Friday, January 14, 2011
Our first day out on our own, just me and the kids. We've been trapped here for six days. I now understand how Stephen King wrote The Shining. I'm pretty sure my aloe plant has been sneaking up on me.
The drink machine at Moe's isn't much fun when it's out of funny flavors. I squealed so loudly about samosas being back in stock at Trader Joe's that two passerby bought them. It made me feel like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally, which I've never actually seen.
Remember when she made that movie where she ran a bookstore by the ocean and the guy from American Werewolf in Paris worked there? I want to live in that town, swim in that ocean, ride that bike, and go to that bookstore, but I don't want to see Meg Ryan. Or that movie, ever again.
The snow was all iced over on top today, and it reminded me of the crust on creme brulee. I even did a kick to feel it burst under my boot heel, and I imagined it was the printer in Office Space, and I shouted, "PC LOAD LETTER; WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?" in the Starbucks parking lot at 9:34pm. I almost went into Five Guys for a burger, but that's no fun alone.
I redid the banner on my writing site to reflect the fact that I write books about things besides mouse people standing on Converse shoes. I added a juggling polanda bear. It took several hours, $13 at Blick, and a glass of wine to accomplish. It was worth it. There's nothing like dipping a new brush into a fresh pan of watercolors or a full jar of ink.
When we played My Little Ponies this evening, the Biscuit loved my Pinky Pie voice and swore it was just like the movie, but I was really channeling Jordan from Real Genius.
I actually left 3/4 of my red velvet cupcake at Starbucks tonight because it was stale and the icing tasted like old lemon drops suspended in soapy goat cheese. I was so excited to be writing that I didn't even mourn it. I got through a tough scene and managed to sneak in one of my all time favorite poems.
I drove home listening to Under a Streetlight by Airborne Toxic Event. The windows were open just a little bit so I could smell the snow, but I kept one hand over the heat vent. I'm left to wonder if we spend our entire lives trying to convince ourselves that we're *still* sixteen, or whether we just try to force ourselves to forget that we're *not*.
Posted by delilah s. dawson at 9:57 PM