Dear Blogoverse:
Frankly, I'm a little down. I arrived home last night - the babe was a perfect freaking angel the whole time, honestly I think she has a traveling future - and yay, I'm home and back in control of my existence and with my sweet husband. But today he is at work all day with not even a lunch time visit, she is exhausting, the house is clean but not to it's bones you know? Like the surfaces need a serious wiping down and everything needs freshening. The sky is gray and it's hot and god, humid. I did not miss humid. The insects started their relentless summer buzzing while I was away, a sound that makes you just want lie down and fan yourself for awhile. It's positively sticky. I'm sure the heat and the sticky and the buzz would bring pleasurable childhood memories for many but I've just come from the hot dry of my own childhood and it's just too too - too jungle and wet and buggy and warm. And I already miss my family. And not having friends to come back to sucks as well. And not being able to think of one place you're eager to see after 2.5 weeks is a clue that you're living in the wrong place, right? Because I should take Simone for a walk but then I think defeatedly "oh to where". When I come back from Edmonton longing for the "big city" you know there is something wrong with the picture. I am wallowing in sadness while wiping down kitchen cabinets. This too shall pass.
In answer to Myra Lee's question, the list of items my Mom urged I buy at the thrift store was merely the items that made the final cut - oh our baskets were overflowing with so many other treasures. And here is a quote at random from "Should a Christian Listen to Popular Music":
"Pop music causes its victims to shed crocodile tears - synthetic tears. There is no genuineness - both tears and laughter are false. The woman of the home used to rock the cradle, now she rocks the boat because of her love affairs. The pop song is a synthetic product bespattered by the mire of the city thoroughfares. Pop songs belong to the streetwalker, the end product of a civilization advancing at a fast tempo to its doom. The sacred song is genuine; pop song is a hothouse breed. The sacred song is a fresh prairie flower; pop music is as the poisonous fume rising from an ungodly stew."
That was purely at random, every page is full of such choice morsels. Dig the woman bashing. Must go and clean and open my unfun mail like the stack of bills waiting for me.
With le heavy sigh,
Me