Plaintive Housewife
After years of eating too much food, I am too fat. My mirror tells me this, my kids say so, my doctor confirms it--even the newspaper has announced it Obesity Continues to Expand, [har har har, goddamn sports headline writers at work.]
And yet I just made a peach blueberry pie (with a bit of lime peel and blueberries I picked and froze last month). There is something wrong with this picture. Perhaps I will take it to Mirza when I go visit her later.
No, I won't.
The boys are busy, so I came to my own computer to do a spot of writing.
A soft night breeze tugged at the bottom of her dressing gown. The French doors had been flung open and . . .
"MOM. It's my turn and he won't get off the computer. It's my turn . . . Hey, what are you writing? Ew, is that a sex one? Yuck. "
Good point. I better switch to a non-sex one.
. . . He lowered himself carefully onto the chair. "A thoroughly dull existence, slavery. So tell me. What brings you to this godforsaken backwater?"
She ignored the question. “Good God. How on earth did you allow yourself to be captured by traders?”
“A bad bet.”
“I can only imagine.” She wrapped her black professional’s robe tight around her to block the draft seeping under the door. “Well. No point in pushing you two out, is there. Tomorrow you’ll leave.”
"Mommmmmm, I'm HUNGRY. I don't want noodles. NOT PEANUT BUTTER AGAIN. Do we have any bagels? Mom? Huh? When's lunch? It's past lunchtime."
Right. That's it. I'm leaving the characters and their drafty doorways. I'll finish this entry and then make lunch. The house smells like fresh pie but it's too hot. Idiot idea, baking in August. The weather man promised it wouldn't head higher than 75 but he lied again.
Later I'll eat pie and then slap my butt and mutter about fatness.
Here're some more sox.
And yet I just made a peach blueberry pie (with a bit of lime peel and blueberries I picked and froze last month). There is something wrong with this picture. Perhaps I will take it to Mirza when I go visit her later.
No, I won't.
The boys are busy, so I came to my own computer to do a spot of writing.
A soft night breeze tugged at the bottom of her dressing gown. The French doors had been flung open and . . .
"MOM. It's my turn and he won't get off the computer. It's my turn . . . Hey, what are you writing? Ew, is that a sex one? Yuck. "
Good point. I better switch to a non-sex one.
. . . He lowered himself carefully onto the chair. "A thoroughly dull existence, slavery. So tell me. What brings you to this godforsaken backwater?"
She ignored the question. “Good God. How on earth did you allow yourself to be captured by traders?”
“A bad bet.”
“I can only imagine.” She wrapped her black professional’s robe tight around her to block the draft seeping under the door. “Well. No point in pushing you two out, is there. Tomorrow you’ll leave.”
"Mommmmmm, I'm HUNGRY. I don't want noodles. NOT PEANUT BUTTER AGAIN. Do we have any bagels? Mom? Huh? When's lunch? It's past lunchtime."
Right. That's it. I'm leaving the characters and their drafty doorways. I'll finish this entry and then make lunch. The house smells like fresh pie but it's too hot. Idiot idea, baking in August. The weather man promised it wouldn't head higher than 75 but he lied again.
Later I'll eat pie and then slap my butt and mutter about fatness.
Here're some more sox.
Sounds like my household and exactly the reason I prefer to write when the kids are either at school or asleep.
ReplyDelete