Nov. 7th, 2007 09:43 pm
constance: (Default)
It is unexpectedly cold tonight -- actually, it is unexpectedly freezing tonight. And I suppose some smartypantses who like tune in to weather reports and other recherche stuff like that might say that this freeze wasn't exactly unexpected at all, but I didn't hear anything about it until today when I sat at work shivering in my cotton trousers and lightweight sweater as the temperature dropped forty degrees.

And instead of spending the night writing, as I'd planned, I spent it dragging, carrying, or otherwise bullying my mother's 4000 or so outdoor plants to safety, and even though it's only a little before ten and in theory I'd have time to whip out a ficlet or two, the truth is that I'm cold and kind of cranky, and the world's most comfortable bed is stretched out twenty yards or so away from me, waiting to wrap me in its seductive (and incidentally warm) embrace. And who am I to resist?

The first cold night, too, is reminding me of my thermal dog. She never liked to cuddle, except on cold nights. She liked to be warm; she always found the warmest spot in the house and staked it out. I miss her badly, sometimes. It sneaks up on me like tonight's cold front. I am missing her tonight.
constance: (*assumes spurious air of boredom*)
Today one of my coworkers introduced me to the delights of Scare Tactics, a punk'd-style reality show where everyone is conspiring to scare the bejeezus out of you. She thought it was can't-catch-your-breath hi-larious, and I thought it was funny in places, but mostly I was thinking two things:

(1) Man, the acting in this show is lame. But I guess all horror is bad melodrama, right, until you're in the middle of it, and then you're freaked out enough that you don't notice that the blood doesn't look quite real or the crazy guy is acting crazy in a really weird and stilted way.

(2) There are almost no girls on the show. It seems to be mostly a guy thing, to set your bestest friends up to pee in their pants because they're thinking they're about to be shot by mobsters or dismembered by an angry gorilla.

I've played pranks on people, but they involved things like live crickets in lockers, or names spelled out in squished Oreos on the front walk. Things like that, not oh-my-god-am-I-about-to-die scenarios. And I can't help thinking, as I did when I watched David Fincher's The Game, that if someone I loved were ever to set me up in a life-or-death situation that was never really life-or-death at all, I would not only not love that person any more, I would also probably spend my days planning to kill them in the most elaborate and ghastly ways possible.

But that's just me, and I have arrived at my question du jour: do you play pranks on people? And if you do, how elaborate or infuriating were they?
constance: (I feel old.)
I took a Benadryl last night and those things, for me taking them is like getting a temporary 12-hour Dementor's kiss. I mean, I'm not only useless for hours afterwards, but also not even really conscious in any accepted sense of the word. So I fell asleep before I had the chance to write about yesterday morning when I woke up.

I don't know if you ever wake up this way: it feels as if you're just coming out of a dream, and you are completely convinced that in your dream, or at the back of your mind (I guess it amounts to the same thing, though, really), you've just realized something profoundly important about your life, or about life in general, something sure to make a huge difference in the way that you live your life from this moment forward. But the thing is that you can't remember it; it's just out of reach and every time you try to get hold of it, it slips away. You're like Tantalus reaching over his head, waist deep in water he can't drink and won't ever be able to drink.

Well, here's the thing, though. Yesterday morning, I woke up with that revelatory feeling, and after a little poking around in the old subconscious (not to make you jealous or anything, but) I actually remembered the revelation I'd just experienced! Further, because I am a generous person, I will now share it with you:

We need more glitter coffee.


By contrast, this morning when I woke up, I just felt seriously hung over. Thanks, Benadryl.


Here is how I know I have settled into my new job: my boss has a nickname for me according to how I deal with stress. Everyone in the department has one of these nicknames, and they're all based on natural phenomena; there's Ice Age, for example, and Hurricane S, and Old Faithful, and Wildfire. I am San Andreas, after the faultline, because for ages everything is all calm on the surface, and you don't know anything's coming until the ground starts rumbling underneath you and all of a sudden the building's crumbling and then it's all over and you're left standing in ruins.

This is actually embarrassingly accurate. My boss says, of my attempts to convey my utter frustration over what constititutes a Section 32 loan, that she could practically hear the tectonic plates shifting. To this I say, well, at least the building's still standing. It wouldn't be the first time I took out a building in a fit of temper, you know.
constance: (This is what the book says.)
For two days now, I have been bringing Sarah Caudwell's first novel to work with me, planning to embark on a reread of her woefully short series of detective novels. I'm really looking forward to it, but activities have conspired against me on both days, and so the book is sitting forlornly in my desk drawer right now, and I am forlorn as well, thinking of it and wishing I'd thought to bring it home with me.

I mention this because I have an ulterior motive: every now and again I try to interest someone, anyone, in these books, which are, if you like piffling English comedies of manners or epistolary novels or classic-style whodunits or sophisticated drawing-room comedies, and I do like all these things, utterly captivating. It's odd that no one ever seems to believe me when I proclaim their perfection; like Linus's pumpkin patch, I must not be quite sincere enough--or maybe it really is just that the thought of clever, sophisticated little pouffes of British mystery novels makes most people break out in hives--but here I am trying again, because like Linus, I cannot stop believing that one day everything will fall into place, and all my efforts will be rewarded by the conversion of a like-minded soul.

I guess, all gratuitous Peanuts references aside, that what I mean is this: I really like Sarah Caudwell. I think there are several people on my friendslist who'd quite like her too. That's it, really.


Have I mentioned that I began a diet (or, as my boss insists on calling it, a Lifestyle Change) on Friday? Well, I did. So far I've eaten a lot of salad and laid off the fries, and though this does not seem to have made any notable difference so far--it's hard to tell, really, when I tossed my scale a couple of moves back--I have hopes. And more importantly, I feel better. So much more smug! So much more virtuous! So much more willing to tell anyone who listens how healthy I am being!

Well, you know. Except for the BottleCaps, of course. But really! I am only eating them a few at a time! No, really! I can't let them go to waste!



I have just thought of what I can do to remedy my unfortunate problem of not having Thus Was Adonis Murdered at hand. I will begin the second book instead! Normally I could no more contemplate this madness than I could raise Ms Caudwell from the grave to write more, but after all, I have read the books before, in their proper order. And after all, I really do like her an awful lot.
constance: (I just need a boost.)
My office has a little perk that they call "Floating Holidays." The way it works is that in addition to your usual vacation time and sick leave, you get four additional days to use as you like. Call them personal days, mental health days, whatever you like: they are nice to have, especially now in the dog days of summer when I don't feel like doing much of anything besides sitting in my living room in a coma, not even just going to sit someplace cooler--it has cooled off quite a bit lately, though--and certainly not getting up and getting dressed and proofreading and identifying software bugs for nine hours or so.

You'd think that I'd watch for them vigilantly, that I'd go look at my Outlook calendar three times a week and count the days till my next one, right? Well, if you thought that, you'd be wrong. I missed one in April because I was out of town on an installation when it rolled by; the day went by and that was that; I had to reschedule it. At least I had an excuse for that one. But I just realized today that I also missed a day in July. I forgot--I forgot, can you believe it?--that I'd taken a day off then, and didn't even realize it until my current boss asked us to let her know how many we had left this year. So I've rescheduled again, my boss laughed long and hard at me, and now I have Halloween off, which is just as it should be because I believe Halloween should be a candy-freebasing, silly-costume-wearing, get-out-of-jail-free national holiday.

Anyway. How much do I love my job? More than I ever thought possible, I guess, for me to be missing vacation days.


I have been feeling nostalgic this morning for my Baton Rouge days, a few years post-college, post-and-pre-New-Orleans-Bad-Trip. Baton Rouge, which it must be said is not a town for one to aspire to, was where I went to lick my wounds after my first NOBT, and I spent four years or so there and was unexpectedly happy there. I mean, Baton Rouge is a cipher of a city, had few of the amenities I expect from my cities. But I fell in with a crowd of people there who made it seem like the best place in the world. People who you could call on five minutes notice and say, "I am going to go see Fight Club for the seventh time, want to come along?" And they'd be waiting for you at the theater. You'd go out to dinner, eight of you crammed into a corner of a restaurant, and you'd all talk at once and people would keep stealing the calamari off your plate and you'd snag bites of their mushroom calzones. And you'd have dinner parties with twenty people crammed into your tiny apartment because your friend B. invited ten extra people but you had plenty of food because B. always does this and you knew to plan for it.

I know that some people, when they are lonely but not missing anyone in particular, feel the absence of romantic intimacy most strongly. Someone to wake up next to, snoring in the bed beside you. Someone to spend hours on the phone with, having phone sex or just talking. Someone who makes you part of a world of two. But that's not what I miss, at all.

It's not that I have anything against the world of two, exactly. Worlds of two can be great, when you get them. But when I say I miss intimacy, that's not the intimacy I mean. I don't miss worlds of two; I miss worlds of many, the extended Found Family I'm talking about when I talk rhapsodically about my bungalow court: a group of people, open, hardcore friendship, a revolving door of support that is never empty. The company of people you really love, as much as you want, sharing each other's lives the way you share calamari at the Italian bistro, casually and intimately at the same time.

I think I'm feeling a little nostalgic for it just now because so many of the people I've grown to love here in Macon are drifting away, the way you do from your safety stop-gap cities. They are going off to grad school, they are looking for real jobs, they are ready to pack up and move away. I am going to miss them. I am already missing them, the idea of them. And so of course I am thinking about the days when I came the closest I've ever come to getting what I wanted out of life and didn't even know it at the time. I want it back.
constance: (Don't interrupt me while I'm working.)
So every now and then I have to go into the office of this one coworker of mine who has a little basket of those squishy silicone stressballs (how splendidly alliterative!) to talk to her about one technical matter or another, and every time I go into her office, I am compelled to squish these stressballs. I mean, it really is a compulsion. I cannot stop myself from doing it. When I am walking to her office, I am saying to myself, "Okay, Cammy, you are NOT going to start kneading those things because it probably annoys her to watch you mauling her belongings." But somehow they always end up in my hands without my even realizing it.

Anyway, she was on vacation last week, and when she returned this week she had a present for me: A STRESSBALL OF MY VERY OWN. It was waiting for me on my desk on Monday; it is orange and has these soft little cilia and you roll it or squeeze it or poke at it or mold it into amorphous shapes and I am so in love! I have been playing with it for two days now, and it is so very satisfying. As a Fidgeter from way back, I am in heaven.

It was the silliest, most thoughtful little thing. Don't things like that just make you happy?


PS - There was an emergency meeting of the Book Lover's Trivial Pursuit Club last night, and thanks to the dozen or so Curious George questions and no thanks to all the Philip Roth questions, I emerged the clear winner. I just thought you needed to know this.

constance: (Trust me I am a professional.)
[ profile] coco_palmolive has many talents--she is lucky that way--and among her many talents she counts the ability to completely freak me out with an offhand layman's medical diagnosis. I'm not exactly sure what it is about her theories which spark panic in me. It may be just that I am a person who normally doesn't even think about the possibility of being sick because my default mode is utter, disgustingly blooming health, aside, you know, from the allergy thing; so that when I do get sick, I assume it's something minor that will pass in no time.

Until, that is, coco says something like, "You know, those symptoms sound sort of like West Nile Virus to me!" And I immediately think OMG WHAT IF SHE IS RIGHT??? And if I say "I am so tired this afternoon," she might say, "I worry that you might be anemic," and so I go to the grocery store after work and carefully seek out foods high in iron, despite the fact that we both know perfectly well that the reason why I am tired probably has less to do with anemia--though I concede that anemia is a definite possibility--than with the fact that between the heat and the dog and the weirdnesses going on in my dream cycle, I just don't sleep very well, lately.

Anyway, want to come over to my house for smoked oysters, spinach, and dried apricots? I have plenty.


I stole this test from [ profile] woodyinvincible. I've taken it a million times, but I think this is the first time I've ever gotten this result, and it surprised me so much that I went back and took it again, just to make sure.

Hmmmmmm )

constance: (I admit sometimes I am wrong.)
Life can be so surprisingly nice sometimes.

constance: (Default)
I got paid on Friday! This means that my life has, this weekend, been trundled back on track, after the Great Refrigerator Catastrophe and The Long-Delayed Bookcase Purchase, and today, my one day off in the week, has seen much labor, so that now I have cold things again, and my fiction is at last completely unpacked, although it is all so out-of-order that I don't know how long I'll be able to resist, like, color-coding everything, or at least quasi-alphabetizing (I say quasi because as you may know, it is hard to alphabetize properly when the books are stacked horizontally and vertically because every square inch of shelf space is required).

That was one long sentence, right there. O_o

One thing I've been wondering is what on earth ever happened to my first volume of The Sandman. I couldn't find it after I moved, but I just assumed that it was in one of the dozen or so boxes of fiction that were in storage. But. All the fiction has been unpacked! And it is still gone! And since I bought it several years ago, the edition I have has been supplanted by a new printing with a different cover! And if I buy a replacement new, this one won't match the others. And trust me, I am not the sort of person who can stand for that. That one unmatched volume will eat away at me until I am nothing but a shriveled wreck of my former robust self. I will be like Miss Havisham, my soul curdled by my losses. You think I'm kidding, but I'm not. Almost.

But you know, that's what is for, right? Again I ask you: what did we do before The Internet? We just lived in despair, wallowing in our own incompetences and failures, that's what.

constance: (We are an idiot.)
As someone who may not be a professional writer but is still conscious of trying to balance some sort of writing style with a certain shall we say accessibility, I feel as though sometimes I ought to check and make sure my Gentle Readers are still with me, you know? My particular livejournal universe has been so quiet lately that the lack of comments on my journal is easily explained. But still, in manner of hopelessly neurotic dipshit, I wonder: have I lost you? Sometimes, I do wonder.

So by way of experiment, I propose a little informal stylistic check: I am going to tell you a story in two different ways, and I am hoping you'll oblige me by reading and offering your preference, and I will do my best to hold your interest by sticking to that style. Okay, ready?

The Title of the story is "I Nearly Crashed My Car today."

The Straightforward Version )

The Stream-of-Consciousness Version )

So what do you think?
constance: (Now might be a good time to stop.)
Imagine there is someone at work you get along really well with. Someone you have a friend-crush on, a crush as in, Man I Would So Love To Hang Out With You But I Am Too Shy To Ask If You Want To Go To Dinner. You love talking about books and movies with him and you share a lot of the same tastes, but more importantly, you like these things you have in common for the same reasons. He thinks Ayn Rand is a lunatic! What more could one want in a potential friend?

Right, with me so far?

Now imagine that you have just tentatively confessed your love for Harry Potter and your eagerness to read the new book--this is a love you prefer to keep under wraps with the large portions of the population you're afraid might ask uncomfortable questions--and WOW HE IS A BIG HARRY POTTER FAN. He mentions that he's read the books and that he travels so much that he wants them on audio but audible doesn't carry them (incredulous, you have since checked the veracity of this statement, and not only does audible not have them, but they have a whole email address devoted to requests for HP on audio) and every time he goes to the library they're checked out.

Still following? Okay, so imagine the following exchange.

You: Oh! I have them on audio! I can make copies for you if you want.

He: Would you? That would be the best thing ever!

You: Sure! I'll get the first four to you tomorrow, because they're all huge mp3s, but the last one will take a few days because it's on 23 CDs and I'll have to convert them for you.

He: Well, the first four will keep me busy for a while. Now which is the last one? Is that the one with the maze?

You: No, it's the one where Sirius dies.

He: ...

You: ...

He: ...

You: OH MY GOD. You have not read that one.

constance: (Is the sun coming up today?)
I bought myself a proper digital camera as a birthday present to myself, and it was was waiting patiently on my doorstep when I got home yesterday. It's not a fancy camera or anything, but it's much nicer, and takes far lovelier pictures, than my phone camera, and so no doubt I will begin picspamming you any day now, as soon as I get time to use it, and also figure out how (beyond the basics, which are pretty standard camera-type stuff).

Actually, I have acquired much this week. New bookcases too, three of them, with more on the way, depending on what I decide to get, and I've been unpacking and reorganizing and rediscovering my books, which have been in boxes for twenty-one months now. It is indescribably good to have them around me again, and it's going to take me forever to get everything done, I can tell, because I keep getting distracted, pulling books out and carefully sorting them and OH MY GOD LOOK I MUST SIT DOWN ON THE FLOOR RIGHT NOW AND GET TO KNOW YOU AGAIN.

Bibliomania. You know how it is.


Also last night my dog woke me up four times. Let me repeat that. FOUR TIMES. And each time I had to get up and put on her leash and go outside with her, standing in the front yard in my pajamas at one-thirty and three and four and seven. I bet you didn't know that my neighbors across the street have a sprinkler system that runs for at least five hours. And I bet you didn't know that it's very quiet on my street at four in the morning, the sort of eerie post-apocalyptic quiet you see in eerie post-apocalyptic movies, where the leads walk out into a normally busy street and there's just nothing, and it is all eerie and post-apocalyptic. That sort of quiet. You might or might not have known that the moon last night was enormous and yellow and full. You might not have known that the fireflies are out in force.

You might not have known these things, and that is why I am here to tell you. You've probably guessed, though, that as I spent most of the night either trying to ignore the imperious summons of a dog or out in the front yard or trying to get back to sleep or, toward the end there, worrying that Flan was sickening for something, I am sort of tired and disoriented today. You've probably guessed, and so I am just confirming for you.


Good morning. How's your day going?
constance: (Are you wearing your crash helmet?)
I took my pops out to lunch this afternoon. He requested that we go to a local sports bar that makes its own potato chips, because after-church crowds tend to infuriate him (in more ways than one: many things piss him off, because he is an angry angry man, but Christianity in general is one of his hot buttons), and he figured we'd be pretty unlikely to run into the more devout segment of the local population there, and plus of course he'd also be able to watch the Braves/Reds game on a projection TV, and we ate burgers and chips and I gave him my sentimental, heartfelt gift in the form of a history of the Mafia and a couple of Lewis Black CDs, and I am pleased to report that it was a friendly lunch.

Lunches with my father can go either way, you see. That's the tricky thing about being my father's kid. You're constantly on watch for signs that things are about to Go Bad in a serious way, in which case we are treated to spectacles rarely seen outside, like, preschools for troubled children (I spoke with my longtime friend B today, and when I mentioned lunch, B's first question was, "Was he in a Towering Rage?"); but when things are good, and stay that way, Coach Sweetpea, as we've recently begun calling him, is great to be with, generous and amiable and expansive. The kind of father who gets up on the roof on Christmas Eve to stomp around like eight tiny reindeer, the kind who drives eight hours to make sure his daughter is safe and healthy, the kind who understands almost any kind of youthful excess because he did most of it himself, the kind who almost everyone has a funny story about.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.
constance: (I think I love you.)
I have found a new home to love.

I went this afternoon running errands (a trip to Lowe's, where the edges of the hurricane glanced over us just long enough for me to load my car up in pouring rain) and decided on my way home to drive through a neighborhood which had a lovely house for sale which was a little bit outside my budget but still possible, provided I stopped eating out and started eating beans and rice, and that sort of thing. It is lovely, and the neighborhood is lovely, and even more than that house I love this house down the street, which is, I grant you, kind of messy in this tax assessor's photo, but which is standing empty and adorable now.

I want this house. I haven't called to find out anything about it yet, but I feel the house lust in me rising. Rising. Riiiising.


I was going to write more, about religion in the workplace, and about birthdays and conversations in the car, but my weekend has so far consisted of doing fuck-all, and I have to get busy. I'll try to write these entries later, and I know you'll be waiting for the moment I decide to post, but I couldn't let the afternoon go by without announcing that I have turned my fickle attentions to a new object of beauty.

Oops my parents are here :O bye
constance: (I think I love you.)
Today, I don't know what happened. I ate my turkey sandwich quickly so I could go to Target to pick up some things--cat food, dog treats, down blankets on clearance (SCORE!)--and there I was walking, pushing my little buggy, thinking of MY NEW DESK FORGIVE ME IF I GLOAT I NOW HAVE A DESK BECAUSE AS BOW POINTED OUT I AM A ROCKSTAR AND ROCKSTARS MUST HAVE L-SHAPED GUNMETAL-AND-CHERRY DESKS OKAY I HAVE FORGOTTEN WHAT IT WAS I WAS TALKING ABOUT, and I heard my name being called, and I searched over the store and finally zeroed in on the shoe department and realized my name was being called by the world's girliest pair of shoes actually constructed for adults: a pair of pink leather ballerina flats. With tiny bows. And a cutout sunburst pattern.

I wasn't going to get them, I really wasn't. PINK SHOES. I mean, yeah, I love pink with a passion that in a thirty-five-year-old woman is probably very misguided indeed. But PINK SHOES. I don't think I have owned PINK SHOES, shoes entirely unusable in an actual ballet class, since I was old enough to go to school. Certainly not since I was old enough to be briefly convinced by Satan that pink does not look good on redheads (for the record, this is a filthy lie). How often will I be able to wear PINK SHOES? I thought. Not very often, I answered myself. But then, I remembered that I just bought a little flowery skirt that will go nicely, and then, I saw that the PINK SHOES were half price, and I don't know, the next thing I knew I was leaving the store with them.

I still can't explain what the shoes (they are pink, did I mention that? With little bows!) are doing on my bed right now. But I will tell you this: I love these shoes, and as if to demonstrate her wholehearted approval, Olive the Cat has been positively wallowing on them, rolling around on them as if they were made of catnip, and I know this is probably because they smell like the Snausages that were sharing the bag with the shoebox (and Olive loves her some stinky dog treats) but I am choosing to believe that it is just the universe's way of telling me that every grown up lady needs a pair of little pink girly flats to wear with her little pink girly skirt.

Thank you, universe. For once, I am wholly with you.

ETA: Thank God for digital cameras! )
constance: (We are fine.)

My hair is looking less entirely repulsive today.

Also, I for certain sure have that in-office job. Not only that, it looks as though I may never have to go on another business trip again.

constance: (Default)
My grandmother died early Wednesday morning. She signed her living will on Tuesday afternoon, they took her off oxygen, and she relaxed and held on for about twelve hours after that.

It's been a long week, and a hard one, and I thought when I got back to the hotel tonight I'd just fall into bed and sleep as long as I possibly could. But I am wide awake now, and I keep thinking of my mother who spent the last year mothering my grandmother; and my uncle, sleeping tonight on my other grandmother's nursing home sofa because my family is taking it in shifts to stay with her until she settles in; and my sister-in-law, whose mother died ten years to the day before my grandmother; and my friends who have lost parents or are having to deal with gradual loss.

I am feeling, tonight, an urge to call my mother, two floors down on the other side of the hotel. I want to wake her the way you want to wake a sleeping baby, just to make absolutely sure everything is all right. And I hate goodbyes even under the best of circumstances and I am terrible at letting go, and so I am decreeing: no more. I want everything to be all right, for all of us, for everyone reading this--as all right as it can be, for all our losses and disappointments so far--for ever, starting now.

Okay, then.
constance: (We are fine.)
  1. Being told I was eligible for a promotion, which I will be interviewing for tomorrow morning. (If I get it, it will mean I will be phased out of travel!!!!!!1)

  2. Being sent on a last-possible-second trip, rushing home to pack and bring dog to boarders, getting on the road.

  3. Driving for four hours through Atlanta rush-hour and the North Georgia mountain backroads in twilit driving rain with my mother sobbing to me over the phone until my signal faded completely. (FUCK YOU SPRINT. FUCK YOU I SAY.)

  4. Spending the night with an Indian family in their hotel, smelling Indian food through the walls and knowing that the food was not for me.

  5. Working for six hours, then driving for four more, back home, again in driving rain, and arriving about half an hour too late to pick Flan up at the vet.

  6. Collapsing on bed for an hour.

  7. Deciding that the enormous tension/anxiety/exhaustion headache I have going would be alleviated only by judicious application of chicken nuggets from Popeyes and a fruit and yogurt parfait from McDonald's (yes two fast food restaurants in one night shut up okay) and about two extra hours worth of sleep.

  8. Talking to Coco! And Keri! :D:D:D:D

I bet you wish you were me! Oh, my glamorous, glamorous life.

On the other hand, the chicken nuggets and yogurt seem to be working their magic. I am a simple soul, you see.
constance: (Don't interrupt me while I'm working.)
Days without you, O Internet! They seem like so many days of empty hospital shuttles and compaining (this is such a satisfying typo that I am going to leave it) customers and hotel rooms and laptops shared with mothers (and quickly-hidden folders full of porn) and long road trips and paperwork and beloved, much-missed restaurants and movies and afternoons on the phone and nights holed up in casinos with marina views and hot hot weather and packing and unpacking and packing and unpacking and cleaning and pulled muscles and furniture-building and dog-cuddling and cat-combing.

I was busy! I was. But I still missed everyone something fierce-like.


One of the things I was talking about on the phone earlier was a tendency I am having lately to belly up to my update button, full of things to say, and suddenly think, why, no one actually wants to hear me talk about my new kitchen shelves! No one wants to hear about this book I've just read. No one has any interest at all in my chapped lips. And so I just push myself away without updating.

Here is the thing, though. Maybe you would like me to regale you with stories of my grandmothers or my dog or my road trip through the Heart, as Ignatius Reilly and perhaps Joseph Conrad would say, of Darkness. Maybe you are dying to know what my hair is looking like, these days. Maybe you want to see a picture of my nose ring, or my bathroom curtains, or the hydrangea shrub out front of my house which is blooming nicely. Maybe you would like to ask me a question about the current state of my library account, or about the boy next door who has chained his puppy out on the front porch which drives me crazy and sends me out on the porch to check on him (the puppy, not the boy) every ten minutes or so. IT IS RAINING OUTSIDE I TELL YOU I MUST CHECK EVERY TEN MINUTES OR SOMETHING TERRIBLE MIGHT HAPPEN.

I wouldn't want to presume, however. Also I don't quite know where to begin. So if there's something you want me to tell you about, just drop me a comment and I will write you an entry.

Okay, time to go check on Abey.


constance: (Default)

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