Every day brings news we don’t expect to hear, like that modern goat herders –
may be less lonely than they used to be.
In other news, goats look like they might be excellent playmates and I want them. Want! I would like to dress them up like the cast of Mad Men and walk them on leashes to the drug store in the center of town. What could go wrong?
Both Siobhan and Mr. DBK have had traumatic life events in the past few days. It’s hard to know what to say beyond, “What can I pour you?”
Drive home first, kids, then drink.
Yes. I was distracted. Why do you ask?
Yesterday was my birthday. It’s a new year for you and me!
Busy afternoon at the family store, where everyone in the tiny town stopped by and bought presents for another thingy-exchangy holiday. I’ve gift-wrapped my fingers to the bone! Currently, I’m wondering where Topaz, who lay curled up on my lap a few minutes ago, disappeared to and considering taking a nap with my eyes open. That’s polite, yes? Not at all creepy?
Good. I don’t know where the last ten minutes went either.
Currently on Poor Impulse Control:
Me: Knock knock!
You: Who’s there?
Me: OMIGOD, I’M SO BORED! I can’t listen to another word that comes out of my mouth!
You: Are you still talking?
Found on my camera: Pete's fingers.
Last night, my laptop crossed its arms and sulked sulkily. If you remember your teen years or have lived with people in theirs you’re undoubtedly familiar with the concept. Perhaps it was refusing to acknowledge the utterly tasteless idea that Republican presidential candidates would debate in South Carolina on Martin Luther King Day, but I wouldn’t give it that much credit. Last night, the crazy guy crazy guys look at and go, “Whoa!” suggested American foreign policy utilize the Golden Rule and I sure didn’t see that coming. The booing, that you could pretty much see coming for miles.
Anyway, I’m not sure what this sulking portends. Blogging might be tricky. Maybe. The laptop might just have some growing up to do. Whatever, but I better not find out it stole my car keys: the car needs a brake job and a better attitude.
Took less than a week to break that paragraph-a-day resolution, but what'd you expect from whimsical me?
On Saturday afternoon, I was standing in the family store when a person sent me some very mixed messages. His or her face was completely concealed in what looked like a fuzzy scarf wrapped around some sort of frame, with fabric draped over his or her neck, shoulders and down to his or her hips, but open in the front. The tall person I could see was wearing a long, formless skirt and flat shoes in neutral brown, maroon and black colors. This outfit, in its shape, loosely resembled a chador, but those are always black or dark gray and designed to avoid attracting attention. This, however, was hot pink. I did not adjust for color when I cropped the picture. That’s really what I saw, but what was it?
I started this post yesterday, then a gin and tonic called my name. Next thing I knew it was after midnight and I felt not at all like talking.
It’s cold here. This morning, frost weighed down the leaves of our backyard sage bushes. We’ve retreated to the attic exercise room for sweaty activity, but it’s tricky. We currently have no TV in the attic. I have the attention span of a toddler in sugar shock. As much as I love the mosh pit sensation that is pushing hard and fast on the elliptical, without something to focus on I climb off the machine after ten minutes to go clean something. For two weeks, I managed 8 or 11 or 10 or 12 minutes, then found myself having a lemon-scented polishing incident. Thwarting my own plans was starting to frustrate me, lack of waxy build up aside. Yesterday, without thinking about it, I dragged my laptop to the attic, found a playlist I’d made for a friend years ago and howled along with Little Green Bag from the executive position atop the elliptical. When it was over, I was four minutes into a pretty decent workout and wondering how I’d tricked me into it. Five songs I truly love later, I felt great and only a few of my neighbors had called 911 about the shrieking. I excite even people who cannot actually see my extreme beauty. Everybody wins!
Last Thursday, I got about halfway through the workday when I realized I was trying to lie down at my desk which, while flat, offered limited coziness options, so I went home and slept until dinnertime, when I wasn’t entirely sure how many fingers I was holding up. Friday morning, I decided to stay in bed and monitor the broadcast culture from a supine position, so perhaps I was able to trick myself into kicking my own ass on Saturday because I was either well-rested or still asleep.
It’s three. I’m holding up three fingers and back to work I go.
Poor Impulse Control 