I'm reading a blogger's novel--
and so far, it is wonderful.
Beautifully written, with a story that is moving along quite nicely...
I don't do reviews, so that's all you get for now.
I had read the blog a handful of times, and found the writing compelling,
besides which I love supporting other bloggers in their creative outlets.
On the treadmill this morning for my warm up,
I noticed this craptastic local morning news show.
Actually, I think the suffix "-tastic" is very misleading, so let me just clarify that:
It sucks hard.
I was thinking of writing them a letter, to alert the producers of this.
I mean, I'm certain they don't already know, otherwise it would have been cancelled.
I've forgotten most of the intended letter,
but the best line stuck with me, "The only thing that saved me from slitting my wrists, was the fact that I had to walk past the remote on my way to the knife drawer."
It is like watching a plate of dry toast cool off.
Or eating that toast.
Or having that toast rubbed all over your oiled-down, naked body...
oops, I got distracted.
it's nothing like that last one.
but suddenly I'm wide awake.
my shoulders feel like sand bags.
that evil little bastard made me watch myself in a mirror while I did a bunch of crap today, and that's just plain mean.
pushing me so hard on Legs day that I puke?
fine, you're just doing your job.
but make me look my fat self in the eye while I grunt????
burn in hell, pilot boy.
oh, yeah, he has his pilot's license, so I'm trying to become good friends with him,
so I can get him to take my little ones for a ride.
I'll pay for the gas and whatever, but do you EVEN know how much my boys talk about
think about
dream about
play with
watch movies about
AIRPLANES?
they've been on commercial jets a few times, but the last time was two years ago,
so they had just turned 3.
i.e.: not much memory of it.
besides, they are adament in their distinctions between jets and planes.
they prefer the propellers of the slower-moving airplanes, and refuse to let me call jets "planes".
grr.
Their birthday is Thursday...
I'm really excited.
I do hate that their birthday is in July, because I love baking, and in Utah it's almost always in the 90s on their big day, so I refuse to bake a cake.
I buy one, which is such a cop out.
oh well...
mmm....just thinking about cake...and ice cream...makes me...slobber, drool, pant...
why does everything come back to SEX??
remind me to go to Blockbuster more during the day
oh shit--i just remembered something....what is it...?
"...my block buster hit. No, make that a Hollywood Video hit."
but I was talking about something big--something not at all related to movies...using the term "block buster hit" in its original meaning, the one that Blockbuster Video originated from...
shit.
see?
I can't remember squat.
I remember loving it, though.
Thinking it, and being pleased with myself for my delectable cleverosity.
blah.
Anyway, hot guys working at Blockbuster at noon.
make a note of it.
hot and smart.
last night we went to a little impromptu surprise party for a good friend,
and there was talk of a motorcycle trip.
one of the couples have two bikes,
the other couple is getting ready to buy one.
and my husband...
hates motorcycles.
so, there you have it.
the reason that life is not fair is this:
my husband has about 943 of the qualities I would look for in a mate.
but there are still 7 more that I just can't stop wishing he would embody.
(yes, it's a well known fact that exactly 950 items make up a person's character)
damn the luck.
the girl who actually tried to kiss my husband last time we were there gave me the funniest look when I said "He (her husband) better not get a Harley, or I'll probably attack him."
dude, I was just kidding.
I would hump the bike before I would touch him inappropriately.
jeeez.
I also joked that my husband could ride with the woman who has her own bike.
they laughed and then said I would have to ride with her husband,
and there were so many swinging jokes that I swallowed cold.
I was proud of myself for refraining...
Bunch of damn...damn...uh...uh...grownups!!!
yeah, that's the worst insult I could come up with...
it's a fierce one, though.
I am trying not to focus on the fact that I want to write, right now.
That I want to spend every moment my children are asleep here at this desk,
outlining, sketching, filling in...
something long and winding.
something cool and crisp.
something...called a novel.
But instead.
instead...
I cling to every moment that my husband has to spare.
I sit quietly on the bed, watching the seconds tick by on the paused live tv thingy,
and wait for him to finish with yet another business call.
he missed the boys' tee ball game last night
(which was a dooooozy, as far as testing my patience/ability to not beat the shit out of my kids)
and when he got there, I wearily said, to his apology, "It's not your fault. And I'm not allowed to be angry at the people who pay you too much..."
I'm such a damn wuss.
He's not really gone that much, compared to some husbands, I bet.
I just got really used to having him around.
and, in case you missed any of the neon-flashing billboard-sized clues:
I like a lot of attention...
so I feel like an empty blackboard,
waiting to be covered with truths;
a beach of sand ready to be filled with sunbathers and castle-builders;
I feel like a kitchen, used only for re-warming take out...
and.
I want to be under the sea...in an octopus's garden, etc.
aw, now that's a melancholy and PATHETIC way to end a post.
Just wish me a visit from my muse, and some quiet time to record the tawdry event,
and we'll be all set.
happy Tuesday to you.
oh!!!!
well, shit!
why didn't someone remind me??
that'll cheer me up!!!
pictures, pictures!!!!
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