I always gag a little when someone begins an apologetic post by saying 'I've been a bad blogger.' It rather implies that readers have been breathlessly waiting for your next sparkling bon mots, which, unless you're some veritable god of the internetz, like Kottke*, or my god of the internetz, no. Either way, I feel bad for not posting for a while, not because I think people are particularly invested in the regularity of my posting, more because generating post ideas is deeply embedded into my mental firmware. There are just so many things I could have written about. Like how I went away to a small, charming, corrugated house on the coast with a foreign man and ate a lot and watched a lot of Battlestar Galactica and Nip Tuck, and came back relaxed and sunburnt. Or how I got all after school special on this kid at the beach, who was cutting his forearm with a sea shell for some reason. Or how one night, while cooking dinner, Jessie turned to me and spontaneously quoted my entire wanky email signature at me. Or the exchange I had with a sparrow trapped in a building the other day, further proving that I will always look crazy in public.

But, no, I haven't summoned the energy to do anything with any of that. For once in my rather plebeian life I've had things to do, and I've been doing them with vigour, and I am glad. That does mean that when I have discretionary internet time I've preferred to spend it on my bourgeois porn of choice, currently Danish hardwood furniture. Please note that I expect crass comments on the following terms: wood, hardwood, hard, mid-century, and teak.

But now I'm breaking radio silence to talk about my new jeans. They are fine new jeans, especially considering the foul mood I was in when I bought them. I was in the worst kind of shopping mood, the kind where you're just grouchily ticking something off an overwhelming to-do list. All of my jeans decided to die in the arse (... hee) at the same time, and I hate buying jeans so very, very much. You have to try on a million different pairs, usually in some kind of big box streetwear retailer, and the lights are horrible and fluorescent and the music is irritating and you find yourself swearing off refined sugar after staring at your pillowy pale thighs in the changing room mirror over and over and over.

This jean buying experience, however, was rather painless. A kind-eyed sales assistant caught my eye as I sulkily rifled through the racks and listened patiently to my polemic about the right kind of jeans. They have to be high, I said, but not too high, and tight, but not spray-on tight, and dark. She immediately found me exactly what I needed. They are high, and dark, and very tight, yet somehow quite comfortable, and they do nice things to my arse. And I was happy.

Until I put them on this morning. Turns out my new every day jeans take a good fifteen minutes of cursing to put on. Once on they are deceptively comfortable, like the tardis, but I don't really understand how they managed to construct a pair of pants that positively require a can of WD-40 to put on yet feel roomy and comfortable once you get there.

Sigh.

Perhaps I should have gone with the sparrow anecdote.

* as an aside, I actually had to google Kottke because I had a brain fart and couldn't remember if it was .com or .org, and also gagged at the subheading of the first result. 'Get into the world of Jason Kottke, a freelance web designer and learn about design, food, weblogs, and living in New York City.' I don't necessarily have anything against the Kottke, more because I don't really read him, but, honestly, get your hand off it, sunshine. It feels like every second google ad laden, money making blog out there in bourgeois internet land is about design, food, other blogs and living in New York City.