B is for Blues

Woah! Didn't mean to take such a long posting hiatus. We were playing host to my mom, my sister and my two most excellent nephews for a week. Then I plunged into such deep depression after they left I was unable to do anything other than languish in my boudoir, stuffing my face with Green & Black's chocolate-caramel bars. Then it was the Fourth and of course the bloody World Cup is on... Okay, the truth is, I have been avoiding you, Internet. I see you come walking down the street and I duck behind a tree until you pass. I just don't know what to say to you these days. 

I am in the midst of such a bewildering identity crisis that it is very hard to sit down and hammer out anything here that makes much sense. At least I think that's what it is. It could also be the heat. Or the rain. But I am pretty sure that it's the fact that I feel like such a stranger in my own life that all confidence in my ability to describe it has evaporated. Every time I try to think of what I would like to write about I draw an absolute blank. The old rhythms are gone and my mojo is definitely all f*cked to hell. Please bear with me, Gentle Reader. I will get the hang of this place and where I fit in it and then my incisive, though-provoking prose and dry, sparkling wit (huh?) will be back. Or I'll just pack it in and save my hosting-fee money for new boobs.

In short, we are doing okay. We still have so much unpacking to do that it's starting to feel outrageous. Really. Even to me and I have some unpacked boxes from two moves ago that I schlepped here. I know myself, I expected the worst and yet we have exceeded my expectations. I feel bad because outside of family (and honestly, really just outside of my family since my side is all a bunch of pathological packrats) I feel like we can't invite people to see the place. Of course our friends could give a crap (especially since most have seen how we live and they're still our friends) but I feel like somehow we should be able to make it look at least, you know, inhabited, instead of like a big-a** storage unit before we show it off. Agh. Something will have to change though, as I am starting to feel nauseated by the smell of cardboard. On a positive note, my sister helped me figure out my sewing machine while she was here and I am feeling like I will actually be able to make some curtains and pillows and such. (Except that I will probably procrastinate doing that and blog instead...) I watched an entire HGTV show about slipcovers today during naptime and got seriously excited. See? Am I supposed to tell you that? Is this what I am supposed to blog about now? Slipcover lust? Holy f*ck. I guess it's better than poop, but still. Who am I? Is there any discernable edge left? If so, can I hot glue some tassle fringe to it?

Comments

[Mignon]

What did the slipcovers look like?

(I feel you on the identity crisis thing. I think better when I'm cold or something. And also when my mind isn't numbed by trying to remember which box the cheese grater is in... Let's just wait it out together, mkay?)

[mom]

What? There were Chocolate and Caramel bars??!!!

[LetterB]

The slipcovers looked like buttah, Mignon. Buttah.

Mom, you can get them down there. I am sure of it. When you find them, please send me a case. Thanks.

[Feral Mom]

I feel your bloggin pain. I'm dried up too, because my present life is so, well, pleasant. I've decided to go bloggin' down memory lane instead, which might be an option to consider. Not to discourage a post on slipcover lust, though, because that? Would be hot.

[jess]

I've missed you! Slipcovers huh? Let it rip (a post), that's what i say.

[LetterB]

You guys are so great. Okay, hot, lusty slipcover post coming right up.