Little m Long a

My right eye has been twitching for the last three days.  Like an itchy trigger finger only I don’t have a gun and the eye thing is a bit more creepy.  Maybe its’ some sort of deficiency.  I ate a banana but it didn’t stop.  Understand it’s out of my control should we happen to cross paths.  I’m not being coquettish.

The  fleur de lis is lonely.  Want is there — design is not.  Permanence makes it matter.

My summer is taking shape and yet, two days ago I had to turn the heater back on.  That’s just not right.  And the grass needs mowed.  Again.  It’s not even April.  The business of springtime has me yearning for the summer I’ve got planned.  Busy in it’s own right but immensely more enjoyable.  Not that cheering my kids in their respective athletic endeavors this spring will not bring me utmost satisfaction, it certainly will.

I just happen to feel that watching my kids frolic along the sandy beaches of a Caribbean island as Maura and I sip mai tai’s is going to rank slightly higher on the pleasure scale.

I’m that guy.  Hate me if you must.

The twitchy eye could mean that I just don’t care.

There are sticky notes covering my desk.  They all have numbers on them.  Figures really.  Mostly.  And without any solid frame of reference, I have no idea what they mean.  One contains a listing of dates.  Just dates.  Nothing else.  I have an inkling that I was supposed to have entered them on a calendar.  But without a corresponding event, the date is just a date and if memory serves, a calendar already contains dates.  It’s the very basis of the thing.

My head swirls, dizzied by chaos passing itself as order in my life.

I need bread because the dog still has antibiotics.  Shit like that makes total sense to me.

I’m pondering/planning a family vacation this summer.  Actually, we’ve got plans.  I’m augmenting them with awesomeness.  But then, aren’t planned plans always awesome?  I need a feasibility study.  But I have no idea what a feasibility study is.  Or how to use one.  My problem with planning ahead is that I tend to mentally check out in anticipation of the awesomeness that is travel with my family.  We’re not going anywhere until July.  I have a feeling that checking out now will be frowned upon.

The school just called me.  Zoë has a sore throat.  I knew that when I sent her in this morning.  Buck up kid, I’ve got laundry to fold.

I ate a kangaroo this weekend.  It was delicious.

I bought a new flash for my camera which I’m still learning how to use.

That’s dangling.

But not.

Somehow, I thought this was going to be more difficult.

Zander (singing to himself in the back of the car):  It was not your fault but mine.  It was your heart on the line.  I really fucked it up this time….

Zella:  Zander!!  You can’t say that!!  It’s a bad word.

Zander:  What’s a bad word?

Zella:  Fuck.  You can’t say fuck!

Zander:  I didn’t.

Zella:  Yes you did, Zander.  You said, “I really fucked it up this time.”  And you can’t say that because fuck is a bad word.

Zander:  Oh.

(And then after a few seconds of pondering…)

Me:  Zella, do you realize how many times you just said the bad word?

Zella:  Well…..it was Zander’s fault.

Welcome to my world!

The conversation took place about six months ago.  I wrote it down back then as best I could recall, but I never posted.  No good reason.  I just didn’t.  Seems I’ve done that quite a bit over the last several months.  Not posted.

No good reason.  I just didn’t.

Maybe there are reasons….

It was crisp this morning, 37 degrees, but it didn’t feel as cold as it actually was.

Funny how a little bit on sunshine can do that to you.