So I’ve set up an “open house” for Saturday. Doesn’t that sound rather tacky? For some reason I’m almost apologetic about it, but my schedule just doesn’t allow inviting the 20 or so people who’ve responded to the ad over in different time slots. So I’m going to tuck myself up on the couch and knit and let people look around. Weird, weird, weird. And I have to work a fourteen hour shift on Friday night, from 7pm to 9am, come home, get a three hour nap, and up at 1pm to do the last bit of tidying. I’m tempted to pull a Mrs. Fields and bake something so the house smells homey and chocolately. All right, now THAT would be tacky. But I might stoop.
Sleepy. Completely uninteresting. My car is making brake-squealing noises (I love how my Petunia has never had one problem in her ten-year life, and only started asking me for money as soon as I started home-shopping) and I need to take it in on my way to work tonight. There’s something in me that actually likes to leave my car behind me while I take off on foot. Granted, it’s only leaving it at the shop and walking to work. But it makes me feel a tiny bit less reliant on my wheels. I am Californian. I have to have a car. I hate it, but it’s true. I asked Em, “Do you even KNOW anyone at home who has a car?” She thought about it and said, “I think I USED to. But not anymore.” Now that’s cool. And responsible. I’m really neither.
(I also really like the feeling I had once where I packed my suitcase, walked out my front door, down to BART, which took me to the airplane, which took me to Italy. It felt like I was walking out of the country. I can’t explain it more than that. But I like to start a trip on my own two feet, not speeding down a highway. Y’know?)
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