Today is one of those days when I have no idea what to rant about. And it isn't for lack of issue in my life. The problem is, my life is fodder for my fiction, which is more true than I'd ever let on. So when I sit down to write on any given day I click through my happenings and try to save out the best or most rant-able for my book and use those things that date the book for my blog.
Selfish, I know.
But there you have it.
Anyway, the guilt is setting in at extremes because the book I've been "writing in my head" read: putting off, is now finding its way onto paper and I find myself thinking about how to twist my daily happenings into a fictional masterpiece. So here are some daily happenings, in random order without extrapolation, just in case.
Today I fell into a pond at the local petting zoo. I did it with an audience. And the audience burst out laughing. Call me crazy, but I'd rather she laugh than pretend she didn't see it. I walked around for four more hours in wet pants with mud on the butt.
The baby girl is haunting my dreams again. Just when my husband had me convinced that I just liked the "idea" of another baby and hadn't really thought it all through. He can talk until he is blue in the face, I don't think this is my "idea" at all.
I changed coffee brands. I've been using "Great value" french roast and I bought "Hy-Vee" french roast this weekend. I know most people would gag at either of them, but seriously, Wal-Mart french roast is very good and Hy-Vee? Not so much.
I have eight Dibs left.
I'm trying to decide if I can get away with sending my family away for the weekend so that I can enjoy the "single best weekend to garage sale of the entire year."
Contrary to popular belief (Yeah, I'm talking to you Melanie!) I am NOT a size three. When I went to Beverly Hills last December with my husband, I shopped Beverly Center while he worked at Kenneth Cole (yeah, name dropping). I went into a store advertising 70% off everything and I figured that even I could afford that (almost true). I saw a pair of jeans that I wanted to try and asked the clerk if they were junior sizes or missy sizes. She stared blankly at me. I tried again. "In Missy's I wear a 6 or 8, in juniors I can almost squeeze into an eleven." She looked me up and down, snorted, and said, "Junior."
Yes, I am from "America's Fattest City" but I didn't think I looked that bad. Oh, and she was right.
I bought the elevens.