Since last Friday, my daughter has been struggling with a virus. She missed three days of school and today when I picked her up at 11:45 a.m., her teacher told me that she was really tired. Poor kid. All my kids have been sick and have lingering coughs. My husband and I have missed the worst of the illness. We are too busy to get sick.
The main problem with writing a blog at 12:10 a.m. is that I can’t remember what I might have wanted to say a few hours ago when I had an idea. The topics that come to mind are scattered and just bits of irrelevance. For instance:
1) Miley Cyrus has written an autobiography. Really? Seriously? She’s sixteen! I hear there is breaking news, like the fact that there were mean girls in her fourth grade class. Oh, call me a waaaaaambulance. Aren’t there mean fourth grade girls in every fourth grade class?
2) The Octomom: How can someone so articulate be so detached from reality? Fourteen babies. On the other hand, I don’t want the government to decide who can be a parent. On the other hand, the doctor who did this? Unethical for starters and stupid besides.
3) The stock market. Stop. Falling. Please.
4) I have crocuses blooming in my backyard. Spring is coming. But not without a lot of rain and wind.
5) I haven’t grocery shopped in any substantial and organized way in a long time. I keep running in for milk and a “few things.” Tomorrow I really need to grocery shop, but I fear I will spend my morning napping, right after I mail my tax information to the accountant.
6) I hate taxes. Hate. Cold hatred.
7) Digital photography means that I haven’t actually had my photos from part of 2007 and all of 2008 developed yet.
8) My son’s first lacrosse game is Saturday morning, but I am going to be out of town visiting a friend that day. My husband will be Superdad that day. Just one of the many reasons I married him.
9) My husband’s “new” Cadillac has seat-warmers. Motoring down cold suburban roads with a warm butt is a fine way to travel.
10) I have started five books this past week, but have yet to get hooked by any of them. I think that William Zinnser’s book about writing memoir will win, though. I love his writing.
7 thoughts on “A listless list”
Why don’t you carry around a little pack of index cards and jot ideas, like Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird?
Lucky you, crocuses. Lucky, lucky you. But we’re having an odd heat wave that will bring some out this weekend, no doubt.
Taxes? What are those? It’s not April 15th yet, is it?
I have index cards all over my house with scattered thoughts.
They do not make any sense at 12:10 am.
Just ONE interesting thought is all I’m asking from myself today. ONE.
Okay. Okay. Even a HALF.
Recorder, girl you need one. Everyone does. Which reminds me of that stuipd woman in the goofy “as seen on TV” comercials.
warm butts, what I call gettin in the car with shorts on here. No make that HOT BLISTERED
You make a good point about Octomom. She does sound very rational and articulate when she speaks, even though the content of her words in interviews is usually regurgitation of the same thing over and over: “My degree will help me earn the money to raise my children… I will just do whatever it takes…” These are the ravings of someone whose eyes are squeezed shut and whose ears are firmly plugged with index fingers.
Preamble: Somehow, the day after we were at your house, we stole the virus that has escaped you and Alvin. So if you’re looking for it, it’s over here. In my body. Please take it back.
1. Today I thought that Miley Cyrus sounds like Belinda Carlisle of Go-Gos fame.
4. Me too! Oh, wait, we share the same weather.
9. Just be careful that when you step out of the car your buns aren’t steaming! This has happened to me, and resulted in my child pointing and laughing at me, and she STILL tells the tale. I want to spare you a similar fate.
1. ghostwriter, OBVIOUSLY.
2. i’m ashamed that she is from the same city that the church is at where i spent all of my growing up years. sad.
5. oh my gosh. i am doing the SAME thing. argh.
10. started zinsser like 4 times. i love it though.