I suppose you'll be wanting pictorial proof of my commitment to rendering this day of the week special?
I feel like writing pretty things,
but instead I must dash off a few pages about Frankenstein.
It’s the last assignment of the semester—woo hoo!
I am looking at classes for the fall, but everything looks too…school-ish!
Wouldn’t that be funny if I dropped out of college a second time?
I think it would be hysterical.
I have so little motivation, though!
Money was the only reason I worked before, and now I don’t need it,
so going to school in order to follow a career path seems like such a ridiculous exercise.
And then I realize the disguise of housewifery is becoming more comfortable than my own face, my own skin...
How pleasant it would be to just march through life, folding laundry and dusting shelves.
Today I cleaned out and re-organized my laundry room--
praise the jeebus!!
I've been growing steadily more annoyed with the state of that room since the fall.
We cleaned out the garage and a bunch of stuff ended up in the laundry room, sort of out of default.
(in other words, hubby said, 'everything either goes in the house, or in the trash.' grrrr.)
So, that stuff is now back in the garage where it belongs.
Hey, you don't finish your basement and have a 3 car garage and NOT put some shit out there.
We have 2 cars and a motorcycle in there.
...I know what you're thinking.
No, it's not ours.
it's hubby's brother who's living here.
And it's a bullet bike, so it does nothing for me.
Oh, except make my lip curl a little.
I hate those things.
To me, there is nothing sexy about a bike like that.
I would probably enjoy driving one, but that's only because they go fast.
Anyway, it is officially spring cleaning season at my house.
I have the bug.
I cleaned out my kids' closet/dresser today, too.
Out with the old/too small, in with the new/too big.
I fucking HATE buying clothes for kids.
I mean, I love buying clothes--for whoever--but jeezum crow, that shit's annoying.
I swear my kids spend at least half the time between sizes,
where 5s are too small, but 6s are too big.
And they are ALWAYS too skinny for their pants.
Thank goodness Old Navy (and others) have started making adjustable waistbands with these nifty little elastic bands with buttons.
Too bad their shorts are all down to their shins and their shirts are almost to their knees.
They aren't terribly impressed, either.
Max asked me if he was wearing the 9 year old's shirt...
That reminds me!
I had the coolest experience at the 'Mart the other day.
(Wal-Mart, that is.)
I had purchased avocadoes at the previous store, the one with egggsellent produce,
but had forgotten to get a lime.
The cashier remarked on the loneliness of the lime,
and I said, "Yeah, poor thing. It doesn't even get to be drowned in Corona; it's just going into guacamole."
She went along with it and somehow I went on to tell her that if you just chop up the avocadoes and some tomatoes and a little bit of onion, then squeeze the lime over it, it's wonderful.
She said it sounded great, etc.
As an afterthought I mentioned that if you throw the pit into the bowl it'll keep the avocado green for hours and hours.
She was truly astounded and said I had made her day.
I could tell she meant it and that made my day.
I know, I know, let's all hug.
I love people, and the connections we make with each other every day.
I guess I'll get to work on that stupid paper.
Here's why I don't think I fit as an English paper:
I do not even remotely see the value, in terms of practical usage, of reading books and disecting the heart and guts and soul of them to the point of a bloody, formaldehyde-soaked messed.
I think I need to pretend I hate writing and ready for a little while.
Give my brain a break.
I'm scared to death to write my first review on Thursday.
My editor hasn't called yet.
He said Monday or Tuesday, but still...
I want to make out with someone in the rain.
not just kiss in the rain, but grope and press together and feel hot tongues as cold rain runs across our cheeks and into the chaos of our mouths...
clothes and hair clinging wetly to our contours.