What I do not have: my furniture. Patience to deal with not having furniture.
It’s bad enough being sick, and I haven’t had a cold in over a year, so I’m taking this one very personally. But being sick without being able to stay in your own comfortable bed and watch bad TV and read comforting books is truly unfair. So far, the truck has been in the shop in St. Louis, broken down on the salt flats of Utah, and is currently snowed in at the fateful Donner Pass.
Will it ever get here?
I’m startled from the pages by a loud knocking on the door. Opening it, I see a huge gentleman in his Sunday best. “Ma’am, that your car?” he asks, gesturing to the driveway. “Yes,” I whisper. He puts something in my hand. “Left your keys in the door. I seen ‘em on my way to church.” “Thank you,” I say. “Welcome. Bless you,” he says.
I went to the store this morning to get a baguette for breakfast. On my way home, my head full of thoughts of creamy Brie on fresh bread with crisp green apples and hot, black coffee, I got a ticket.
I was thirty feet from my house – I could see it – and I apparently didn’t come to a complete stop at the stop sign in front of the church.
On the bright side, the paperwork for the car is in order.
The cop car is still there, mocking me.
Her escape attempts have increased along with her demands to go out and have fun like all the other kittens. Today she actually climbed up the chimney, which is fortunately blocked.
These kittens today.
The people in the house behind mine never, ever turn their outside light off. Even in the brightest sunlight.
I had a dream last night that I was having lunch at a spa with my (dead) mother and Peter from The Brady Bunch. After lunch, I couldn’t find my white trench coat and refused to leave until it was found.
Outside my window, there are two teenage boys with their bikes leaning against them, hitting each other with yellow flowers until the blossoms fall off. Then they get on their bikes and leave.
I have nothing to wear.