I’ve decided to write here every day this week. I’m not going to tell anyone about it, though, in case I just don’t. I don’t have many traditional vices, aside from German beer by the half-litre can and a lingering childhood self-doubt, but pledging to write in my site is much like declaring an end to smoking, except backwards. See, if I have to write here daily, this is the kind of crap you’ll get. Maybe I should stop thinking about you.
So what’s new?
I stole coffee money from my four-year-old son’s Thomas the Tank Engine wallet the other day. The shame, the shame.
And I was really concerned about 10 days ago when I couldn’t lift my left arm above my head without excruciating pain. I considered the options (cancer or some other deadly illness always pops to mind), but then I realized I’d sprained my shoulder trying to rub moisturizer on my own back. I figured this out by repeating the between-the-shoulder-blades wiping motion with my other arm and hurting it too. So I’m not doomed, yet.
There’s a fruit fly in my beer, but I don’t care. Only a few chromosomes separate us anyway. Did you read about the other human species that was discovered on some Pacific island? It lived with our ancestors just 12,000 years ago, was 3′ tall, and had a tiny brain. Scientists say some of these primitive cousins could still be alive somewhere the clearcut companies haven’t stripped. Funny, I know where all my primitive cousins are. If we do find these ancient creatures, they should be bred for cute servants. We can make them worship us, and we can promise them streets of gold after death for their labour and fear in this life. A good racket, eh?
Anytime I’ve let a spider escape in the house it has appeared on or near me later, menacingly.
Suzy asks, “Why would you let a spider escape in the house?”
(Abrupt change of subject)
“Honey, do you remember getting big chocolate bars trick or treating as a kid? Wasn’t that awesome? Not like those crummy little bars now. One place in Winsloe gave us a huge Mr. Big every year. That was great.”
“Mr. Big sucks.”
(Conversations in bed after five years of marriage.)
I still feel bad for little cousin Bill. OK, I’m gonna share this with you … His mom (aunt) Margaret made him a robot costume out of cardboard boxes, but it rained and rained and it fell apart after just a few houses. Oh, God, I don’t want to share my candy, but I think I should … Oh, God. It’s just not right. Stupid God!
Thank you, thank you. That feels better.