Well, sometimes I forget that little rule.
What a week. How are you doing? I feel so completely spun around right now...forgetting carpools, remembering carpools that weren't mine to drive, just so much driving in general, reading a story to Caroline's class for reading week, and, at this very moment, wanting to cash in my mum card after having spent the past hour in my daughters' rooms, trying to make sense of the madness.
Was it even a room? A place meant for humans to exist? At this point, I couldn't say. I would more likely check the box denoting: petri dish, or scientific experiment gone terribly wrong, or possibly just cut the conjecture and skip down the list to the skull and crossbones sign.
I'm sorry this blog is so neglected these days. I am working away on this crazy story and it's sapping all my writing mojo and I don't even know if it's any good or not, except Caroline tells me it's amazing. I keep waiting for my little brother to mean text me, but so far he hasn't. For one thing, he's coming to visit next weekend so maybe he decided to go easy just this once.
I can't wait to see him! Meaning, I can't wait to go eat ramen with him!
Yesterday I went for a run in the desert and I swear I saw Richard Gere. It was either Richard Gere or some other incredibly foxy silver haired gentleman wearing high end running gear, ultra cool shades, and the kind of cologne that is dangerous to lavish on because the coyotes might end up devouring you for smelling so yummy.
Let me tell you, that guy was lucky. Because as it so happened, I was ravenous myself. When we crossed paths on the trail and I caught the lingering scent of his man perfume, it was all I could do not to turn around, lunge, and snap off his ankles or something.
Dear reader, when I say I used to run with the wolves, don't tell yourself: oh, she must be speaking metaphorically. Don't seek comfort with such thoughts. Try imagining something way more literal. Try vowing never to wear man perfume out on the running trail in the event we happen to cross paths and I haven't eaten yet that morning.
Reading to Caroline's class: that was the highlight of this week. Those kids, paying rapt attention, leaning forward in their seats. I would do that every day if the teacher would let me. There is something magical about storytelling. Some eternal childhood is fostered there where everything is new and wondrous, cozy, safe, limitless, riveting, and happy.
Do you want to hear one more potentially disturbing thing before I go?
We have rats in our house. No, not my children, though their bedrooms might lead you to believe otherwise...real, actual rats. Not cute mice, like in Cinderella where they sew things for you. RATS. Like the creatures who sneak into your room at night and gnaw your face off.
Only, I can't quite bring myself to believe that about these rats.
Because I read Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nimh to Caroline recently, and I can't get it out of my head!
I can't dismiss the possibility we may have highly intelligent rats living in our walls, not the kind like Templeton in Charlotte's Web (who was endearing in his own way, you have to admit), or the ones you see in the subways of New York City. For one thing, they don't actually come into our living quarters. They just run along the roof over my head. And in the early morning when I wake up and listen to them scurrying around, I keep imagining they've wired the place for electricity, hauled a shag carpet up there, and are poring over the works of the great philosphers, determining how to create an evolved rodent society.
It's quite cozy, when I think about it.
If, however, they manage to break through the drywall and storm my bedroom and start nesting in my hair...well, then I may be persuaded to think differently.
I'm not terribly worried, though. All they have to do is take one look at my girls' bedrooms and they'll conclude we are much too primitive for their liking.
Either way, I told my husband I can't be involved in the handling of this situation, and that whatever he decides, he'd better not talk too loudly about it or they will probably hear him and mount an offensive.
p.s. Two more things: I don't personally think Richard Gere is incredibly foxy, by the way. That's just how I always hear him described. Unfortunately for me, all you have to do is use the words incredibly foxy to describe a man and I'm pretty sure I won't be interested.
Secondly, when I said: Do you want to hear one more potentially disturbing thing before I go?
I probably shouldn't have used the word potentially, right? I probably should have gone with egregiously.
Wishing you a lovely weekend. xo