I’m getting new business cards made up. In my mind, I am smart and capable and earn a fabulous living while balancing the needs of my family. My mind is a liar. Actually, I am behind on everything to the point where no one will ever call me again, not wearing pants (which meant I had to hide from Fed-Ex, thus vexing Mr. H, who is awaiting some shiny electronic jimcrack from Apple), and my ybab hates me. I know this because she stayed up all night plotting on how best to kick me in the abdomen. Oh, mummy, come closer…closer…just a little…WHAP. Now she’s sleeping the sleep of the guilty. Unfortunately, this is on the couch. If I move her, she will wake up. If I move, she will roll over and die somehow.
So I’m using this productive naptime to delete all my email. Currently, I’m expunging August 2004. Just try to subpoena me now! I don’t know what I’m trying to erase. Proof that my life used to be so much easier? At the time I did not think it was easy. I am a sucker. I will regret deleting later, but it feels so good at the time. I sort of regret throwing out all my concert ticket stubs and all my cassette tapes, but a little pain has a salutatory effect on the soul. Right? No, I am just an idiot. And when I want to hear that particular mix tape that contained that one song, I will not be able to do so.