It's Friday and I'm wearing my Friday Jeans. I wear them almost every Friday. They're ages-old mens Old Navy jeans that sit low on the hip. The hems are frayed. Sean occasionally tries to squeeze into them, not understanding why there's a pair of jeans here that aren't his.
I drove Sean in to work this morning, jumping from the car to take the driver's seat when we got downtown. In the process, I managed to lose yet another glove. I have a series of lonesome gloves. A beige chenille one, a red and black striped one, a tan knit one. Now a blue and green and grey one. It really sucks when a glove jumps ship this way, especially when it leaves a scarf to mourn it like a lost child. You can never find the gloves to match the scarf again.
My nails are painted with the cheap Maybelline Wet Shine polish I picked up at Target. I'm trying to avoid caving to professional manicure hell. I've already fallen off the hair wagon, getting expensive highlights that lead to more expensive highlights. I mean, why ruin the expensive highlights with cheap haircolor? I fear it would be the same with the manicure.
I went to the Crate & Barrel site and once again debated about ordering the Calphalon professional frying pans. I really need a good frying pan. But again, I balked at the idea of paying for shipping when there's about 26 Crate & Barrel's in the greater Boston area.
It is as cold as fuck out. Fuck being bad when used in this instance.
I think I'm going to head out to run some errands, pick up some odds and ends, revel in the joy that is heated seats cranked all the way up. But I won't stay out too long, since we're meeting my old roommate at the Border Cafe in Harvard Square tonight to freeze our collective asses off till they let us in to partake of margaritas and chicken burros.
It's Friday, allright.