“So what am I so afraid of…”

I should NOT be writing; I have no earthly business writing right now, there’s so much to do. Money stuff. Stupid bloody banking stuff that involves transferring money from savings into checking and from there into other people’s pockets. But I feel strangely pulled into this black hole of blogdom and can’t seem to escape. I’m pretty sure what’s happening is that I’m escaping INTO it, but we’ll just go ahead and pretend I didn’t say that.

@ I’m not going to mention my current obsession.

@ Yesterday, between episodes at certain, specific times of the day, I did a buttload of housework, so everything looks pretty nifty. I hung a mirrored, ribbony thing from the ceiling in front of the kitchen window, and it looks cool, and a kitschy “coffee” sign above the toaster oven. It also looks cool. Awhile back, I bought new contact paper for the counters (okay, we live in an extremely old house - charming, but - and the countertops are plywood covered with contact paper. Veeery classy, and yet, because we’re renting we’re not about to exchange them for any cheapass marble, or some such.

(Please hear me dripping sarcasm right about now.)

I might go ahead and recover those today. I also cleaned the fishtank, which had become more “Black Lagoon” than “Finding Nemo”, and my fish actually sang to me. I heard them. I swept. I laundered. I wiped (ahem). I’m feeling decoraty now, which means a trip later to Big Lots for Pier 1 Import knock-offs. Yay! The one blot in my day is that, because I farted around and waited until the last possible second to pay rent, I have to drop the money with our landlady. She’s psychotic, and I’m pretty sure I’m not kidding.

To think, back in Oregon, we used to own a house. Well, and before that, another one. I thought people were supposed to move UP in the world. Will somebody please tell me how I got into backward land? No, you don’t have to, unless you want to make up something funny, which is always appreciated. I know perfectly well how I got into backward land, and someday I’ll tell you the sordid tale. It involves sex and intrigue, violence and ritual abuse. You’ll like it.

@ I’m ready to quit guitar lessons because I can’t play like Jimi Hendrix. I also can’t even play like David Cassidy, who I’m pretty sure, was simply poking blindly at odd strings while singing “I Think I Love You.” Wait. He just sang didn’t he? Am I thinking of Danny Bonaduce? Have you seen him lately? Man, I’m old.

Time to toss on some makeup, a few articles of clothing, some shoes and a watch, and head out into the sunshiny day. I’ve been thinking a few deep thoughts that I want to share, but I’m a little hyper and need to calm down first. They say sunshine helps. We’ll see if they’re right. Kiss you today, friends. xo