Almost-a-rainy-day Musing
This morning, as I dressed, I found myself confiding in our dog: "Charley, I do not have the butt of a goddess."
Dogs are the best confidants for confessions of this order, since they do not offer advice on how to tone one's buttocks, nor do they tell you your derriere is perfect the way it is, nor do they tell you that their rear is so much saggier and aren't you the lucky one. No, they just listen, and that is often the best thing.
The last two days saw no writing work, and that's okay. Bea is home this morning with a cold and cough, though I dare say she could have gone to school and been fine, and I spent yesterday dropping off and picking up six kids (my sister is on vacation), entertaining some precious relatives, and running to soccer practice. I met Martin at the edge of the field, where he returned with Merry, and we kicked the ball around, and I said, "I have absolutely no idea what we're going to eat for supper." (Nor had I eaten any lunch).
"Excellent!" he said. "Where do you want to go?"
Though our savings account is about to dwindle to a wee puddle, we went to Central Market, bought the kids pizza, and I had some lovely, spicy chicken-tortilla soup and a green kale salad and I bought a big bag of oranges to soothe our horrid colds, and it was so relaxing not to be in the red house but to be eating out. As I told Martin, that's just until I get my big book published, in the unseen but hoped-for future. My favorite flavor of pie? Sky.
Meanwhile, I've sent off three stories that are not perfect by any means but which I like, and next week I'll address my little book for young readers, "Magnificent Maple," with yet another new idea to make it better. I will send that back into the wild blue yonder again. And when that's done, I'll go back to my novel. And when that's done, I'll write my Wazoo book. And then suddenly I will be fifty years old.
Bea feels sick enough that she has managed to sprinkle rice all over the kitchen and dining room floors in an attempt to make a rattle. Perhaps I have been duped. It won't be the first time a kid is just sick enough to stay home but just well enough to make you wish they were at school.
Charley, I am an imperfect parent, an underpaid writer, and my thighs are shaking tubs of lard. Hear that? That was Charley saying nothing. Music to my ears.
Dogs are the best confidants for confessions of this order, since they do not offer advice on how to tone one's buttocks, nor do they tell you your derriere is perfect the way it is, nor do they tell you that their rear is so much saggier and aren't you the lucky one. No, they just listen, and that is often the best thing.
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| WANTED FOR STAYING HOME WITHOUT A FEVER: BEATRIX COCKROFT |
"Excellent!" he said. "Where do you want to go?"
Though our savings account is about to dwindle to a wee puddle, we went to Central Market, bought the kids pizza, and I had some lovely, spicy chicken-tortilla soup and a green kale salad and I bought a big bag of oranges to soothe our horrid colds, and it was so relaxing not to be in the red house but to be eating out. As I told Martin, that's just until I get my big book published, in the unseen but hoped-for future. My favorite flavor of pie? Sky.
Meanwhile, I've sent off three stories that are not perfect by any means but which I like, and next week I'll address my little book for young readers, "Magnificent Maple," with yet another new idea to make it better. I will send that back into the wild blue yonder again. And when that's done, I'll go back to my novel. And when that's done, I'll write my Wazoo book. And then suddenly I will be fifty years old.
Bea feels sick enough that she has managed to sprinkle rice all over the kitchen and dining room floors in an attempt to make a rattle. Perhaps I have been duped. It won't be the first time a kid is just sick enough to stay home but just well enough to make you wish they were at school.
Charley, I am an imperfect parent, an underpaid writer, and my thighs are shaking tubs of lard. Hear that? That was Charley saying nothing. Music to my ears.
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| No judgements here, lady. |
Comments
Csonk has the pitiful sad eyed dog look down pat when he wants something. The two Shelties just stare at you and gradually try to climb in your lap when they beg. Ariel's Charlie will bark when he wants pizza, and he is a drooler. His master brooks no foolishness from him. If he persists in being a pain, he sends him to his cage for timeout. I can't wait to see him parent our grandkids!
I too have a raging head cold, my first in years. I was on the CPAP machine (Sleep Apnea) for the first time last night. Did 6.5 hours, which is good for the first night. But as soon as I took the mask off this AM at 5:30, I started sneezing, Watery eyes and copious quantities of snot soon followed. Obviously I can't use the machine while this cold persists. I had forgotten how miserable a "simple" head cold can be. I sympathize with you and Bea.
Loved your blog!