The two titles thing was Sadie's idea. She said she loved the way they'd do that on the old Rocky and Bullwinkle Show. Remember that one? It was broadcast really early on Saturday mornings, right after Underdog, and when we got up too early, we'd have to make do with that while we were waiting for School House Rock and Scooby Doo to start...
So, I got an email from an old boyfriend today. It seems like there are more of them than there really are, I swear! He’s coming into town, and do I want to hook up for dinner and drinks? Well, yeah, absolutely. He is such a good guy, but then, I make it a practice to only date good guys. I mean, right?
Went to Barnes and Noble to do some reading for a paper I'm writing. I got lucky and found a great parking spot and a comfy chair right away. Awesome. Got about halfway through the first article I had to read when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed this older man checking me out. I’m wearing a v-neck t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Huh?
Anyway, I meet his eyes, which are right about chest level. He smiles. I give him a tight little smile back. Yeah, I caught you. Now let me read.
A few minutes later, this man gets up and walks away, leaving his sunglasses in the chair to save it. Another man, 40-ish, comes up behind the almost empty chair, and makes noises about how he’d thought it was free.
“He’s coming back,” I say, motioning towards the sunglasses. The devil you know,..
“Well, I’ll leave it alone, then,” 40-ish Man tells me. “You know, I was here once, and I left my bag in the chair to save it. The person who took my seat just threw my bag to the side. I actually got in a big argument with them about it.”
I nod consolingly, “Well, if I’d been there, I would have stopped them from taking your chair.” And go back to reading.
“Too bad you weren’t,” he says and goes back to his table in the cafe.
I look across the table in front of me and meet the eyes of the older man sitting in the chair opposite me. We smile at each other, What a weirdo, and go back to what we’ve been doing.
Leering Man returns. Kind Man and I smile at each other again but say nothing, and we go back to our reading.
The sun coming through the windows is suddenly too much for Leering Man to handle, and he gets up to push his chair closer to mine and settles in for a better view of my cleavage.
Kind Man has had enough quiet and solitude for one afternoon and gets up to leave. I look up at him as he passes by. I give him a pleading look, and he answers me with his eyes: "Good luck."
40-ish Man moves into the now empty chair across from me. Great. And begins talking to Leering Man, and to the room in general.
Leering Man breaks his conversation with 40-ish Man to ask if I’m ready for the holiday.
Right, because it’s still a month away.
“No,” I say. “I do things last minute.”
When he gives me a questioning look, I go on. “I don’t really like Christmas. It’s gotten way too commercial. It seems as though it’s all about buying things and getting things. My sister and I sometimes do Hanukkah gifts. I don't have the heart to remind her that we're not Jewish. I do like Thanksgiving, though.”
40-ish Man joins in. “I like Halloween. I always tell my daughter that the candy’s poisoned, so I have to sample all of the pieces before she eats it.”
I cock my head to the side and ask, “How old is your daughter?”
“She’s eight.”
“Let me know how that's worked out for you when she’s eighteen.”
“Oh, she never listens to me anyway. I send her to my ex whenever she needs disciplining.”
I look back up at him and say, “She does listen to you. She watches you, too. She pays attention. And everything you do and say will form the person she becomes.”
Leering Man agrees. “They’re like sponges.”
“Kids do remember everything,” 40-ish Man says. “My ex-girlfriend had five kids and they all hate me.”
I raise my eyebrows. Do go on.
“I killed their dog.”
Ah. “That would do it.”
“It was an accident. We were driving home from church, and they told me to look out for Fifi, and thump, no more Fifi.”
Leering Man and I are captivated.
“That’s awful,” I say.
“I had to bury the dog. I dug, like a four-foot hole in the backyard. My girlfriend’s ex-husband had broken up a concrete deck and just buried it, so by the time I’d gotten through all the rock, it was pitch black outside.”
I’m laughing at this point, because I can’t help myself. And I’m packing up my things to leave.
He continues. “The next morning, I’m standing out back having coffee and a cigarette, and I see the dog’s paw sticking up out of the ground. I just went inside, told my girl I had to go, and left. Her ex-husband had to come over to bury Fifi again. That was the end of that relationship.”
I have tears of laughter running down my face as I stand up to leave.
Josh and I are talking tonight. He's got woman problems. Well, women problems, actually. Seems he mailed one of his extra phones to his former girlfriend's mother to replace her broken one, and he inadvertently left some text message traffic from his other former girlfriend on the phone. The sh*t has hit the fan.
"I'm a moron," he tells me.
"Yeah, Honey, you are," I say.
Now, his first former girlfriend, who he's kind of gotten back with, is accusing him of cheating on her and is telling him he can't be friends with the latter former girlfriend, which does kind of make sense. The no more friends thing, not the cheating thing. Josh wouldn't cheat at Monopoly.
"This will pass, and everything will work out the way it's supposed to," I tell him.
"Paige, don't judge me, but I think I just want to move someplace new and start over."
Judge you? That's something I've elevated to an art form...
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
They Said There'd Be Pie?
Thanksgiving is my absolute favorite holiday of the year. The only purpose of this one is that you get together with family and friends, talk about how lucky you are, and eat. That’s it.
And there’s pie.
First, you make your way through the relish tray of olives and pickles and carrots and dip, and spend as much time as is decent around the shrimp plate, while you’re talking about eating the big meal.
Then you eat the big meal while the pies are baking, and you’re talking about eating dessert. As in, “I’d better leave room for some of that pie.”
Then, you’re clearing and washing and getting ready to eat said pie.
Then you’re sitting around talking about the whole thing after you eat the pie.
It’s a beautiful thing.
I’m spending my holiday with Lily and her family, because they asked. And I volunteered to work on Friday and felt like I could do without the two-hour drive home to Melbourne. Plus, I was told there'd be pie.
We get there early in the evening, and after introductions and hugs, a glass of wine is pressed into my hand. Lily’s parents live in one of those great old Spanish-style homes built in Beach Park in the 1920’s. They told me it was a “boom” house and that the people building it had to fight off Indians. Anyway, they’ve lived there since the 60’s and added on, and I’m in complete awe when they tell me that they did most of the work themselves.
So, the dinner was awesome, and the promised pie was perfect. I made it home by about ten and came away from the whole experience feeling like I was so lucky and smart to have such great friends.
It’s so weird not having a million things to do. I’ve pretty much caught myself up in the office, well, as much as I ever am. I have to make some phone calls after the holiday weekend for the thing at the university. Other than that, I'm at loose ends. I mean, my garage is clean. What else is there to do? I’m feeling like I need a hobby…
And there’s pie.
First, you make your way through the relish tray of olives and pickles and carrots and dip, and spend as much time as is decent around the shrimp plate, while you’re talking about eating the big meal.
Then you eat the big meal while the pies are baking, and you’re talking about eating dessert. As in, “I’d better leave room for some of that pie.”
Then, you’re clearing and washing and getting ready to eat said pie.
Then you’re sitting around talking about the whole thing after you eat the pie.
It’s a beautiful thing.
I’m spending my holiday with Lily and her family, because they asked. And I volunteered to work on Friday and felt like I could do without the two-hour drive home to Melbourne. Plus, I was told there'd be pie.
We get there early in the evening, and after introductions and hugs, a glass of wine is pressed into my hand. Lily’s parents live in one of those great old Spanish-style homes built in Beach Park in the 1920’s. They told me it was a “boom” house and that the people building it had to fight off Indians. Anyway, they’ve lived there since the 60’s and added on, and I’m in complete awe when they tell me that they did most of the work themselves.
So, the dinner was awesome, and the promised pie was perfect. I made it home by about ten and came away from the whole experience feeling like I was so lucky and smart to have such great friends.
It’s so weird not having a million things to do. I’ve pretty much caught myself up in the office, well, as much as I ever am. I have to make some phone calls after the holiday weekend for the thing at the university. Other than that, I'm at loose ends. I mean, my garage is clean. What else is there to do? I’m feeling like I need a hobby…
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Jumbo Juicy Cherry Flavored Lip Balm
My friend had her heart broken a few years ago. I spent months on the phone with her, while she cried, lived in her pajamas, and rode the roller coaster with the man that everything should have worked out with.
Even though she’s met and married a man she loves and who loves her, the one who broke her heart says the same words to her over and over again when he visits her in her dreams, “You’re the most wonderful woman I’ve ever been with, but my life is a mess that I can’t involve you in. I just wish things could be different.”
Do they hand out that script in the male section of Life Studies class while we girls are learning how to boil eggs?
And it wasn’t her. It was absolutely him. She's perfect. He’s crazy, and he’s crazier still because he let her go. But the question she was left with, the question we all ask ourselves when it happens to us, is: “If I’m so great, then why don’t you love me?”
Had a great time with Carrie this weekend, even though I slept through most of it. I really did have the best intentions, but I’d get to this point in the evening where I’d just pass out. I guess the last six weeks of running around, and the comfort of having someone else to take care of me, just hit me.
Friday night we stayed at this hotel out on the beach and went to the dinner that acted as the closing ceremony for the project I’ve been involved with at work. After, we hung out for a bit in the hotel lounge with a group of about ten people from the dinner.
Whenever I meet couples, I ask how they met. It’s my thing. I get a little insight into the people by listening, not just to their story, but how they tell it. So, when I met this great couple that had such a neat love story, it just made me feel good to be around them. When the woman was telling me how they got together, I just wanted to hug her. Their story was so real. He’s a really good guy, and she’s a doll and so funny.
The company was great, but I only lasted until about midnight. Carrie and I went up to the suite, and I was out as soon as my head hit the pillow.
The next morning, Carrie and I sat in front of a window overlooking the bay in the hotel restaurant to eat brunch and then took a walk along the boardwalk as we talked about plans for next year’s girl trip. Then we spent the day shopping and met Karli for lunch at Tijuana Flats. We ran up to Walgreens afterward to buy batteries for Carrie’s phone charger, and I found my absolute favorite lip balm from my childhood.
Later, as we settled in for our annual All Night Junk Food Chick Flick Fest, I laid my head down on the arm of the sofa at about eight o’clock, and the next thing I knew, my dog was breathing in my face with a shoe in his mouth at five o’clock in the morning. We’d never even gotten to the triple-layer chocolate cake.
The weather turned cold today. Before Carrie left, we had the talk I knew was coming, about how I needed to get back in the game, now that I was out of excuses and things to keep me otherwise occupied. I hugged her at the escalator to the airport gates and walked away feeling resigned and thinking about good-byes.
Even though she’s met and married a man she loves and who loves her, the one who broke her heart says the same words to her over and over again when he visits her in her dreams, “You’re the most wonderful woman I’ve ever been with, but my life is a mess that I can’t involve you in. I just wish things could be different.”
Do they hand out that script in the male section of Life Studies class while we girls are learning how to boil eggs?
And it wasn’t her. It was absolutely him. She's perfect. He’s crazy, and he’s crazier still because he let her go. But the question she was left with, the question we all ask ourselves when it happens to us, is: “If I’m so great, then why don’t you love me?”
Had a great time with Carrie this weekend, even though I slept through most of it. I really did have the best intentions, but I’d get to this point in the evening where I’d just pass out. I guess the last six weeks of running around, and the comfort of having someone else to take care of me, just hit me.
Friday night we stayed at this hotel out on the beach and went to the dinner that acted as the closing ceremony for the project I’ve been involved with at work. After, we hung out for a bit in the hotel lounge with a group of about ten people from the dinner.
Whenever I meet couples, I ask how they met. It’s my thing. I get a little insight into the people by listening, not just to their story, but how they tell it. So, when I met this great couple that had such a neat love story, it just made me feel good to be around them. When the woman was telling me how they got together, I just wanted to hug her. Their story was so real. He’s a really good guy, and she’s a doll and so funny.
The company was great, but I only lasted until about midnight. Carrie and I went up to the suite, and I was out as soon as my head hit the pillow.
The next morning, Carrie and I sat in front of a window overlooking the bay in the hotel restaurant to eat brunch and then took a walk along the boardwalk as we talked about plans for next year’s girl trip. Then we spent the day shopping and met Karli for lunch at Tijuana Flats. We ran up to Walgreens afterward to buy batteries for Carrie’s phone charger, and I found my absolute favorite lip balm from my childhood.
Later, as we settled in for our annual All Night Junk Food Chick Flick Fest, I laid my head down on the arm of the sofa at about eight o’clock, and the next thing I knew, my dog was breathing in my face with a shoe in his mouth at five o’clock in the morning. We’d never even gotten to the triple-layer chocolate cake.
The weather turned cold today. Before Carrie left, we had the talk I knew was coming, about how I needed to get back in the game, now that I was out of excuses and things to keep me otherwise occupied. I hugged her at the escalator to the airport gates and walked away feeling resigned and thinking about good-byes.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Denial's a River, Right?
Early on in every new female friendship I have, I hear these words, “I don’t usually hang out with girls.”
I’m not sure what that says about me. Or what that says about my choice in friends, because, as many guys as I hang out with, I have a lot of girlfriends. I have three sisters. I was raised in a family that’s primarily female. I know how girls think. I know what they look like. And I’m definitely a girl. I think my friends are all in denial.
But it’s gotten me thinking, because recently, I’ve actually heard this statement from my own sister, Sadie, the ex-NFL cheerleader turned hockey mom. Well, she says something along these lines. See, I always ask her opinion when it comes to men, because she’s usually dead on. So when I comment on how much she thinks like a guy, she says, “Yeah, I’m thinking about starting my own blog one day. I’m going to call it ‘Who Stole My Junk?’”
Even Carrie, the girliest of my friends, who looks like a miniature Barbie Doll, went to college on a basketball scholarship. She golfs, watches sports, drinks beer. She’s a guy’s girl, too. But she’s a girl’s girl for me.
She’s flying in Wednesday night to hang with me for the weekend. Every time she comes for a visit, we watch every chick flick I own, stuff ourselves with chips and dip, and paint our nails. It’s just so cool doing nothing with her. This is our last real chance to hang out and just be. The next time I see her will be when I fly up for her wedding in April.
So, this outreach thing at work is coming to a close. Thank God! I’m so ready to get back to my real job. Everything’s coming together here at the end, so that’s good, too.
I spent the evening with the local handyman, Tim, who is, literally, an artist when it comes to woodworking, and he’s working on a project for me. I sit on a towel on the floor of my garage watching him work for about three hours while I’m checking my email and taking phone calls from the guys in my group.
One guy calls me because he can’t get in touch with two others, both of whom pick up right away when I call them from my work phone. I can tell he’s thinking, “WTF?” as he listens to me talk with them. Then, I get a call from another one of the guys who sounds entirely too happy to be sober. I make sure he’s got a designated driver with him before promising to meet him tomorrow.
I’d told Tim I’d get a pizza for us to share while we’re working together tonight, but every time I offer to order delivery, he tells me he’s not hungry. So, instead, I feed him chocolate covered pretzels and beer until about nine o’clock when we call it a night. I’m such a gourmet. Apparently, I’m not the girly-girl I think I am…
Maybe I’m the one in denial.
I’m not sure what that says about me. Or what that says about my choice in friends, because, as many guys as I hang out with, I have a lot of girlfriends. I have three sisters. I was raised in a family that’s primarily female. I know how girls think. I know what they look like. And I’m definitely a girl. I think my friends are all in denial.
But it’s gotten me thinking, because recently, I’ve actually heard this statement from my own sister, Sadie, the ex-NFL cheerleader turned hockey mom. Well, she says something along these lines. See, I always ask her opinion when it comes to men, because she’s usually dead on. So when I comment on how much she thinks like a guy, she says, “Yeah, I’m thinking about starting my own blog one day. I’m going to call it ‘Who Stole My Junk?’”
Even Carrie, the girliest of my friends, who looks like a miniature Barbie Doll, went to college on a basketball scholarship. She golfs, watches sports, drinks beer. She’s a guy’s girl, too. But she’s a girl’s girl for me.
She’s flying in Wednesday night to hang with me for the weekend. Every time she comes for a visit, we watch every chick flick I own, stuff ourselves with chips and dip, and paint our nails. It’s just so cool doing nothing with her. This is our last real chance to hang out and just be. The next time I see her will be when I fly up for her wedding in April.
So, this outreach thing at work is coming to a close. Thank God! I’m so ready to get back to my real job. Everything’s coming together here at the end, so that’s good, too.
I spent the evening with the local handyman, Tim, who is, literally, an artist when it comes to woodworking, and he’s working on a project for me. I sit on a towel on the floor of my garage watching him work for about three hours while I’m checking my email and taking phone calls from the guys in my group.
One guy calls me because he can’t get in touch with two others, both of whom pick up right away when I call them from my work phone. I can tell he’s thinking, “WTF?” as he listens to me talk with them. Then, I get a call from another one of the guys who sounds entirely too happy to be sober. I make sure he’s got a designated driver with him before promising to meet him tomorrow.
I’d told Tim I’d get a pizza for us to share while we’re working together tonight, but every time I offer to order delivery, he tells me he’s not hungry. So, instead, I feed him chocolate covered pretzels and beer until about nine o’clock when we call it a night. I’m such a gourmet. Apparently, I’m not the girly-girl I think I am…
Maybe I’m the one in denial.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
I Love a Parade
Was in a boat parade today. Had a blast. I didn't have time for breakfast, so the old guys at the helm got me some orange juice. They winked when they told me it was pasteurized and nudged me toward the bow. By noon, I had a nice little buzz, and my arm wasn’t a bit tired from waving at everyone all day.
I love being on the water, and it was a beautiful day for it. We got done at about one o’clock, had a quick lunch, and then I got lost in some neighborhood in Madeira Beach. I feel like I'm lost about ninety percent of the time and that I'm endlessly circling someplace that looks familiar, just trying to figure out where I'm supposed to be. Life would be so much easier if I'd just break down and buy a Garmin. Do they make a Life Garmin?
By around two, I was completely frustrated, and my buzz was killed. I stopped at a McDonald’s for directions and the bathroom, where I changed out of my work clothes and into shorts and a top. Got a “Woo-hoo! Hey, Baby!” from some guy in a big truck in the drive thru as I was walking back out to my car. I’m never sure if I should be flattered or insulted when that happens. This time, I was neither, and I couldn’t help but think, Buddy, if you only knew.
You should never judge someone’s outsides by your insides. Most people are just as screwed up as you are and some are even more so. Take the person with the season passes and the big ol’ Expedition, huge house, and a nose and teeth that together cost more than my last car. They’re a mess, just like you are. The car’s a lease. The house is about to be foreclosed on. The nose is a disaster. And they’re bouncing checks at the grocery store.
But it’s not just money. You can always make more money. Some people have some serious issues – health, emotional, or whatever. Even though I have my days when I feel like I'm completely lost, I still know that I’m pretty lucky.
Mr. Perfect called again. Not sure if I want to see him or not. Things are crazy with work, and Carrie is coming into town next week for a visit. I really just want to hang with friends right now.
Heading out tonight with a girl I met earlier this week. She a pretty girl, very sweet, and she works for a charity, sitting around at golf courses and earning a dollar for every five she gets donated. She’s an absolute doll, and as practically the only two people present with two X-chromosomes, we immediately bonded when we met at the golf tournament my group hosted for Omnicorp this week. Should be fun, and, thankfully, she's driving.
I love being on the water, and it was a beautiful day for it. We got done at about one o’clock, had a quick lunch, and then I got lost in some neighborhood in Madeira Beach. I feel like I'm lost about ninety percent of the time and that I'm endlessly circling someplace that looks familiar, just trying to figure out where I'm supposed to be. Life would be so much easier if I'd just break down and buy a Garmin. Do they make a Life Garmin?
By around two, I was completely frustrated, and my buzz was killed. I stopped at a McDonald’s for directions and the bathroom, where I changed out of my work clothes and into shorts and a top. Got a “Woo-hoo! Hey, Baby!” from some guy in a big truck in the drive thru as I was walking back out to my car. I’m never sure if I should be flattered or insulted when that happens. This time, I was neither, and I couldn’t help but think, Buddy, if you only knew.
You should never judge someone’s outsides by your insides. Most people are just as screwed up as you are and some are even more so. Take the person with the season passes and the big ol’ Expedition, huge house, and a nose and teeth that together cost more than my last car. They’re a mess, just like you are. The car’s a lease. The house is about to be foreclosed on. The nose is a disaster. And they’re bouncing checks at the grocery store.
But it’s not just money. You can always make more money. Some people have some serious issues – health, emotional, or whatever. Even though I have my days when I feel like I'm completely lost, I still know that I’m pretty lucky.
Mr. Perfect called again. Not sure if I want to see him or not. Things are crazy with work, and Carrie is coming into town next week for a visit. I really just want to hang with friends right now.
Heading out tonight with a girl I met earlier this week. She a pretty girl, very sweet, and she works for a charity, sitting around at golf courses and earning a dollar for every five she gets donated. She’s an absolute doll, and as practically the only two people present with two X-chromosomes, we immediately bonded when we met at the golf tournament my group hosted for Omnicorp this week. Should be fun, and, thankfully, she's driving.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Run, Run, Run Runaway
I had one of those weeks that make you want to be a kid again. I seriously wanted to go home and let my mom take care of me for a couple of days. I can’t put my finger on what it was, but I haven’t been able to shake this feeling.
Smack in the middle of my weird week, I blew off a date with Mr. Perfect. That’s never a good sign at the beginning of a relationship. I haven’t heard from him since. Strangely, I don’t even care. That's not a good sign either.
Went to Einstein’s Bagels with Lily this morning. Or was it afternoon? I love the “fall back” phase of daylight savings, but I’m always a bit discombobulated for a week or so after the change.
Anyway, we ended up waiting in line for half-an-hour for bagels. Insane. At least everyone was in a good mood. Lily tells me we should have called in the order, since it’s always this busy here.
“You know,” I say, “This is practically an untapped market, if it’s always this busy here on Sundays.”
“Well, yeah,” she says. “There’s no place to go for breakfast in South Tampa except the Village Inn, Perkins, or IHOP.”
So, we start brainstorming our business venture. I want a coffee shop bookstore that’s open for the morning and lunch crowd, and she wants a place that serves a full breakfast on Sundays. We compromised by agreeing on a coffee shop bookstore that serves a Sunday brunch.
I’ve always wanted a place like that. One of my aunts and I seriously looked at doing it in Melbourne about ten years ago. After some discussion, though, she’d decided to put off her retirement, and I wasn’t prepared to take the risk. My job pays too well.
Lily and I finally get back to her place and her mother and stepfather are there. We chitchat for a while over coffee. And her mother brings up an opportunity to help the local university’s library organize a recent acquisition. I’m going to call the people in charge and volunteer once I’m done with this outreach project at work.
I end up spending my Sunday working and cleaning. I half watched the old, old version of that movie "Love Affair" while I was doing laundry. Sundays are my favorite day of the week. They’re so mellow.
I finally made it to the grocery store in the evening with a mad craving for bread pudding. Comfort food, I guess. I check the deli without success but finally find premade bread pudding in the bakery in one of those tins that I figure will be fine once I’ve heated it up and applied a liberal topping of whipped cream.
While I’m walking around the store, Jefferson Starship’s “Runaway” comes on the store’s sound system. It’s a good Sunday, hanging out at home with the windows open, song. It’s one of the songs that reminds me of my childhood, much of which I spent in Southern California. I was happy in California. I remember breezy, sunny days and that carefree sense that you somehow lose once you're all grown up. Thinking about my childhood makes me want my mother even more.
Is it too late to chuck it all and move back in with my parents?
Smack in the middle of my weird week, I blew off a date with Mr. Perfect. That’s never a good sign at the beginning of a relationship. I haven’t heard from him since. Strangely, I don’t even care. That's not a good sign either.
Went to Einstein’s Bagels with Lily this morning. Or was it afternoon? I love the “fall back” phase of daylight savings, but I’m always a bit discombobulated for a week or so after the change.
Anyway, we ended up waiting in line for half-an-hour for bagels. Insane. At least everyone was in a good mood. Lily tells me we should have called in the order, since it’s always this busy here.
“You know,” I say, “This is practically an untapped market, if it’s always this busy here on Sundays.”
“Well, yeah,” she says. “There’s no place to go for breakfast in South Tampa except the Village Inn, Perkins, or IHOP.”
So, we start brainstorming our business venture. I want a coffee shop bookstore that’s open for the morning and lunch crowd, and she wants a place that serves a full breakfast on Sundays. We compromised by agreeing on a coffee shop bookstore that serves a Sunday brunch.
I’ve always wanted a place like that. One of my aunts and I seriously looked at doing it in Melbourne about ten years ago. After some discussion, though, she’d decided to put off her retirement, and I wasn’t prepared to take the risk. My job pays too well.
Lily and I finally get back to her place and her mother and stepfather are there. We chitchat for a while over coffee. And her mother brings up an opportunity to help the local university’s library organize a recent acquisition. I’m going to call the people in charge and volunteer once I’m done with this outreach project at work.
I end up spending my Sunday working and cleaning. I half watched the old, old version of that movie "Love Affair" while I was doing laundry. Sundays are my favorite day of the week. They’re so mellow.
I finally made it to the grocery store in the evening with a mad craving for bread pudding. Comfort food, I guess. I check the deli without success but finally find premade bread pudding in the bakery in one of those tins that I figure will be fine once I’ve heated it up and applied a liberal topping of whipped cream.
While I’m walking around the store, Jefferson Starship’s “Runaway” comes on the store’s sound system. It’s a good Sunday, hanging out at home with the windows open, song. It’s one of the songs that reminds me of my childhood, much of which I spent in Southern California. I was happy in California. I remember breezy, sunny days and that carefree sense that you somehow lose once you're all grown up. Thinking about my childhood makes me want my mother even more.
Is it too late to chuck it all and move back in with my parents?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
