I try to play it cool but confess I am not always. My most recent case of not-coolness manifested just last week, when we hosted Thanksgiving at our house.
The house that is... not finished. To put it mildly.
Look, having my home resemble a West Elm catalog is not normally at the top nor at the bottom of my priorities list, but something about having guests over really brings out the nothing-is-good-enough monster in me. And because this was our first real opportunity to entertain old friends in our new home, the monster was operating at about 500% capacity.
LET THE RECORD SHOW that by the end of my first October in Colorado I was ready for summer again.
I don't know what happened. One minute I was comfortable out-of-doors, and the next I was wincing and bracing. I have this thing I do, this mincing shuffle I adopt when it's cold outside, because I don't want my pants touching my legs. The unfortunate thing is that pants are always touching your legs, even if you are standing very still, in which case your odds of reaching the warmth of indoors are acutely slim.
HOKAY well that was fun. New month, new government shutdown, new leaf turning over from the old.
I've resolved to make some changes around here. I'm gonna try to dial the personal essay shit back down on this here blog. Last night I was reading my old stuff over and it seems like I was funny then, and I amused people. It seems the people liked that, being amused. And on some level I enjoyed providing that service.
Things seen on my recent morning runs:
Two bent old women, each holding the leash of a tiny, shaking dog in one hand and a brightly-colored plastic bag of poop in the other, slowly shuffling down the sidewalk towards each other like reflections in a mirror.
A coyote, standing in a grassy divot at the edge of a small park bordered by midcentury ranch homes, vigorously dismantling a furry meadowland creature in open view like the star of its own live-action nature show.
This is the second entry in a series I tentatively titled What fuckery is this and then got too lazy to change it. Plus the first post was well over a year ago, so I don't even know if I can call this a series. It's more like um... an infrequent dabbling. Anyhoo, the deal is that here is where I riff on some clothing photos I have found online.
I am 100% guilty as charged, but lately I've been mulling what's driving the Youth of Today to humbly disparage their ability to Life. You know the familiar cry: Oh, I am so bad at X!
There's a difference, of course, in being bad at some things -- everyone is bad at some things -- and wearing perceived failures around like a gilded robe.
There comes a time when you need to rinse blueberries. This happens to almost everyone, unless you are blueberry-averse, or maybe you just have a fear of turning into Violet Beauregarde.
Maybe you have already had the blueberries for a full week, and you are doing them no favors by waiting any longer to jam them down your maw. So you trudge upstairs with the little carton in your hand and you commence to running them under bathroom sink tap and gently setting them, a few at a time, atop a paper towel that is resting on the lid of the toilet tank. You are not thinking about how this is kind of gross, even though it is definitely kind of gross. What you are thinking about is how it's rather unfortunate that the tank lid is rounded, because blueberries are prone to rolling, and some of them do, straight onto the bathroom floor tile. And with that kind of momentum they are prone to scattering helter skelter across the room in a furious competition for distance. Some of them you will never ever find until you do find them, later, mashed onto the sole of your bare foot.