Wednesday, August 31, 2005

What a difference a day makes

I realize with the catastrophic events that have been happening due South of here, it's a bit much for me to whine. But I will, anyway.

After all, less than a week ago, I was lounging at my ease on the sunny, yet not-too-hot New Hampshire seacoast, reading trashy novels and sucking down steamed lobster dunked in melted butter.

Now I'm in Illinois. I'm on Phase 1 of the South Beach Diet, because surprise! lobster has calories. My kids have gone back to school, so that whole species of torture has come roaring back to life. I've had two volunteer committee meetings already and there are three eight-inch high stacks of mail and various hand-outs on my desk (which was whistle-clean when I left for NH). The phone is ringing off the hook. The horror of overseeing my children's homework has already started.

I am really not ready for this.

On top of that, I went to the endodontist today to finish up a root canal, and while the experience was not the most painful I've ever had, I've spent the past few hours slurping down mug after mug of tea and wondering morosely why, when he was supposed to be working my tooth, did my endodontist see fit to leave my gums apparently novocaine-free, whereas my nose, upper lip, left cheek, and left eye were completely numbed to the point where I had to hide from the world because when I talked, I looked like a stroke victim.

And once more, he offered me no drugs. Bastid. And there is NO BOOZE on Phase 1 of South Beach.

Joke says his new car makes him feel as though he went to bed with Bo Derek and woke up with Bo Diddly. He was referring to a car he bought, but as Joke's car runneth (or runneth not, as the case may be) so runneth my life. I feel as though I answered a personal ad with a picture of Gary Cooper playing Beau Geste. But when my date showed up to pick me up, it was Beau Bridges playing himself.



  1. I'm-a-reBay the car. Look into doing something along parallel lines.


  2. You are too funny.

    And I'm witcha on the back to school blues. How the hell'm I supposed to know about Algebra 2? And then how am I supposed to get mad if my 14-year-old fails it when I can't even do it myself?

    Bo Derek to Bo Diddly. Har. I really want to use that one, but it might sound kind of weird coming from a chick.


Gentle Readers:

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xxx, Poppy.