I could actually feel that you were missing me?
It be a palpable thing, and though I'm not having an all that interesting week,
I thought I'd check in. How are ya?
I've been covered in hives this week due to some sort of food allergy. My throat is choked as though an invisible hand has me by the gullet, could be some red twizzlers are to blame. I'm itching and scratching and debating the last momentous words I'll utter, because, when I have a food allergy, I become kitten in the ocean, thrown; anxious and surely dying. With the driven in knowledge my grandmere gave to mon mere, and she to me, I go about getting dressed. I choose carefully my underpants, heaven forbid I arrive in an emergency room in my neon yellow with fuschia ribboned thong, or worse those God awful time-of-the-month panties. My smart but ill mind thinks it best to wear a black or pale flesh toned boy short underpant, just in case.
I stand before you (make that sit before you. Slumped, for that matter, in a backless chair...) and try to make sense of the world. I imagine my dead self visiting loved ones with the invisible power everyone wished they had but not to the extent of the dead ghost kind. The thought quickly creeps me out, so I start to envision a less 'dead' power, like say, hovering three feet over the ground in a yoga guru pose.
So I'm in guru mode, and all I can think of is what a great idea it would be to have full length mirrors on the inside of the doors of bathroom stalls. I wonder about my guest bathroom, and why I couldn't have thought of that sooner, a full length mirror directly opposite the john, that your guests may watch themselves lay eggs in the moment.
I enjoy the idea, then decide it's too vulgar for my imaginary guru self. Were my true self able to hover, I'd teach a class- because hovering would make me worthy, right?- and all bathroom stalls would be equipped with mirrors.
"Why mirrors?" Pupil says to teacher. I'd vary my answers on a day to day basis, with quotes like,
"To know self, pupil must see humble moment," or ,"Man can not know what chicken go through without first seeing his own eyes lay egg," and it would all fly because I could hover. Without being dead. Ah, yes, I should write the Mah Jong fortunes :D.
Toilet eggs turn in my mind, and I'm then thinking of corn and how Food Lion had corn on the cob ten for a dollar. Corn on the cob and watermelon are two of our favorite summery things, and I jump off topic from one end of the...um, spectrum, to the other.
We watched a great zombie movie this week, called Fido. I highly recommend this one. If you can find it, it'll be a treat! Take the kids to see it. (It's harmless, really). I think it's on the independent film channel or sundance. I readily admit I watch too much of these channels. Can't get enough. Who doesn't want to sit down with a few slices of supreme and watch Rickie Lake give birth? The Business of Being Born- seriously, watch before you give birth. I especially love when they have very foreign numbers; not your standard French or Japanese film, but those rare Greenlander moments, when characters are trudging through waist high snow.
My gluten free withdrawals are making me cranky, as I'm on week three now. I wrote this short story about this cranky old woman, only to discovered cranky comes way too easy. (But I feel any emotion at all beats ambivalence).
I took the girls on a playdate to a friends, which is rare for me. My good friend lives in a palace with labyrinth corridors, and every time I visit, the home seems to have grown a room or two. Several types of doughnuts sit atop the kitchen bar, and my kids pass the bag of powdered.
"Guess you won't be going to Daylight Donuts everyday after swim this summer?" No. No daylight donuts. I smell refined carbs and see myself licking the powdered sugar off the wee baby's fingers, were my friend not two feet away; and of course, were the baby not known for scratching her booty with her nails when she wipes. So the thought escapes, and i don't miss the donuts too much.
I watched as my friend thawed chicken in the microwave, then stuck it directly on the grill. No fancy marinade, not even a shake of pepper. The little ends are nuked white. I cringe. There are hundreds of ways to cook chicken. This is one I'm fearsome of. I feel the French superiority gene rise the hairs on my nape.
"I'm having a girls night out party Saturday, you want to come?" Mojito's, she tells me. I watch the chicken and feel concern for my friend, suddenly volunteering to cook for these unknown ladies. Later, safely in my right mind, I think of excuses. The idea of complete strangers is a crippling one, and Hermit Kat has a social circle of approximately four. Two of these are my children. Party? Me? My eyes took turns swelling shut last week and it could likely happen at any moment. So we'll see.
I'm feeling proud as I've not yet succumbed to Twitter. I jones for Facebook in the mornings and hearing Oprah toot the Twitter horn made me curious...but I didn't go. Like my friends halls and secret dwellings, I fear I'd get lost there, and I only have so many hours in the day.
Here are twenty minutes, just for you, my friends, my wee internet social circle.
I'm sorry I haven't written more, but I'll try and do better...