The word of the day is "pootling." I cannot tell you what it means, since I'm about positive
made it up. It seems to be roughly synonymous with puttering, only more fun to say. Plus, I theorize that the infinitive would be "to pootle," and I'm pretty sure that if someone said that to me while I was drinking a beverage, I would bust up and spit it all over them. Which is a good example of why people should not say funny things to me while I am stuffing my face.
Now that we've established my fondness for made-up words, I can say that I spent the day pootling. I can't wait to do it a whole bunch more. Anyway, I left town on a shopping mission. I only shop with a mission. Except at bookstores, record stores and Target, where I am weak. Today's goal was baby shower gifts and summer clothes. I found shorts on sale. This was good. But the baby clothes. Oh. My. Mom did the shopping for the last two showers, and it was only after I was surrounded by rack after rack of tiny things that I realized I had no idea what to get or where to start. Everything was so freaking cute. I picked out little duck-print onesies and agonized over which fuzzy blanket to get. Hats or washcloths? Pacifiers or toys? Will a terry robe still fit by the time it's cold enough for the kid to need it? I could have gone wild buying little blue things printed with smiley whales and labeled "little squirt."
In short, I turned into a girly, sentimental pile of mush over things that the baby is going to spit up on, poop on and outgrow within three months.
But it was fun.
Songs to which I have been listening over and over and over:"Wait," Death Cab for Cutie
"Dramamine," Modest Mouse
"One," U2
"This House is Not For Sale," Ryan Adams
"Play," The Cure
"That's The Way Love Goes," Janet Jackson
"Wake Me When It's Over," Longwave
"Sweetness Follows," R.E.M.
"Central Reservation," Beth Orton
"Lodestar," Sarah Harmer
"Red Rubber Ball," Simon and Garfunkel
"Sleeping In," The Postal Service
"Build That Wall," Aimee Mann
Saturday, June 19
Everything you knew for sureThe road trip is on; the route has yet to be determined.
The scale was nice.
Yesterday was the best payday EVER.
My refrigerator is packed with luscious home-grown produce, courtesy of my parents' green thumbs.
Summer has come, and it's not even July.
The people who invented package tracking are sadists.
I need new clothes.
The Naked Chef is hot. Although not naked.
I have developed a strange fascination with
Newlyweds.
There can be few things more gratifying than lying in bed in your underwear at 1 a.m. with a good book, good music, candles burning, and a warm summer breeze floating in the window.
It's way too nice for me to be sitting in front of this computer any longer.
Song: Longwave, "Wake Me When It's Over"
Wednesday, June 9
Sometimes I can't escape from my room
These days, when I think about writing, the only word that pops into my head is "work." Which constitutes most of what I'm doing with my time these days. I'm about to reschedule this year's road trip for the third time, and I'm beginning to despair of ever finding a time to take it. Picking a week off was a lot easier last year, when half a state and conflicting work schedules weren't standing between me and my co-pilot. But squished into the precious hours wherein I was not working or performing various subsistence-related activities were the following events:
- Escaping work with two of my cohorts in time for the midnight showing of "Harry Potter," which was well worth staying up until 2:30 a.m. for.
- Playing an amusing game of tennis, in which I discovered that I can still hit a tennis ball, but I can't be bothered to keep it on one court. 'Cause where's the fun in that?
- Having a conversation with M. in which we both confessed that we wish we were married. Which would be rad if we wanted to be married to each other.
- Dreaming that the toilet was in the refrigerator. I have no explanation for this.
- Watching a lot of baseball on TV. I used to think baseball was the second most boring sport ever, behind golf, which has no redeeming qualities as a spectator sport, but suddenly I find it intriguing. I have no explanation for this, either.
I am so boring I have made myself sleepy just writing this. However, I hold out hope that someday soon, something exciting will happen, such as a hot boy sweeping me off my feet at Safeway.
It could happen.
Song: Death Cab for Cutie, "Wait"
