communication breakdown, baby

In moving all entries from Myspace over to Blogspot, the latter grew suspicious of me and now I must type out a security word verification for each entry. What, don't many people post fifty entries in two days?

Reading back over the past few months, I noticed that I tend to write about three things: nature, having a boggled mind, and transcripts of goings-on. I'm fairly happy with that. It just about spans my daily experience.

Yesterday Erik and I had an odd lapse in communication. He left the house earlier than he told me, so I couldn't have him take my change of clothes. I was already late, so I drove to OMSI to meet for a run, instead of running there and getting some mileage in. On the way I called him to make sure that he would still pick up something for me to eat during the movie. It was during the call that I learned that we were meeting at a mall twelve miles away, instead of OMSI, to see Spiderman 3 on an IMAX screen.

I went for a short run, took off towards the theater, and called Erik back. He was bewildered, wondering where I was. Somehow he didn't realize that I went for a run, but he had a movie ticket and dinner waiting for me. When I arrived at the movie theater he was a bit mad at me for being late, but we scooted into the theater with only a few minutes missed. The dinner, unfortunately, didn't turn out as well as the movie. I opened the warm, greasy box in the dark and between frame flickers saw my nemesis: cheese.

Argh, cheese! Great blanketer of flavor and disguiser of other tastes. Erik had insisted on no cheese, but this often goes awry when ordering takeout. I sat through the movie, hungry. Afterwards we returned the food and got a new order, but it was 10pm and too late for dinner.

Today I had a mini panic attack (and the phrase "mini-pani" popped into my head, an odd-humored joke on the annoying, cutesy term "mani-pedi") thinking of what Kids These Days will do when they're old enough to want to buy their first house. I make decent money and often worry about making house payments on my 1924 crapbox. How will my nephews and friends' kids make it? I don't even have children, and I'm worried about them. Yet another sign of true worrywartdom.