As usual, none of this is MY fault. I really had moved to the stage of acceptance of the “charm” of old house life – the smallish yet tallish rooms, the quirky corners, the cobwebs that spawn overnight.
Let me state, for the record, what has long been suspected and recently proven: I am not a trooper. Trooper.
It is not so much I mind having chosen a career path so vague as to rank somewhere below “illegal alien bus boy” in terms of status, but rather, I get no respect for doing it from my home that really rankles my soul.
Where’s Internet privacy when you need it? Forget about snoops grabbing my credit card numbers or reading my e-mails.
I think we all know by now my opinion on back-to-school clothing. Namely, that the only thing missing from most back-to-school fashion collections for even the youngest children is a dimly lit stage and a pole.
You just never know when you’ll have a brush with greatness, or in my case, great fear. As near as I remember, I was cleaning a high shelf in the bathroom when there was a flash of movement, a flutter, and my momentary thought “oh, why is there a big leaf up here?” before the “leaf” became coherent enough to make a beeline (bat line?) for my hair.
Regarding the subject of etiquette, I once read that rules for social behavior don’t exist to control people, but rather to make everyone feel comfortable.
I think that I shall never hear the term “tourist season” without imagining the term being akin withs, say, “deer season,” “duck season,” or “open season.
There is a certain comfort to be taken in the knowledge that some things are probably never going to change.
The world at large is always nattering on about how beauty is only “skin deep”, but as far as I’m concerned, that’s plenty deep enough.