Meandering mornings, full of net surfing. I sip tea and answer personal email. I browse through house listings, looking at houses in the cities where we’re hoping to live someday very soon. I look at my hands, and realize I’m desperate for a manicure. We do not discuss the state of my toes.
Music from Fuzzy’s bathroom, made too loud and indistinct by the shape and size of the room, and the ceramic tiles on the walls, assaults my ears. I could turn on my own music, drown his out, but the volume this would require would distress the dogs.
My mother, distracted, frenetic, generous, but often self-absorbed. There are qualities she has which I lack, and long for, and others that I’m developing against my will. Isn’t that normal with all mothers and daughters. If I ever have a daughter, will she one day feel the same?
Mini-mansions on the brain, these oversized lofty Texas houses that are so intriguing. Fuzzy loves them, and I like the light, the kitchens, but they seem so cold, so austere, so formal, and while I like small doses of foofyness, I also think houses should be comfortable and lived-in. The house that strikes me most is older, more traditional, with a corner lot and dormer windows. Funky, but functional. How to convince him?
Mowers, on every lawn but ours, as Fuzzy hasn’t yet begun weekend chores. I like the way their sound embodies peaceful domesticity.
Monthly dinner, with friends who live not two exits away, but whom we communicate with via email and instant messaging. I’m equally at fault in this distanced connecting. Still, the gatherings are fun, comfortable. I’m even beginning to talk more.
Musing…my head is filled with possibilities. My parents think I should focus my writing, and submit stuff to magazines. I think they’re being less than objective, much as I want to try.
Mocha. I think I’ll get one now.