Love, American Style

Oh, I guarantee fireworks this weekend! Just not the celebratory kind.

Well, let’s see now, it’s after 9 p.m. Friday and we still have only the vaguest plans on what to do with our week off. If the rest of the week looks anything like the past four hours it’ll be: Argue. Pout. Silence. Sarcasm. Meal Break. Snipe. Over react. Biting comments. Obvious overstatements. More Sarcasm. Sleep.

I shift into list-making mode. It certainly doesn’t mean that I won’t forget something hugely important, like my new camera, but it keeps me busy. By fostering the appearance of organization, I’ll look light years ahead of Mr. Don’t-Tell-Me-How-To-Pack. Who is always followed a few hundred miles down the road by the emergence of Mr.Where’s-My-Bathing-Suit-Do-You-Have-My-Toothbrush-I’ll-Buy-A-Bathing-Suit-Damnit, What’s-So-Funny?

Thanks to the poster who suggested throwing darts. I will! At Mr. Right.

Books. Must take books. Some people pact too many clothes, I pack too many books. (And return with more clothes than I left the house with, but hey, that’s a typical Tuesday for me.) So far: Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Little spiritual reading. Bucking the Sarge. Christopher Paul Curtis, good choice, most likely driving through Detroit. The Wright 3. Liked Chasing Vermeer. Rule of Four – Da Vinci Code done right? We’ll see. Finally, Man O’ War. Loved the horse, but as far as writing nothing on earth will ever hold a candle to Seabiscuit. Kind of makes you think a debilitating disease might improve your own writing…
Let’s face it; mine could use a mild case of mono…

To Be Continued