Wednesday, October 1, 2008

"I ate your chocolate."

I don't think I believed that Jesse was going to abandon me until he called from the plane. I overhear the flight attendant say it's time to buckle up for safety. I've just finished a lesson on voting and my mind can't wrap around my husband's leaving. "I ate your chocolate," he says and then the phone goes dead. This is the last coffee scribbling I'll get until his return and I'm feeling very sorry for myself.


How could he do this to me? I'm sick! I have children! My computer buddy is coming to save my behiney at work by fixing the website and database and I have to have a clear head for that. The house is a mess. Most of all, I'm completely emotionally fragile - like that cracked old rib bone in the photo. I need Jesse to glue me back together. (In case you are some freak who doesn't know me and think this is your opportunity to come visit while the hubster is away, think again. He left his gun in my care. BANG! BANG! "I like you America." Get it?) And the worst part, the darkest chasm, the void he left can't even be filled with chocolate. The horror!

See the lovely little thank you note from Mz. Molly for helping with the Borton Community Garden's chicken coop? Some people may question my contribution, and Mz. Molly may have regretted my contribution, but I got the punk rock pink and black ribbon anyway. A la la la.

And lastly, on a wholly unrelated note, Max, who should totally start a blog of his poetry but doesn't just to hurt my feelings, was sighted at the intersection of Speedway and Alvernon. George would like to know when he started wearing glasses. And Max, thanks again for the three volume "mixed tape" CD collection of 80's "alternative" music. It's come in handy over the years.

5 comments:

  1. Well, now, you know good and well there's nothing I wouldn't do for you, but the conflicting messages of "blog your poetry" (once recent) and "I hate poetry" (chronically over the last decade) were too much for this lunkheaded midwestern weed-chewer to calculate. So there.

    So, what kind of ammo do you favor in that Sig .40? The FBI tells me hollow-points are colossally overrated. Are you sure the cozy from the Glock will fit anyway?

    Thanks for the pic. Too much caffeine.

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  2. I hate poetry. That doesn't mean you shouldn't start a poetry blog. Do it bi-otch!

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  3. The Mom-a-Tron shall not be denied. I'll try to get it started next week. At least pretend you like some of it.

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  4. I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.

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