I should be moving the items from my desk to my new desk right now.
I should. But I’m not. No. Instead, I’m sitting here nursing a wounded palate, still trembling from some rogue Arby’s Chicken Tenders and writing an entry. For you. Just for you. Because I like you best of all, especially the way your eyes crinkle around the corners when you smile.
I had a somewhat productive lunch today. Only 50% was spent driving around aimlessly, listening to music and zoning out, the other 50% was spent browsing a very well-stocked newsstand (comfort food for the mind: Rosebud literary magazine, promising something by the elusiveW.D. Snodgrass, a New Yorker (which I should really just buy a subscription to, along with Utne Reader but I’m afraid that they’ll gang up on my Taste Of Home and send it crying in a fetal position in the corner of the mailbox. And maybe they’ll tease Jane magazine for only using models which make heroin junkies look well rounded and flush with health… not that it’s necessarily a bad thing), and what is possibly the most depressing of all purchases, a Memory Maker’s magazine, which is a magazine devoted to scrapbooking. Yes. There are entire magazines, reams and reams of paper and gallons of ink, devoted to showing women who haven’t got enough things to do how to make the perfect scrapbook page to memorialize their toddler’s first poo. I am so damn cool sometimes. Seriously. You could only hope to be as cool as I am.
The scrapbooking is something I know that my 16-year-old self would have mocked in disdain. My 31-year-old self barely stands it either. My 18-year-old self would have been cool with it, because she gave up trying to impress anyone, but my 27-year-old self started to feel too old and would side with the 16-year-old.
It’s much like golf for me though. My mind is constantly cooking with all burners on high. I’ve usually got about four thought patterns going at once as well as a song stuck in my head. When I am golfing or scrapbooking, I’m not thinking about anything else. I’m just thinking about getting the damn little ball in the little hole or trying to figure out which colors are pretty on the page. It’s a nice thing, really, and what is more, much like golf, it allows me to collect high end accessories. I think that’s really what it is. It’s the accessories. I adore my circle cutter, which allows me to make the perfect circles. I have specific plans for my black leather bound $60 scrapbook (that one will be for my nice “photography” type pictures) and that pleases me in a way that makes me feel a bit dirty, as though I’ve been given an enema by Kitty Bartholomew or some such.
And I know that I’ve said this before, but it’s all because the fall nesting instinct is kicking into high gear. I have absolutely no interest in scrapbooking when I’m in slacker mindset, but that mindset starts to slip away as soon as the temperature drops below 60. Last night, I slept wonderful autumnal sleep in my big empty bed. Both windows were open and I actually needed the warmth of the down comforter. It was lovely. Those buzzsaw cicadas are now silent, perhaps flying to warmer climes. This morning, when I left for my morning Operation Hottie constitutional, I could see my breath and I actually cut my walk short because my short-sleeved t-shirt was inadequate protection from the morning nip in the air.
It occurred to me last night while I watched the season finale double rerun of Buffy last night that next week must start the new season. And that just makes me absolutely giddy. It’s entirely wrong the way that I obsess about that show. I’m thinking of cross-stitching a Buffy sampler, complete with little stakes and puffs of vampire dust. I’m certain that DMC Floss makes an appropriate crypt color and I will fully be able to convey the magic of the Leather Pants of Ass Kicking on aida cloth. This is not your Grandmother’s hobby, people. It’s like knitting, only not as cool. Also, Tilly likes to steal my thread and then makes colorful little vomits in inappropriate places.
My nose and chin are peeling from Sunday’s Poolapalooza Blowout. That’s very attractive. It’s like my face has been replaced by a nice crispy croissant. I suppose it’s better than a raspberry scone.
Crap. Now I’m craving pastry.
I actually had to have this conversation at work today.
Them: I’m thinking that with Snack Nuts category, you wouldn’t consider nuts in the shell to be a snack because… it’s more work.
Weetabix: So it’s not a snack because it’s a … commitment?
Them: Right. It’s messy. You wouldn’t just snack on that.
Weetabix: Uh… ok.
That went on like that for like ten minutes.
Pity me. Seriously.
