Hi, My name’s D. and I’m a nosespray addict.
Seriously, I’ve been using this Sinex stuff for far too long and now I can’t breathe without. I’m too weak to go cold turkey. I… can’t… BREATHE!
I love reading blogs. It’s like voyeurism – a more intimate form of the previously ubiquitous webcam. I just can’t stand it when people can’t spell or use grammar. I’m sure I’m guilty of a few typos from time to time, but I refuse to read blogs when my first instinct is to whip out a red pen and start scribbling on my monitor. And no, M., this is not about you, even though I did have to correct your “Meet the Parents” line.
So the baby was crying earlier and the only thing that would calm her down was the Yatta song. This can mean nothing good.
I’m slipping lower into my Benadryl stupor. I want to get this quilt that I’m 80% done with completely quilted, though, so I can put the binding on it on our trip to New Orleans in 3 weeks. My friend A. sent me some pictures of some amazing quilts that her cousin made, and now I’m all inspired. I was disenchanted with the fabric that I’m working with and kinda quit quilting for the last month, but the sooner I can get it done, the sooner I can work with nicer fabric. I’m quite positive that this is interesting to nobody but myself. Who would have thought, 12 years ago when I was an utter wild child, that I would be ranting about breastfeeding and quilts? Not me.
The other night was warm and humid and the moon was out and it was one of those nights that reminded me of when I was just out of high school, up to no good… perhaps like the night that we snuck off and drank beer in a field and fell into a hole, or when I called up my dad to pretend like we were tired and going to bed but I was really at a payphone and there were cars going by and it sounded like, “Hi, Dad? (zooooooooooom) Yeah, it’s me, I’m over at A.’s house (honk honk) and we’re just going to go to bed early (screeeeeeech)”. That night we ended up driving out to the lake and going up and down the hills in the road really fast, so fast that it felt like a rollercoaster, and N. (who owned the car we were in) was chanting obscenities which I won’t repeat. We were with this really big Hispanic guy whose name I can’t remember to save my life, and he was teaching me the words to “Margaritaville”. This was the guy who had the hots for the aforementioned A. which always made her run in the opposite direction.
Who were those kids then? Who are these thirtysomethings that have replaced them? I’m married with 2 fantastic little girls and own a house, and all that is swell, don’t get me wrong, but I think I’m having that Talking Heads moment of epiphany where I say “How did I get here?… This is not my beautiful house!”.
I always get a little restless in springtime.
Or perhaps I’m just putting off working on my quilt.