Why do I leave so much to the last minute? I have a ton of cleaning and cooking to do, and naturally I let most of the day slip away without doing very much of it. It's going to be tough to convince myself to finish cleaning before bed. The last time I lived in Oklahoma, that was actually my favorite time for it. The kids would be in bed, and the house was quiet, and I'd be doing dishes at midnight. It was nice meditative time, very zen. That was over ten years ago. I need to try and summon the energy of a much younger woman to do that tonight.
Last year I cut a big arrangement of roses on the day of the Kentucky Derby, and taught myself how to make a mint julep with fresh mint from my deck herb garden. This year, I'm bringing over a couple girlfriends, and making a bigger production of it. I found a rose pink dress to wear, and I made myself an extravagant hat from a little straw boater I found at Target, some sheer ribbon, and a mass of roses from outside. I hope I managed to get enough water into the floral foam before I started loading it up. Probably not. But the hat only has to make it about 24 hours, and then it will live on in photographs. It weighs a ton, and it smells divine. It was quite a trick loading up the foam, without piercing my fingers on the tiny thorns.
I don't think I have had focus or energy since I wasted an hour sitting in the cell phone store, wanting someone to tell my why my phone has been so glitchy since they pushed a big software update last week. I didn't learn much. The kid couldn't tell me why it told me I was losing connectivity from data roaming either. There was nothing on the bill to back up the notification. I shouldn't have bothered. I could have used the daylight work time here. Too late now. Once I finally went home, I spent the entire drive wrapped up in thoughts of that book I started and shelved last fall. It's set in a house much like my grandparents had, so as I ponder working on it again, my grandparents have been on my mind. I was especially focused on my grandmother, and as the song on the radio loudly chanted "reach out and touch me," I looked up to see a car pull even with me. It was an old silver sedan, and at first I thought it was a dead ringer for the car my grandmother drove in the 1970s. I eventually clued in that it was a Chevy Malibu, not a Pontiac LeMans, but the effect was much the same. It felt like a sign. The problem was, if there was a message included in that sign, it was unclear. What might it mean? Aw, forget it. I need to go do dishes.
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