Clearly I need a karmic tune-up. Therefore I sent several emails apologizing to people I’ve been avoiding.
Dear you, I am writing to say that I’m sorry for not touching base again about your client’s project. It sounded tedious and terrible, and I am sure you are a terrible person to work with as well. I trust you’ve found other options in my absence. Good riddance. Yours, Licketysplit.
Er. At least that was the subtext. And I would not really say “touching base.” That was just for effect.
I also volunteered to teach underprivileged children things. The program director responded enthusiastically, so this looks like a go. I am trying to figure out what underprivileged children might like to learn. They can teach me how to fashion a convincing shiv, and I can show them how to organize the extra buttons and thread you get with garments. I think I am going to have them write about their dumb lives, because who doesn’t like writing about his or her dumb life? They already do it all over the sides of buildings. Adorable urchins! Adorable!
I am also cleaning the house and doing the laundry, all by my lonesome. I gave Zellweger a whole week off. She’s in Tijuana. I hope she can hitchhike back in time to drop off the dry cleaning. There are flies circling that pile. For some reason, I just thought that last line in a Katharine Hepburn voice. Flies. Circling that pile. There are.
Later I plan to be very drunk.
Last night I shared a bed with a seven-year-old, a la Michael Jackson. Or not. But someone decided sleeping on the floor in a Disney Princess sleeping bag is scary, and our creepy old house is, well, creepy. Just because bats sometimes roost in the rafters, and the place is haunted. So we watched the bonus DVD of The Incredibles approximately twelve times until the whimpering stopped. For once, I’m not talking about Mr. H. His niece and nephew were over for a sleepover as part of a long-promised birthday gift for his brother. The rightful parents managed to sleep until 8:30 this morning, which is about two hours better than I did. Urchins! I mean choir of angels.
I’ve been thinking about children a lot since a close friend is soon to deliver (a human baby). I am reading a book called The Birth Partner in preparation for the big event. So far, reading has consisted of opening the book to an illustration and yelling “euuuuaaghhhh!” and then making Mr. H look at it. I think I’m supposed to be there to keep my friend from punching someone. Every time I see her, I stifle the urge to shriek “Boil some water!” or “I don’t know nuthin’ about birthin’ no babies!” But I keep it together because I know she’d hit me. And she’d have the right to give it back even worse some day. Perhaps when I’m sitting in the V.I.P. lounge at the airport, sipping a drink while my purchased child is trundled off the plane on the luggage conveyer. Oh. You say they let children fly in the main cabin these days? I wouldn’t know; I am always schnockered on tranquilizers during flights.
Oh, but I jest. Someday we may inadvertently create life. Scratch that, I am going to get so, so pregnant! Probably while drunk. I can’t wait to lie to a child of my own. I told li’l nephew to concentrate on turning on the DVD player with the power of his mind while Mr. H used the power of the remote to turn it on, and the kid totally bought it. Later, a woodchuck came up to the deck door. Nephew screeched “What’s THAT!” The animal released his bowels and ran off, and we told the lad it was a river chipmunk.
And this concludes another episode of Bad Idea Theatre.