blah, blah, blah

i have a tendency to babble

I’m sitting here at my computer with my phone up to my ear trying to reach the travel agency to book a flight for Eric. The line is continually busy, so every few words I have to stop typing, hit “off” and then “redial.”

Hey!– I just got in.

I’m buying tickets for Eric to go home for the holidays. Eric has promised to repay me for my efforts by bringing home lunch today. Woo-hoo!

So right now I’m writing in my online diary while downloading flight fares while on-hold with a travel agency, while answering another call on the other line. Technology rules.

I just don’t want to talk about the show right now… I’m not sure what’s going to happen with it. We may do it, we may not..

Travel guy on the phone…

Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn.

I knew it! Last night we found some really cheap fares online, but no one was answering the phone number, so Eric said, “I’ll just call tomorrow.” And I said, “You should try tonight, in case it fills up.” And he said, “Forget it. They’ll be there tomorrow.”

Today: They have gone up $200. I don’t have the money to get them this afternoon. My mission has been blown. I don’t know what to do. Shit.

Less than twelve hours sure can make a difference in air fare. Sucks.

My mission has failed.

So, today will be sort of an easy day, cleaning and stuff… and then I have to do the show again tonight. It’s parent’s weekend around here for UT, so hopefully we’ll have a good house. But it could mean it’s empty. You never really know, you know?

Oh yeah–


Last Night’s Scrabble Tally: games played: 1 games won: 1Are you guys sick of hearing this? I only tell you because no one around here wants to hear it. My friend who doesn’t play Scrabble with us was here last night watching us play and decided that we are officially old and boring whenever we play this game. “Sad dorks,” or something like that. I guess I can understand, if you don’t have the desire to play, the game looks pretty geeky.

I remember when I was a kid that the best television was on Saturday. Now that I’m older, I can’t find one thing that I would like to watch. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that now I sleep through all the cartoons, and now when I wake up it’s only football.

Everyone seems to be very excited when they come over to my house and find the bottle of antibiotics that I am taking. Because the bottle is loaded with all these warning stickers (finish the bottle, no drinking, no refills–), but their favorite is “May cause discoloration of the urine or feces.” Everyone wants to know what color I’m peeing these days. I tell them it’s sort of straw-colored, but sometimes (usually in the mornings) it’s a nice Tang orange. Why everyone wants to know, I couldn’t tell you. But now you know, too, in case you were wondering.

I can’t believe how disgustingly messy my house can get within a couple of days. Really. I never thought of myself as a slob, but I guess my mother was right. I live in a pigsty. I’ve got to stop living like an animal.

But I clean it, and it just gets terribly messy within a day or so.

“When you take something out, put it back when you’re done with it.”

I know, Mom, I know. I’m just so busy.

“Well, if you’re too busy to put it back, you should be too busy to take it out.”

Well, that doesn’t make much sense. I have time to cook, but when the pan’s all hot, I don’t want to put it back until it cools down and by then I’ve forgotten about it.

“Never go to sleep with a messy house.”

That sort of kills all romantic abandon, doesn’t it?

“Who’s going to clean up after you when you don’t live with me anymore?”

I bought the cats little aprons and vacuums, but they don’t seem to be getting into it.


Why are you always right?


mom’s keys

a story about deception.

“Where did you hide my keys?”

My mother always loses her keys. All the time. She’ll walk into the house, drop them somewhere, and not think about them again until it’s time for her to leave the house the next time. They’ve turned up on bookcases, in kitchen cabinets, in laundry piles, between couch cushions, on the sink, in the garage… she just sort of drops them places. Well, she’s always looking for her keys, and one of the last times I went home I was watching her do the the key-finding-ritual and I started giggling.

“What is your problem?”

“You always lose your keys.”

“Well, if you keep hiding them from me, I’ll keep losing them.”

“Oh, my sister told you?”


I don’t know what inspired me to tell this story, but somehow it has backfired on me tremendously…

“I taught her to hide your keys when she was a little girl.”


“Well, it was funny when you couldn’t find your keys when we were kids, because then we’d be late for school or we wouldn’t have to go to the bank or whatever, so every day– I guess now out of habit– she hides your keys in a different spot when you come home.”

I thought she was going to start laughing here and tell me that I’m not funny. Instead:

“I KNEW IT! I knew I couldn’t keep losing my keys like that. Oh, is she going to get it when she comes home.”

“Mom, I’m just kidding. We don’t hide your keys.”

“Oh, it’s too late now, Pamela. You can’t just take back that story. Everything makes sense now.”

“What makes sense? You really think that she hides your keys each and every day because I taught her to do it when she was six?”

“Yes. It makes perfect sense. Oh! I knew it! Where does she usually hide them? I’ll page her and ask her where they are. I knew it.”

And to this day, she still thinks that whenever she can’t find her keys that my sister has hidden them somewhere because of some sort of Pavlovian response to the sound of a key in a lock.

I have to be more careful with my stories.

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