This is a hastily written entry because if I don’t write something hastily, it’s not going to get posted at all. Short attention span theatre, Weetabix style.
So, in the past week, I:
‘ Got into a minor collision in a grocery store parking lot. Someone backed into the side of my M. And in my flustered state, I let the nice old guy from out of town convince me to not call the police and exchange names, then I forgot to get his license plate number because I am a stupid head.
‘ Religiously have worn sunscreen all week, yet burned the crap out of the part in my hair. To the point that raising my eyebrows is painful.
‘ Discovered that our monthly maid service knocked down one of the vintage Italian ad prints off the wall and destroyed the frame.
‘ Was thrown off kilter when June accidentally cut down the bleeding heart bush in front of my potting shed. Or, more specifically, the bleeding heart bush that I transplanted from my great grandmother’s garden nine years ago. The bleeding heart bush that I had given her for Mother’s Day back in the early 80’s.
‘ Cried in the fucking cafeteria at work relaying the story of said bleeding heart bush to Carissa and Penny. Surrounded by at least five thousand coworkers.
‘ Got hit by a second car today. This one was a very young girl driving her mother’s SUV while she was talking on the phone. I was stopped at a light, she was not paying attention. This time, I used my phone to take a picture of her license plate.
‘ Started driving off and picked up my cell phone to tell Esteban and Chauffi about how I had just gotten hit by a girl who wasn’t paying attention because she was talking on her cell phone. See above re: stupid head.
Needless to say, it’s been a peach of a week. But the weekend is here and it is sweltering outside, which is optimal Poolapalooza weather, so with any luck, I will be able to take a few hours to float and thus will have a burn line to match the fiery equator that divides my pigtails. Yes. Pigtails. I don’t know what’s up with the pigtails, but nearly every guy who sees me in them has to mention them. I think I look about 12 years old, but that’s just me. I swear, my freckles are invisible unless they are flanked by two Bobsey Twins of hair.
Speaking of hair, I have made it to the Farmer’s Market every weekend since it’s been open. It’s the beginning of our strawberry season, but you have to wake up early to get them, so last weekend, I blearily cocked an eye and looked at the clock, expecting it to be 4 a.m. except that really it was twenty minutes after seven and my god, the strawberries, the STRAWBERRIES! I jumped up, threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, slipped my feet into my silly little Mizrahi for Target pink moccasins (so that no time would be wasted tying laces), quickly brushed my hair and washed my face, barely brushed my teeth, and then sped out the door. By the time I parked, I was still rubbing my eyes and yawning. Of course, I saw at least three different people I knew in about five minutes. No make up. Sorta cranky and half asleep. No caffeine. Hi. Nice to meetcha. Welcome to my rock star life. At least I got some strawberries.
Although this was cool: you might remember last year, I kept trying to take a picture of this little flower vendor guy but kept failing. Wait, here’s the proof:
Apparently the concept of “auto focus” eludes me. And yet, I soldier on.
This one is so blurry that I can’t even tell if it’s him or his wife.
