So...bored....can't...use....pronouns.....
What do people do exactly when they are home all day? I have cleaned, vacuumed, done all the laundry, baked, organized shit.....and I still have 3 whole days to fill before we leave for our trip.
I'd cut our hideous lawn but Jimm would probably have a stroke if I touch his lawn mower, even though he rarely does.
Also I don't know how to start a lawn mower.
Maddie's birthday today (and mine, but lets not talk about that). She was looking completely adorable in a pale denim blue snoopy t-shirt and is learning to tone down the eye makeup. We gave her $50 and I'll take her shopping with it - too risky trying to find clothes to fit her skinny body. She might buy shoes. Oh God. (braces self for long, chatty shopping trip with can't-make-a-decision-to-save-her-life-daughter)
Jimm got his internet working but as far as we can tell the virus is still in there, replicating itself and no doubt e-mailing itself to all our friends. He seems untroubled by this, and I do anything important on my mac, so I guess I'll just leave well enough alone.
The storm in Las Vegas has now reached Sunday (our arrival day) with scattered thunderstorms. Jimm remains optomistic because it's sunny Monday & Tuesday. I say it's just a matter of time.
Every morning The Shadow (cat), who refuses to adjust to the concept of "dog" goes through a hilarious ritual to leave the girls' room. She sneaks out, watching the dog the entire time, taking a full 4 minutes to traverse 8' of hallway. The second the dog rises to his feet (mostly to see what her problem is) she springs into full retreat mode - making a mad dash for the living room and leaping over the table we use to block the dog's entry, growling and hissing like a cartoon cat. She then usually shits in the living room as revenge. Fat Tony deals with the dog by never leaving the bedroom. I mean never. She has become a feline version of those fat people who have to be crane-lifted from an apartment window after death.
It's probably cruel to laugh at the animals' misery but hey, I feed them.
Today I am 44, a number similar to 33, 22 or 11. My birthday always makes me realize that I don't really know anything. I remember the authority my parents seemed to have when I was young, and I don't feel anything like that certainty. I wonder if I appear confident and successful and sure of my place in the scheme of things to my kids. What I usually feel like is.....amazed. Amazed that I am this old, that I am living this life, that I have become one of the parental types, amazed that people are looking to me as an authority on anything. I still have major impostor syndrome, where some days I am certain I will be arrested for impersonating a midwife, in fact for impersonating a grownup. Sometimes when I am discussing retirement savings or mortgages or some such topic I want to break into hysterical laughter, because those things could not possibly be relevant for me.
I remember my Granny, whom I loved more than anyone, saying she never felt older than about 25 or 30, and was always surprised by her reflection. She was about 70 when she said that, but I still think I understand. I look at clothing and lifestyle stuff and I forget it can't apply to me anymore, that I'm too old to look right with an industrial piercing. I have a hard time accepting that it doesn't matter that my stomach is no longer firm enough for a short t-shirt because no-one my age wears them anyway. I am shocked when I see photos of myself because the image I carry in my head is so different.
This is all funny, because in other ways things have changed. I can no longer look at young men and find them attractive - 35ish is the absolute bottom line. Anyone younger reminds me of my sons. I can imagine sleeping with Sean Connery. Now, not in his James Bond days. Even Jack Nicholson. I know what the aging male body looks like, and not only does it not scare me I find it attractive and somehow reassuring. I don't understand most of the music I hear my kids play. I am ridiculously pleased when I hear something new I like. I am convinced, as were my parents, that we had the best music ever and there was no need to take it further. I think some of the clothing styles are stupid and unattractive, and I think high school kids look like clones. I am astounded by the superficiality (is that a word?) of the lifestyle promoted by the media, in which Nick and Jessica (?) are presented as a normal newlywed couple. Did I get the names right? I don't "get" reality shows at all, in fact, and have never watched a full episode of any of them. I look at the niavete of high school grads and about to be grads and wish I could telepathically transfer knowledge to them so they don't have to make so many mistakes, even though I know the mistakes are what makes them interesting, well rounded people down the road.
I remember when having a birthday did not make me philosophical.
(hehehe the spell checker offered "Kimmi" as an alternative to "Jimm")
I'd cut our hideous lawn but Jimm would probably have a stroke if I touch his lawn mower, even though he rarely does.
Also I don't know how to start a lawn mower.
Maddie's birthday today (and mine, but lets not talk about that). She was looking completely adorable in a pale denim blue snoopy t-shirt and is learning to tone down the eye makeup. We gave her $50 and I'll take her shopping with it - too risky trying to find clothes to fit her skinny body. She might buy shoes. Oh God. (braces self for long, chatty shopping trip with can't-make-a-decision-to-save-her-life-daughter)
Jimm got his internet working but as far as we can tell the virus is still in there, replicating itself and no doubt e-mailing itself to all our friends. He seems untroubled by this, and I do anything important on my mac, so I guess I'll just leave well enough alone.
The storm in Las Vegas has now reached Sunday (our arrival day) with scattered thunderstorms. Jimm remains optomistic because it's sunny Monday & Tuesday. I say it's just a matter of time.
Every morning The Shadow (cat), who refuses to adjust to the concept of "dog" goes through a hilarious ritual to leave the girls' room. She sneaks out, watching the dog the entire time, taking a full 4 minutes to traverse 8' of hallway. The second the dog rises to his feet (mostly to see what her problem is) she springs into full retreat mode - making a mad dash for the living room and leaping over the table we use to block the dog's entry, growling and hissing like a cartoon cat. She then usually shits in the living room as revenge. Fat Tony deals with the dog by never leaving the bedroom. I mean never. She has become a feline version of those fat people who have to be crane-lifted from an apartment window after death.
It's probably cruel to laugh at the animals' misery but hey, I feed them.
Today I am 44, a number similar to 33, 22 or 11. My birthday always makes me realize that I don't really know anything. I remember the authority my parents seemed to have when I was young, and I don't feel anything like that certainty. I wonder if I appear confident and successful and sure of my place in the scheme of things to my kids. What I usually feel like is.....amazed. Amazed that I am this old, that I am living this life, that I have become one of the parental types, amazed that people are looking to me as an authority on anything. I still have major impostor syndrome, where some days I am certain I will be arrested for impersonating a midwife, in fact for impersonating a grownup. Sometimes when I am discussing retirement savings or mortgages or some such topic I want to break into hysterical laughter, because those things could not possibly be relevant for me.
I remember my Granny, whom I loved more than anyone, saying she never felt older than about 25 or 30, and was always surprised by her reflection. She was about 70 when she said that, but I still think I understand. I look at clothing and lifestyle stuff and I forget it can't apply to me anymore, that I'm too old to look right with an industrial piercing. I have a hard time accepting that it doesn't matter that my stomach is no longer firm enough for a short t-shirt because no-one my age wears them anyway. I am shocked when I see photos of myself because the image I carry in my head is so different.
This is all funny, because in other ways things have changed. I can no longer look at young men and find them attractive - 35ish is the absolute bottom line. Anyone younger reminds me of my sons. I can imagine sleeping with Sean Connery. Now, not in his James Bond days. Even Jack Nicholson. I know what the aging male body looks like, and not only does it not scare me I find it attractive and somehow reassuring. I don't understand most of the music I hear my kids play. I am ridiculously pleased when I hear something new I like. I am convinced, as were my parents, that we had the best music ever and there was no need to take it further. I think some of the clothing styles are stupid and unattractive, and I think high school kids look like clones. I am astounded by the superficiality (is that a word?) of the lifestyle promoted by the media, in which Nick and Jessica (?) are presented as a normal newlywed couple. Did I get the names right? I don't "get" reality shows at all, in fact, and have never watched a full episode of any of them. I look at the niavete of high school grads and about to be grads and wish I could telepathically transfer knowledge to them so they don't have to make so many mistakes, even though I know the mistakes are what makes them interesting, well rounded people down the road.
I remember when having a birthday did not make me philosophical.
(hehehe the spell checker offered "Kimmi" as an alternative to "Jimm")