As I write this, there is a sleepover going on in my home. It's only 7:40 p.m., so no sleeping is taking place, nor will there be any sleep for, oh, another 12 hours or so. No, scratch that. I will be sleeping. The Man, who gave the thumbs up to this gathering, will be supervising the activities from 10 p.m. on. If I'd had my way, there would be no sleepover. There would never be any sleepovers. But I so rarely have my way.
So far mostly it has been noisy, but no fisticuffs have broken out, so that's good news. Is Caleb (see last post) one of the kids? Yes, he is. How's he doing? Okay. He's a delightful kid in a lot of ways, but you can see him getting overeager for attention, and you can see how his eagerness could lead him into the abyss of boorish and downright antisocial behavior.
My strategy so far is to be loving and affectionate toward him. You're welcome here, is the vibe I'm trying to give out. No need to flush the dog down the toilet in an effort to be acknowledged.
I had a mammogram yesterday. There is something so outlandish about having a stranger pulling and pushing your breasts around in order to take a picture of them. It has the feel of a seedy photo shoot. "Just lean a little closer in, dear, good, now put your arm there, no, there, yes, that's right, now hold it right there, don't move, don't breathe, that's perfect!" And then the photographer manipulates the machine in a way that brings tears to your eyes and you don't dare look down for fear of what you might see. Gives new meaning to "flat as a pancake," is all I'm saying.
So remember back in March, when I participated in a yarn swap and was matched up with someone in Israel? Well, my package made it to Israel, but my partner's package never made it here. She is very concerned and wants to send another one. But that seems sort of wasteful to me. I mean, it was only a $10 swap, and, really, I don't care all that much.
Anyway, this is what always happens to me. When I was in 9th grade, we had a teacher new to the school, a young guy named Mr. Mott, who was quite cool and groovy and told us if you read a Bible printed a hundred years ago, it would be completely different from the Bibles printed in 1978, which is how you knew the Bible wasn't true. Anyway, he decided to set up a pen pal deal between his students back at his old school and us, his freshman English students. He had someone extra special for me, he promised, a boy who was a good writer, just like me, and who was super cool and funny. We were the perfect pen pal match.
Of course, I spent hours composing a perfect letter to this boy, a funny, clever letter, a charming, cool letter. I mailed it off and waited for what I was sure would be his equally funny, clever, charming and cool reply.
And of course, it never came.
Pen pal letters, swap packages, the Donny Osmond's Very Personal Scrapbook I found advertised in back of Tiger Beat when I was in third grade and sent away for (I gave my mom the money and she wrote a check--it was never cashed). Why do I even get involved in these ventures when they only serve to break my heart?
The Man is sitting across the room from me, at a loss as to what to do. You can tell he's regretting his decision. We are prisoners in our own home, he's thinking. How soon can we get these kids to sleep?
No one ever listens to me. Never, ever, ever.
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