Ever misplace something seemingly difficult to tuck away unnoticed? I've lost a euro-pillow, a large overstuffed oddity, meant specifically for upright bed sitting, squishy on top, stitched in the center to firm support on bottom. It’s like losing a small ottoman.
Few things make me as happy as watching Sadie the feral cat “play”. She was born and (mostly) bred wild, and still loudly prefers outside on warm, dry days without the buzzing intrusion of the lawn care company. But she’s embraced the indoor play. She always goes for the fake mice, wildly patterned fabrics, string whiskers and thin and silky, rope tails. She’ll take a plush body in her mouth, fling into the air, watch it land with surprised eyes and then crouch-booty shake-pounce. Once caught, she flop rolls on her side and happily rubs prey over head and face. Play must be an inherent thing. Her love of the down comforter, however, is a learned behavior.
Sipping on a heavily iced glass of 7-Up, remnants of a liter bottle from a Sunday morning hangover. Inconsequential? No, monumental. I rarely to never drink pop/soda/insert your choice of regional fizzy moniker here. Only when riding out an urban flu or bad tum will I desire it. It’s sickly sweet, really, and most of the fizz has escaped.
It’s 4:30something in the morning and I should be sleeping, but am done. Without aid, after mere hours, my body awakes to declare “sleep over”. I may be on tap to watch a friend’s last ball game of the season then catch live music tonight. I should sleep in preparation, add to the activity abacus. There’s a boy coming Wednesday (wink wink). I should rest up for that too. And shave.
When did a holiDAY become a holiWEEK? Round the corporate water cooler (in my case the virtual sipping hole) both work and the internet are quiet, quiet, I assume most absent in anticipation of the fourth this Friday. It’s like a "Twilight Zone" episode, beautiful solitude, and I’ve broken my only pair of glasses. Bored. Bored. Bored. However, I too had planned a few days off; I have to calculate time away between deadlines. But I’m a marketing whore and my work has caught the eyes of executives so the next round must equal literary genius. Because “it’s not who you know it’s who you blow” and when the big boys and girls turn eyes to a little fish in an overpopulated pond, one gets on her knees and performs.
I’ve a hankering for some Cheddar Triscuit’s, but salt is mine enemy.
I love getting e-mail. I send too much e-mail. Saucy and cheeky e-mail. In truth, I’m old-school and prefer the call, the meet for drinks, the card or letter in the mail. When IS the last time I got (or sent) a letter? A genuine, pen to paper, in my handwriting, lick the envelope tome? Actually, I only do script on checks and it’s unreadable scribble. I write in block letters. A handwriting expert once said mine indicated a “kinky” side. And he saw just handwriting.
5:37 a.m. Do I slip back into 350-thread-count or a wild blueberry bagel and coffee?