But thank you for thinking that there might be even the smallest shred of possibility that it would be allowed.
They barely let me become a minister, you know?
You guys are too cute, though. Someone DM’d me yesterday re: yesterday’s post wherein I said that I’ve lived alone for 15 years.
That just means I’ve lived alone for 15 years. It doesn’t mean that I haven’t dated or had sex in 15 years. (Or contemplated marriage again — if you recall Mob Guy #2’s sudden reappearance from the Bronx last summer wherein a friend from NYC had to vigorously shake me and shout: “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” ) (And I want to just point out here, people, that yes, I am out of my fucking mind. That part is always a given. I’m out of my fucking mind. That should just always be the platform from which you then spring into actual questions. Otherwise, you’re only wasting my time.)
However, “living alone for 15 years” mostly just means that those Hillbilly-Deluxe guys who are nothing but trouble, who I can still see coming from 5 miles away (they are all over Muskingum County, gang — to the rafters, and they come in all sorts of age ranges now, including grandpa-range ) I just won’t even look twice at guys like that anymore.
Okay, I look twice. Because I’m not dead. But that third time — not happening. Anymore. I got too much to do.
And when I do sometimes slip into that third look — you know, right away, it turns into whisky, it turns into unfiltered cigarettes, it turns into stupidly expensive black underwear. (And I don’t drink and smoke anymore so it makes me really sick in the morning, even though, you know, I still look really good in black.)
But I got too much to do! I’m so serious!
Today is a big day! Yes, that means that I’m going to wash my hair! And I have new hair-volumizing products from France that are super cool. They actually work! At the roots! Where I need volume. It’s made from organic molecular quinoa something-or-other. I don’t actually know because the key descriptive words are all in French. And I never studied molecular French, just the conversational kind of French. But, anyway, it works.
Which reminds me that Kara keeps inquiring how I’m doing with my cellulite — referring to that ridiculously expensive cream from that same company in France that offered me that tube for free if I would just purchase one at a reduced price. So I did. Even though I honestly don’t care about my cellulite. However, I’ve postponed that experiment until Fall because it turns out that the cream is really thick and the constant humidity here in the Hinterlands all summer long is thick enough. I don’t need to sweat my entire life away.
Some glorious fall day, though, we’ll see. But Kara is too cute. She keeps assuring me not to worry about it and that European women have all that cellulite and it’s really chic. Which just cracks me up. I don’t recall ever seeing a bunch of chic European women with a bunch of cellulite. But then, you know, I’m actually never looking.
So that is today! Wash hair. Write. Do yoga. Repeat.
I’m gonna scoot now and get Sunday happening around here. The church bells are ringing outside my window as I type! (Yes, the village is tiny enough that I can not only hear the church bells through my open window, but I can also look out the open window and see the actual church. I just love that!)
I’m gonna leave you with this song that just now occurred to me. It was popular on the AM radio when I was about 12. It has a really fun chorus, even though I never actually went for that kind of bait. Not even at age 12. Okay. Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys. See ya!
“I Hear Those Church Bells Ringing”
c – 1972 Irwin Levine, L. Russell Brown