Around these parts
Saturday, March 25, 2006, 10:58 AM
Sleepy I am, and wanting a long soak in a hot tub. If my thighs weren't hairy, I'd pull my bathing suit on and mosey on out to the hot tub for a little tea dunking. As it is now, I think I'll just sit here and type and imagine it all. I'm so frickenly good at that.
I pulled a muscle in my back while sleeping last night and I've been wondering how it could have happened. Five minutes after my head hit the pillow last night, I was out. And I'm thinking that I slept in the same position all night long, one minute too long. So while a can of Coke is helping to make me feel more widey awake, there's this crick in my back that's keeping me from hunching over at the computer like I usually do.
Why am I drinking Coke? Because it comes in a half-sized can and goes well with rum. Slurpy, slurpy. Wine makes me sleepy. Rum and coke make me springith about. And I have laundry to do. Cleaning. Taxes to finish. Stuff to hang. Until all of this is done, my Zen will be like a dry corn cob stuck up my butt.
Isn't it funny and tragic how your life never turns out the way you think it will? But interesting, too? Recent events have yoinked me hair-first backwards through the hole of my imaginings, proving yet again that I am mistaken about how I am perceived by others, how what I think about myself isn't shared by others, and how to feel certain sure about something is akin to having a two-by-four slammed into my stomach. And it all hinges on taking a chance--to risk it all, even though I'm terrified and can't get a feel for the way it might play out.
And I'm getting far too introspective.
I bought a pair of knit slippers today from a 96-year-old lady who used to cook for Hugh Hefner back in the day. Paid top dollar for them, too, but not because I need a pair of knit slippers--I live in Los Angeles fuh Christ's sake, it doesn't get below thirty degrees here--but because this lady was a saleswoman. She didn't focus on the clean knitting of the slippers, nor the perils and unhappiness that cold feet can cause. She justht shared her Hollywoothd haydays, the death of her hushband, sister and son. Yeah, she had a terrible lisp and I was afraid her lower tooth plate would fly out onto my lap, but this woman had a metal walker and wore a pristine white sweater. It's possible she did cook for that womanizer, Hugh Heffener. Who am I to say that she didn't, just because now she's pushing grocery bags of knitted slippers and scarves up my street at one thirty in the afternoon on a Saturday?
She asked me a dozen times if I lived around here. And for the first time I felt as if I did.