October, and it's very scary around here.
I got a good look at how many cobwebs are everywhere in the house. It's all coming back to me that I don't think I've dusted since 2004. And the 'sponged' paint job in the upstairs hall--that I thought was to die for seven years ago--really is to die for in 2009. I must repaint before the end of this year. Something soothing, happy, spa-like, and California cool.
Yesterday on the Sabbath, I looked truly ghoulish. But it would have been better if I'd meant to look that way. Or if I'd discovered it before leaving the house for church.
unclasped, half zippered skirt.
paint in hair
lipstick on teeth
deodorant on blouse
I'm happy nobody screamed when they saw me coming down the hall. --Pretty sure I should'a been given a heads-up by a loved one, on my appearance.
Let the masses know, --that when a person has spinach in their teeth or toilet paper on their heel . . you should tell them. The same goes for dresses unlatched and zippers down, k? If I'm missing a shoe, have my shirt on inside-out, or gum on my lapel, --please, be kind enough to take me aside and enlighten. Is that too much to ask?
(I hear Hubby snicker as I write these instructions, because for him corrections to my person are a no-win.)
(Point taken. So I suppose the men should all stay out of this. Unless there's roast beef or nooky involved, you're not really paying that much attention anyhow, right?)
Scary that all my blogs have some sad, pathetic, or embarrassing story to tell, and every other American homemaker's blog belongs in Country Living magazine for it's adorableness, or on Good Morning America for it's flawless family'ness. Perfect blogs make coveting shivers run up and down my spine.
Doggy fur is everywhere. She is brushed and brushed and still she sheds. Part Werewolf, do you suppose? The air has become so thick with pet fuzz, I don't know whether to rake autumn leaves, or my family room couch.
I'm old. I'm an old, old fart. And like a witch.
Something was plucked, from some where on my body, at some length, that I can't even share with you -- or you would have nightmares through to next October.
I'm taking a Modern Art course. I recognize my butt looks like a Picasso. Trick? Or Treat?
Wicked. My tub is wicked. If I don't clean it tomorrow - I will ship it to LAPD Forensics for lab-work studies. A gift from me to them. You know, like how people donate cadavers for greater learning? For all their skill, I will still have to attach a little note that reads, "Yes, this is a tub."
The best I can hope for is that maybe by Christmas, at least some of the scare here will be covered by pine needles, candle wax, or goodwill. Because what I'll do to a kitchen at Thanksgiving, will be nothing short of horrifying.