I'm too exhausted to do a pulled together post. You know you are tired when you swear at the garage door. That, or you might just be a person who probably could cut back on the profanity. Or, maybe you have a really defective garage door...there are a lot of possibilities, actually.
In the morning, I found myself paralized by the crisis of wearing brown socks and a black shirt. My clothing is divided into two worlds; the brown and creams and the black, white and grays. They come complete, each with their own flats, heels, and coats, and most importantly; they do not mix.
What could I do?? Change my shirt? But then, I'd have to change the entire outfit...or the socks! But I had no black socks clean. I stood there, brown socks in hand; stuck in a moment, as U2 has sung.
I had to take myself firmly in hand. "Jenny," I told myself, "no one cares if you pair one neutral tone with another. Your entire warddrobe is in neutral tones. You could mix and match every single thing in there and come away with a perfectly acceptable outfit. Get dressed already.
(I ended up changing the entire outfit, by the way. I wore black stockings.)
I sat at my desk, lost amid the heaping piles of addressed envelopes, unaddressed envelopes and sticky labels and thought, my god, surely it can't be only four thirty. At that point, I was eight and a half hours into my eleven hour day and there simply isn't enough coffee in the world to compensate. If I had hiccuped, I would have hiccuped stamps.
My dinner was an entire box of bagel bites pizza, a chocolate Popsicle and the last chocolate in the box. No doubt this will contribute to some rockin' dreams later on. The bagel bites were left over from Keith's spontaneous shopping expedition; he didn't have enough time to eat them all.
It snowed yesterday night, I drove to work in about five inches of snow. As I pulled out of the small street we live on, I vividly remembered doing the same thing a few weeks ago, with Keith.
Only that time he had pulled up on the emergency break, which sent my car swinging free in a flying arc across the hard packed snow. I had screamed out loud in sheer terror, and ended on a note of pure outrage when I saw his hand on the brake.
But it was too late, my reaction made it only more tempting and he did it once more before I snatched his beloved cap off his head and dangled it outside the open window, which reduced him to begging and laughing both. I gave him back his cap after he promised, but I also made him keep his hands in sight...just in case.
He has long ago reached his FOB, where he found to his extreme displeasure that he was put back on the classified mission. This is actually a compliment and I'm incredibly proud of him, but he tends to think of it as an around the clock pain in the ass. However, lately when he calls he sounds focused and satisfied.
He took the snapfish book with him and told me that it stands proudly on a little table and that everyone who sees it asks how I managed to do it. I finished putting together the one for our first Christmas and it should arrive sometime this week. I'll send it to him in a care package. I hope it turns out as good as the first one.
"I have my note pad with me," my husband told me proudly, yesterday. "I made it my mission today to write you a letter; you little kitten."
He's going to send it with the Rock Star game and guitar that he bought recently, for fifteen dollars.
"Play the game, hon, but don't play so much you get really good at it," he cautioned me. "Because then when I get home, you'll be great and I'll suck and, you know me, I have to win. So that wouldn't work out too well." I could hear the grin in his voice and it made me laugh. I promised him I would play only occasionally.
He does have a guitar in his study, but I have never heard him play it.
I'm not sleeping lately. I stay perpetually awake, alert, words winging around in my head like a noisy flock of crows. And not even very important words; just an endless cycle of idle thoughts.
I found that marvelous little gadget, the "Feedjit." I have realized that my blog is not actually in some small and dusty corner, but a slow but steady stream of visitors pass through, sometimes from odd places.
Like, the two people so far who arrived directly from a site called Zsa Zsa Gabor. Fancy that. I expect these visitors did not find exactly what they were searching for!
Also, someone who was googling "microwave beeps 09" landed directly on my site. This makes me curious. Why would a person google that particular subject? Did they receive a microwave as a Christmas present, and in the excitement of the moment, throw the instructions away with the gift wrap? Did they by any chance get a defective microwave, one that is mute, perhaps, or maybe one that beeps maniacally away at all hours of the day?
In any case, I wish them luck on their google journeys! The Web is a weird and mysterious place; I hope they don't get too lost.
I keep waiting to see a hit from Iraq. I recently sent my husband a link to my blog. He didn't read it actively until R&R, when he came upon a half written blog I was working on and got, to use his own works, "hooked and glued" to it.
He doesn't have a lot of time now, so when I told him I had sent him the link, he replied with innocent delight, "Goody!" Ha! My husband; the big, bad, tobacco chewing, swearing, taking care of business NCO said "Goody."
I'll never have a better compliment.
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