But I think it's brought out my inner masochist, because after all the hair-pulling and staying up to nearly dawn from Wednesday night until yesterday afternoon, when I finally felt confident enough to work the timed quiz deadlined for Saturday night posting, I actually got a charge from beating the clock, and stocking up on bananas (brain food!) and Trader Joe's espresso, and feeling parts of my brain I haven't used in years are crackling back to life (those, according to my overpriced text, would be the ones that carry out "computational" and "procedural" tasks involving new material).
It's the neurological equivalent of running on the open track and the golf course versus tame-lame Stairmastering and spinning inside a noisy gym. I've been barely lifting a brain muscle at work, excluding the "multi-tasking" ones and the "don't-strangle-your-bosses-or-random-clients" ones, since I can do interrogs, intake, etc., in my sleep by now and the biggest challenge for my English Bachelorhood at work is re-wording standard correspondence to suit a particular situation.
Also, I'm re-learning what I learned in Cal State -- that although everything in the chapters of a textbook is "necessary" for grasping the subject thoroughly, not all of it is necessary to my particular goals for taking the class, and in this case, I don't plan on becoming a CPA. So, I'm not just zeroing in on the material that will keep me from falling behind the homework and testing curb for this class, but also on the material that will be reiterated in a more complex or thorough way during my next course.
YAWN, you say? Well, me too. My fingers nearly dozed off just now correcting run-on sentences and typos, AND I'm hungry. BUT all was not lost in the get-a-life front for me this weekend: My sister called to ask me to come along with her to the Spotlight 29 Casino for this event hosted by Carson Daly's mom:
If you click to enlarge, you'll spot the wine driblets left behind by yours truly as she hastily put down the bold red wine from Mrs. Daly Caruso's own cellar, to cheer on the hot models for Rocawear, Cezer, etc., during the urban-casual market set of the fashion show:
Oh yeah, casino no-photos-inside-the-casino policy ruined mine and just about every other guest's photo plans. About the only people flashing bulbs that night were the hired event photographers, and the cell phone pics we took looked like from the inside of a cave; only silhouettes and the blue glare of strobes and spotlight were visible. Making a mental note now that casino policy means don't take pics on casino floor, per a casino security guard. Ah, but exit gifts of MP3 players with free download cards made up nicely for it and for not winning any of the sweet raffle prizes. Either way, the cause was a great one, and Mr. and Mrs. Mike of the Twenty-nine Palms Band of Mission Indians are beautiful people who have done something in honor of their daughter's memory that has benefited a whole generation.
And it was certainly worth dealing with the extra traffic in the east valley courtesy of the Coachella Music Festival. I like Prince's back-in-the-day stuff, but tickling his insane ego isn't worth upchucking the money nor the time and sweaty bother of that mess -- Goldfrapp, Kraftwerk, and even Jack Johnson maybe, but not enough to make it worth my increasingly spoken-for time and money.
And just recalled -- about running outdoors -- last Sunday evening I took a righteous spill down a steep, gravelly grade on the golf course rough -- probably courtesy of angry Republican country-club-founders' ghosts for ragging on the current crop of Cons at the voters booth last week, but more on that later, food and sunshine call -- gotta get 'em in before my designated 3 hours of Chapters 3 and 4-cramming tonight.
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