|The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.)||The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.)||The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.)|
I don't even know where to begin.
I'm sitting at home in front of the computer when I should be sitting at work in front of the computer. Research day is in two days and I have a presentation that is about a third of a presentation and I need to be working on it instead of whining online. So what am I doing?
I'm whining online.
My allergies have made me a sneezy, drippy mess. The allergy pills I take make me a sneezy, drippy, spaced-out mess. I've been wandering around the house, blowing my nose into anything that doesn't move, or that doesn't move too fast. My whole life is watery snot.
Oh. I just talked to MayFlower. Enforcer hubby left her this past weekend to quote go and stay with his dad for a while end quote. It's ovah, honey. He's been working up to this for a while. Knowing MayFlower, I don't blame him at all. She's a mess. She's a mess who drags down other people. I am still trying to sort out just exactly why I am her friend. (I'm sorry. I really should try to be more sympathetic. I'm just not feeling it in my heart though, you know.)
M. and I drove with grandma down to silver this weekend. Ten hours in the car with grandma is someone's idea of hell. (Not mine, grandma, really.) Though, this trip she wasn't too bad. She's much, much worse on short trips. I can't figure it out. I think perhaps that it's because she fears for her life on long trips. It's not even that M. is a bad driver. He isn't. It's just the trip length. (Jeez, am I going on about trip length? That allergy med rears its ugly head.)
M. is at work now, and I just had an Amy's brocolli and cheese pocket and a banana for breakfast/lunch. I'm also drinking from my big water bottle. Sadly, on the return trip yesterday I let my niece drink from it and she was wearing some blueberry lipgloss. Now, despite my washing it, it still reeks of fake blueberry.
The office cleaning saga goes on. I have finished the major shelves, and most of the minor shelves, reorganized the family photos, dusted. What is left is: my desk (upon which I have been piling those pesky little stray bits that have no true homes and accumulate all over the place), the floor (which is strewn with the leavings of a collage project from last semester and, for whatever reason, about seventy pennies), the counter to the left of my desk (which is home to our television set and vcr, both of which have not been plugged in since we moved in last Oct., a stack of photos sans albums, some boxed games that I never play and can't seem to get rid of, an entire plastic storage bin of videos, and several assorted clay pieces which need a permanent home). That's it. For me, that's practically spotless.