plans with anyone else's parents. She said to me last night when I told her, "Oh. I didn't realize you were that close with his parents." I think she's insecure that I don't love her or something.

aww, those duckies are so sad. i hope those pictures aren't real.

so, did anyone notice that the hair salon which was in the process of opening in the Lexington Co-op building (where the yoga place used to be) has suddenly disappeared? i know that the yoga people left because the owner of that building (some people know who i am talking about) never fixed anything that he said he was going to fix in their shop and they got sick of him. i wonder what happened to the poor hair salon. anybody know?

(e:mike,28689)I have no idea about where we could have a league, but I bet, if we were just playing with each other for fun, the racquetball courts at Buff State would probably serve our purpose. But, another question to bring up is, does anyone have the right balls we need? haha that sounds dirty.


(e:news,29879)I think this hide feature is awesome. This way I can give in to my ever changing whims on whether or not I actually want a journal to be shared.


(e:rachel,33027) That's hilarious, Rachel! When I was in high school I hardly ever got enough sleep and I was always stressed out. I used to do that all the time. I'd go to bed at 9pm or something and wake up at 11pm and think it was 11am and that I was late for school. A couple times I even started to take a shower and stuff but my dad saw me from the living room and told me to go back to bed. It is a really confusing feeling.


I had a dream last night that my boyfriend and I were building our own house. We were building it up in a tree and it was going to be really awesome because it would be something that was completely ours. This might have been instigated by a conversation I had with a girl at work last night where she was telling me all about the new house she bought.

while boogie boarding on the web looking for mixed drink recipes, i came across this one:

Today while washing dishes I had to encounter one of my most hated smells ever: the combination of hot peanut butter mixed with dish soap. I tried to figure out why I hate this smell so much, and my thoughts went back to my childhood and my mother's obsessive compulsive disorders: one of which was making sure every piece of recycling (plastic jars, metal cans, etc.) was thoroughly soaked and cleaned before put in the recycling bin. In particular, she wanted peanut butter jars to be clean, so she would fill the jar with hot water and dish soap and let it soak on the kitchen counter for hours. I don't know if this was some ingenious plan she had, or if it was due to pure laziness in regards to actually scrubbing something to get it clean. Anyway, I don't really see the point in cleaning recycling materials, since they are melted down to nothing and sterilized before they are used again. Still, this doesn't explain why I hate the smell so much. I must just relate it to bad memories of my mother. That's right, I heard it straight out of my psychologist's mouth, I am allowed to blame my mother for most of my psychotic quirks.