I do not feel well. In fact (she whined) I feel sort of like shit. I am serious. I ache everywhere and I am tired. Tired, tired, tired. Like my body weighs four hundred and fifty pounds or maybe tons. I am not sure. Maybe I have what Buster had.
I hope not. Dog-to-human contagion cannot be good.
I was the worst grandmother today. I bet Owen watched four hours of PBS children's programming. The whole day has been gray like perpetual twilight and that did not help. I did go flamingo fishing with the boy but I was SO glad when he dropped the last of the flamingo legs into the pond and we couldn't find it. Hahahaha! Now those flamingos are permanently napping. Owen doesn't care. He carries the legless birds around like dolls or pets. He makes them eat out of the chicken feeder and drink from the birdbath. He rides them like horses. He throws them in the air and tells them to fly.
They never do.
Before Owen left, his daddy picked up all the toys in the den. He couldn't have made me happier by giving me a diamond and pearl tiara. I washed the dishes and thought I might die. I took a bath and boiled myself and finally got warm. I read some of Swamplandia! which I think I am enjoying but am not entirely sure. The woman can write and some of her phrases just crack me up but it's a tiny bit surrealistic and as my daughter May pointed out the other day, I don't really like surrealism. Maybe it's not surrealistic. Maybe that's just what it would be like if a family lived on their own island in the Everglades and had a tourist attraction called Swamplandia. Maybe.
Hell. I don't know.
I don't know shit.
I just feel like shit.
I think it's surrealistic.
Mr. Moon is on his way back from Ocala. When he left, he thought he'd be back by 6:30. We joke because he always bases his time estimates on what we call Glen Time. I always add at least an hour or two to whatever he says and I'm generally right. He just called to say he'll probably be back by 7:30. I am wondering what to do about supper. I am not especially hungry but the idea of food is not unappealing since I am not actually dead. We have leftovers but they are leftover, leftover leftovers and I have no interest in them at all. I'd just as soon eat a boiled potato. I wish that something unbelievably yummy would show up as if by magic (I guess it would HAVE to be magic, wouldn't it?) that I would want to eat. I can't even think of what it would be. I told May the other day that when I die, I hope people bring over hams. Then I thought about it and said that actually, it would make more sense if people brought over hams while I was dying but could still eat. She said she'd bring me a Connie's Honeybaked Ham. That made me happy. One time I asked Lily if she and her sisters would brush and braid my hair for me every day when I am very old. She said they would. That made me happy too. I would like to be a bright-eyed old biddy whose children braided her thin, white hair for her and then sat her down at a table with a plate of sweet-fatted ham and some collard greens every day. Wouldn't that be nice?
I think it would.
Well, I am not dying and so I guess I'll have to braid my own damn hair if I want it braided and cook my own damn ham if I want one. I don't actually cook ham because if I did, I would eat the whole thing and I doubt there is anything in this world as bad for you as eating an entire ham. Some people want to eat cakes, I want to eat ham and by god, when I am old, I am going to eat the SHIT out of some ham. I'm going to eat ham until my skin turns pink and I start peeing brown sugar.
Sorry if that makes you feel slightly queasy. Let's try to think of it as surrealism.
Would it help if I added a dwarf (sorry- little person) clown to the image?
Who ended up dead in a musical brain? Because that's what happened in the story that May and I were discussing which sparked the surrealism conversation in the first place.
I hated that story.
She told me that when she read it, she knew I would.
She knows me so well.
So do you.
Let's check in tomorrow. I got nothing more to say tonight.