Sunday morning and my husband will be home today and I'm going to get that kitchen floor mopped and last night I lounged in bed for hours, reading back-issues of the New Yorker.
So let me ask you a question- do you ever read a NY'er short story and when you're done think, "What the fucking fuck?!"
Like, "Well, that's another twenty minutes of my life I'll never get back."
As in, "What am I missing here?"
Anyway, that's how I felt at 12:14 a.m. when I finished reading a story about a Vespa. I don't know. Maybe I was too sleepy to really grasp all the depth and meaning therein.
Bears repeating. It would be awesome if more than one bloom opened at a time but I'll take what I can get.
I hear that August's rash is still very much in evidence but he's still acting fine. And tomorrow they will go to the dermatologist and see what he says. He is definitely breaking the cardinal rule for children which is, "DO NOT WORRY THE MAMA!"
Last night on the phone with Jessie I told her to have a glass of wine and maybe give August a little rinse off with baking soda water. And then, joking (of course) I told her to smear his face with honey and maybe put little cucumber slices over his eyes. She reminded me that she tried the cucumber slices thing once and it made her eyes puffy and red and itchy.
Sunday. The day when some people go to church and some people hang out in their pajamas and some people go to museums and some people eat pancakes and some people watch football games and some people curl up in a ball and cry.
The chickens don't seem to register Sunday at all. They don't change their feathers or deviate from their normal schedule.
I believe I will emulate them today.
After I eat one of their tasty eggs.
Good morning from Lloyd.