August 10, 2003
One for the Honey
If bowling shirts are thrift store gold, then authentic cub scout jerseys are platinum. Or diamonds. Or whatever. So what if I'm neither a boy, nine years of age, nor possessed of honor and Gary Paulsen-esque survival skills? The shirt was a steal at one dollar and seventy-five cents.
I am battling tonight a headache and a stubborn creativity. A lovely little image presents itself as the object of a new layout, but I am all but stumped in managing said project. I would appreciate help of any kind, from those still possessed of functioning muses.
I am all but certain that mine, incorrigible Greek wench that she is, is vacationing in Tahiti. With my favorite swimsuit.
I'm staring out the window at the street light, the scant few boughs of maple leaf illuminated by its glow, and ever so often straining my neck and inching up out of the seat so that I might see the road, and Mike's imminent arrival. I've been alone all day, outside of my trip to the North Brook Village Discount, and I am sore for his company. I am amazed at how time can be wasted, how hours can slip away in the watching of a movie. I found myself snared in the last half of both Ocean's Eleven and A Beautiful Mind, with a break in between for laundry and a chat with Carrie. She and Bethany are planning to visit on Tuesday, and, dork that I am, I am most excited about the three of us visiting the downtown library. Maybe not as exciting for them, who do not own library cards, but I cannot begin to explain the joys therein for me...
These pairs of headlights streaming down and emptying into the cul-de-sac... they are not familiar to me, and they halt not at this driveway. How shall I make myself casual when he comes? How can it seem as though I were not waiting intermittently with patience and without, that I was caught up in some task as he would certainly be?
I came over last night to find him diligently vacuuming his truck. Being thus occupied, I was left to my own devices upstairs. I put on my comfy 'Good Kitty' tanktop and curled up in his bed reading Two for the Dough.
If I have learned anything from reading Janet Evanovich, it is this: If Stephanie Plum can pawn her worldly possessions, so can I.
And I may, to pay the bills.
astera at 9:35 p.m.