Evening folks. I write to you now while baking and watching Chappelle show. 

Actually, now I’m writing to you from the bedroom.  Remember that thing about silence?  Yeah.  I can’t escape it.  General noise I can take, just not words.  Like Mick in the kitchen now doing my baking dishes?  I’m ok with that.  I’m very ok with that.  Did I ever mention he’s awesome?  We have this fabulous little arrangement where I do all the cooking and he does all the dishes.  It’s perfect.  He’s perfect.  (I was actually just informed that he does the dishes because I “do it wrong”.  Which is the same reason why I don’t let him do laundry.)

Like I said, I’m in the process of baking a pound cake.  Not just any pound cake either, the most delicious amazing pound cake you’ve ever eaten.  And I’m not just saying that.  I’ve made this cake once before, and it was generally agreed that it was the shit.  Only one problem: it’s got sour cream in it.  This may not sound like a problem to you, but in our household it’s a big no-no.  Even Mick hates sour cream, and he’ll eat almost anything.  But a couple weeks ago the HEB Meal Deal was on taco fixins, so there was free sour cream thrown in there; I took that as a sign that I should make another cake.  And two weeks later, I’m getting around to it. 

That and going to the gym is really all I’ve accomplished today.  I encountered another form of gym douchery today: the “I’m gonna get a bar off the little tree thing, walk halfway across the room, and stand right up against the weight rack so none of you guys can get to this whole rack” guy.  WTF are you thinking, guy?  1- if you’re using the bars on the tree thing, why not stand over on that side of the room, you know, where there’s a big open space?  2- ok, you want to come over here where the cool kids hang out or whatever, that’s alright I guess, but why not back the fuck up so some of us can get in front of you and grab some weights, eh?  I mean, I see how hard you have to concentrate on your own sweaty grunting crew cut head right in front of the mirror, eyes all bulging out like you’re being crushed by a giant, and I sure as hell don’t want to intrude or anything.  But when you see three people standing behind you like you’re in their way, you probably are.  Kids, don’t be that guy. 

In a related note, I have callouses on my hands.  From lifting weights.  It feels strange, partly because I’m the only girl who is ever lifting freeweights, at least when I’m there.  It feels even stranger because I caught myself considering buying weightlifting gloves.  Maybe I’m wrong, but just picturing myself wearing weighlifting gloves makes me feel like a douche. 

Uh oh, cake’s almost done.  Gotta run!