11.19.2004 - 3:04 p.m.
Well, here it is Friday and I'm looking at a lonely-ish sort of weekend - JB is driving down to Coos Bay today because tomorrow is the START! of Oregon's SECOND SEASON! meaning elk hunting season, meaning he's going to spend some quality time in the woods over the next several days. Toting a gun, wearing a hickory shirt, and probably sporting his godawful hat that says, no lie, "OREGON IS BIG COCK COUNTRY". I have dark suspicions as to whether or not he will also be chewing tobacco.
go back ::: forward
Much as I would love to accompany him and spend my days at the in-laws' house surreptitiously crossing my fingers for the elk, not that I don't, ha ha, support my husband in his sporting endeavor and all (run, elk! run like the wind!), I need to put in some time at Workplace next week, at least until Wednesday when I'll fly down to meet him for the holiday, which is NOT being hosted at my house this year, say thankya.
I've been thinking of activities to keep myself busy, and here's the list I've come up with so far:
- Finish up my Second Scarf, a nubbly sort of blue-green thing which is slowly getting interwoven with dog hairs.
- Hit the library, because yay! The library!
- Go see the movie about that cartoon sponge. What the hell, why not.
- Get down on my damn hands and knees and clean the ring around the fucking tub because JB made us cancel the cleaning people when Workplace stopped paying for it, WAH.
One thing I am NOT going to do is make cookies. Because I have been making sort of, um, a lot of cookies lately. And the cookies, they suck away my discipline. And leave behind fleshy globules of belly lard. Kind of a reverse liposuction deal. So no more cookies. Not even the oatmeal chocolate chip kind.
JB took Dog with him, since I couldn't exactly pack her into my carryon luggage next week, and although I'd rather have her around to keep me company I'm kind of glad, because when JB is gone Dog spends all of her time stationed two feet from the front door boring holes into it with her desperate, pining gaze, waiting endlessly for He Who Throws Frisbees. It gets kind of depressing after a while, having it made so abundantly clear where her loyalties lie. Well, and then there's Cat, to whom I am basically nothing more than a means to accessing the bag of salmon kibble. Lousy pets, I should skin them and make tiny throw rugs from their pelts.
I suppose I should get started on Christmas shopping, but who am I to break my annual tradition of ordering things online during the third week of December then panicking and offering up fervent prayers to the shipping gods that they arrive on time?
Tonight, when I get home and the house is dark and it feels all echoey and sad, I'm going to put on my pink-and-white striped Old Navy pajama bottoms, the ones with the giant saggy ass, I'm going to turn up the heat to 73, because no one can tell me not to, I'm going to put on Eminem's new CD and I'm going to turn it UP, and I'm going to the kitchen where I am totally NOT going to make cookies, unless by chance I have all the correct ingredients. You can't say I don't know how to party on a Friday night, by golly.