Friday, December 03, 2004

I have this one thing I like to do instead of work. . . .

I have things to DO, and here I am blogging.

I have homework to grade and two final exams to write. But I'm blogging instead.

I have gifts to wrap. But I'm blogging instead.

I have Christmas cards to address. But I'm blogging instead.

I have floors to sweep, dishes to wash, toilets to disinfect, cats to pet, babies to kiss, shoes to tie, towels to fold, socks to mate, phones to answer, books to read, bills to pay, clocks to set, cd's to burn, poachers to chase down, trash to bag, vcr's to program, sweepers to run, furniture to dust, videos to sing along with, and a sack of canned goods to put away. But I'm blogging instead.

All those infinitives that need to be done, and I'm blogging.

And my post isn't even interesting.

Unless you're heavily into infinitives.

I figure, why waste my time putting those canned goods away? Surely someone in this house will need six cans of mushrooms and some cream-of-chicken soup within the next few days.

I like to have cans of mushrooms on hand, to throw into otherwise plain casseroles, so people will think I fixed something fancy. Throw some of that cream-of-chicken soup and a can of mushrooms and some water chestnuts on some chicken breasts and you've got a meal, folks. And one that looks like some time was spent on it, too.

Where does all this "stuff" come from? The tables and countertops were cleaned off only a few days ago! There was surface showing! Where does this stuff come from? It's not the same old stuff, either; I moved the old stuff before the company came for Thanksgiving. THAT stuff is still in the bedroom where we trip over it constantly. This is all new stuff! I think my tables and countertops sprout mushroom growths of clutter overnight.

Mmmm, Christmas music. I feel calmer now.

Even if it IS Blink 182.

I'm old but I ain't dead.

My husband keeps saying he smells something burning but we can't find it. This might be scaring me just a little tiny bit. Or a lot. I probably won't be going to bed for a while. There are fresh batteries in all the smoke detectors so I'm going to really rely on those suckers tonight.

Greetings, R. It was great to hear from you and I'm flattered that you're reading my blog! Leave a comment some time, why dontcha.

I loves me the comments.

My daughter is going up to Ann Arbor again tomorrow to consult with her friend about their book. She's a writer. I love her. She's also beautiful and funny.

My son might be coming home for another visit this weekend. He's a student. I love him. He's also handsome and funny.

I just looked in the mirror. My kids may have gotten the 'funny' from me but they must have inherited the 'gorgeous' from somebody else. Sigh.

I've got to quit looking in the mirror.

I'm not in there, anyway. Some huge old wrinkly hag keeps jumping in front of me whenever I try to catch a glimpse of myself.

She scares me. I think she's here to stay. She's really, really big.

And she's not the kind of poacher or trespasser I can get rid of by phone calls or threats of violence.

Knee update: still ouching and getting worse.

We were wondering why our front yard has been flooding so badly lately. Now that the leaves are all gone, we can see the pasture next door. The one with the new pond in it.

That explains the bulldozer noises from the past weeks.

They were so loud, we couldn't hear the hunting dogs bellowing from the huge pens in the yard a few houses down. Although the dogs didn't usually begin their caroling until around 3 a.m.

People think they can move to the country and make all the noise they want. Well, apparently they can, because they do.

I think I'll go surf Ebay and try to find a bullhorn.

"Socks to MATE." (Snicker. . . . .)

Posted by Mamacita (The REAL one) @ 1:32 AM | |


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