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sublingua | |||||
| 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.) | |||
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The Demon Who Only Thinks About Herself
Lunch planned for today with Max, Ladas, Who's Your Favorite Jimmy?, and heaven knows who else. The ChicaLadas is interested in going to this chain restaurant for lunch, and we have to let her pick because she rarely comes out to dine with us. (I like her very much. She has a very self-deprecating attitude, is very practical, and if I were going to put together a mom from scratch, I'd probably end up with something like her--which is good, considering that she has five kids. However, there is still the sad penchant she has for chain restaurants. I'd not keep that. My ideal mom would be cool enough to enjoy ethnic food. And, yes, I realize what a strange turn this entry has taken...) I thought about inviting x to lunch, but I think I'll see if he wants to take in a movie later this afternoon. x loves movies, and this may lure him out and convince him that answering Sophistica's calls is imperative. (Not that that plan follows any sort of logical progression, but I'm thinking it's so crazy that it just might work.)
There is a shower to be taken, and possibly a nap, as I was up way, way too early. And it's been an oddly upsetting morning, a state I could attribute to PMS if I were a logical woman, but which I am going to go ahead and attribute to ESP (because if you're looking for an acronym-ical explanation, it seems the way to go.) And there is still xmas shopping to be done. And not the good kind: not the kind that nets ME xmas presents (like the fab little black shirt I bought from Buffalo last night), but that nets cool things that pass too soon from my hands into the hands of my beloved others. This is very short and nonsensical, but I haven't much time this morning on the computer in Max's office. (We are still, sadly, sans a hard-drive in the computah at home.) I want to rush out of here before anyone else gets in, as I look like merde. Merde in sweats and running shoes no less.
More lies:
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