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Vendanta

On Sunday, I spent the entire day in front of my computer, except for leaving briefly to get some coffee at Starbucks and also after I sent editorial questions to the writer of my freelance project, I took a break to take my niece Abigail shopping for my sister’s birthday. That, by the way, was a constant reminder that I have to be patient, have to be patient, have to be patient, even when Abby wanted to read every damned card in the store and also take five minutes to put on her gloves. I mean, I’m a bit astonished that people with children are able to have lives, because they take so long, with their little legs and their little fingers and their little eyes that have to look at everything. In that endeavor, I think I did admirably well, quite honestly, except for the foible when I licked the envelope for the birthday card and not two minutes later, she said ‘Auntie Weet, can I lick the envelope?’ Luckily, because I absolutely loathe the idea of licking an envelope, I hadn’t licked it enough and it didn’t stick, so she licked it properly, not caring about my germs apparently, and all was well. I did get a moment of irritation at the stupid Target cart wrangler when he stood next to Abby, watching her struggle with shoving the cart back onto the cart line for at least two minutes until I finished checking out and walked over, replying tersely ‘I don’t suppose anyone could help you with this or anything,’ although I’m sure that he was completely oblivious, thinking about whatever it is that seventeen year old boys think about. His penis, probably.

Then I declined an invitation to stay for dinner at Mo’s house and fled when my mother and Jonathon showed up, because I knew that if I didn’t leave right that moment, then I couldn’t have been in that big of a rush and would be expected to stay all evening. And unfortunately, I had many more hours of sitting in front of my computer monitor ahead of me. I went back home, worked on my short story revisions, forgot to hit save, and somehow lost all of them because I have a very stupid, clueless head.

In other news, June stopped by on Saturday with Ward for some reason, and mentioned that she had gone around and ‘touched up’ the paint on the new baseboards. I looked down and could see big sloppy splotches on the baseboards. ‘Which paint did you use?’ I asked, irked that the high glossy white baseboards that my mother had painted with a special roller to prevent brush marks now needed to be corrected with a small brush and the right paint, because they’d obviously been splotched with matte paint and apparently a two inch bristle brush. She then argued that the baseboards had NOT painted with high gloss paint originally, or at least, they didn’t look shiny to her. Well, they were and they are, but I didn’t argue with her, shrugging and said it wasn’t a big deal. The old Weetabix would have been openly irritated, but apparently I am gaining compassion with age, as I didn’t want her to feel bad, especially since June and I are very similar in our persnickety attitudes on how things should be done.

Later, she called back to tell me that she’d fix it. I kept telling her that it was no big deal and you could barely see it and who looks for splotches of matte on a baseboard anyway, but she’s vowed to correct it. I feel bad that I happened to notice it right when she was standing. It had been very nice of her to try to help. I’m somewhat impressed with myself that I did not have a hissy about it, not even in my own head. This coming from the girl who had a $100 transatlantic emotional discussion about the fact that she didn’t get to pick out a screen door. Who’s the emotionally mature big girl? Who is? Who is? That would be me.

Of course, that last bit probably means that we still have work to do.

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