Nothing to do with crafting at all.

Today I skipped merrily out of Relaxation class into the rain after figuring out that we were simply going to lie there for 45 minutes. I am not interested in getting a sore back just to have 45 minutes of "sleep" in the dance studio. Others were excited since they had no additional homework and multiple classes after that one. I, however, cozied up to the instructor on the first day and she said I could go if I promised to relax somewhere for 45 minutes. I will eventually do so.
After leaving class, I took the Bucshot to the car. It seemed to take forever. I am sure I could've walked there faster, but my prevailing laziness and the downpour talked me out of my athleticism. I was stuck at a redlight so long that I pulled out of the turn lane and into the straight. I was then greeted by several road closed signs while trying to get back to my original destination. I ended up driving across town (maybe I relaxed whilst driving?) and poked around in Office Depot. Crazy, but true, I love walking around in there. I am a paper and pen hoarder and the isles just screamed to me. I was a good economy minded girl. I walked out empty handed. The Dollar Tree beckoned, though. Syddie got the cutest apron and chef's hat set in Purple. She "cooked" for me after getting her "surprise". I got to betend (her word for pretend) to eat plastic corn and later she made the dog drink tea. It was the single cutest thing I had seen all day. That dog might be trouble (ALOT) but Syd loves her. I picked up a book of Non-fiction essays and I am already happy from flipping through the pages. I enjoy a good essayist who can wrap me up in words and tickle me with letters. (How cliche and geeky.) I miss writing as if it were an old date who left without taking his jacket. I smell his cologne on the collar each time I pick up the notebook I haven't used in months.
Later CVS provided another shopping excursion for diapers (cursed potty training) and a set of doggy steps. Roswell now has the ability to climb up on our tall bed. Getting down is tough, so she sits and whines for a lift. I was hoping that the steps were tall enough to help eliminate the ... well, elimination on the bed. She peed this morning, on the bed, because we hadn't awakened her in the middle of the night for a pee. Her bladder is only so big, of course, so I can't be too mad.
Tonight after my Sociology class I waded into the muck and mire that is my homework pile. I made a good dent. I am quite excited that I may be caught up (knock on wood, salt over my shoulder, rub an unlucky rabbit's foot) by fall break. How nice to think I may relax when I am supposed to!!!
Maybe I can craft a bit. I finished a scarf the other night during Silver Bullet (love that movie). Its just a simple bobbly thing that I might give someone as a thank you. I have tons of scarves for myself and after spending countless hours making them year before last, the novelty has worn off. I may give it to Kim. She is my German buddy (meaning buddy in German class not buddy who is German).
I long to write again the way I used to. I miss the balcony where I sat listening to crawling thick jazz seep out my windows. I used to roll a joint and have a glass of wine at 10 am if the mood struck me (and I had the day off). I would sit for minutes sometimes, hours at other times, and write. I was a genius then. I was Anias Nin writing melting erotica. I was Woolf and Kerouac and Cohen. I had something that I have since misplaced.
I loved my big closet in that huge apartment. I had a walk in room that had a window. Not so much a closet except for the bar to hang my clothes on. I had stuffed into the space a dresser. Big and brown with a mirror atop it. I had scarves draped across the edges of the mirror. I has feather boas and purses and shoes galore. I had dresses and clothes of the most odd styles hanging there. I was a star when I went into that small, rectangular room. It was jumbled like some backstage dressing room for some stage queen. Jewelry tossed here and there on the dresser top. I even called it the dressing room. I was something else then. My hallway smelled like mildew the way old buildings do. The backdoor led into a mudroom with big screened windows that let in the perfect amount of wind when it was raining. Some creative soul had painted the floor back there with every shade of spray paint made by Krylon. The kitchen wasn't huge, but big enough. The front door was red. Everyday coming in from work, I was greeted by a glossy red that enlivened that place. The shower was ancient, the tub a clawfoot cast iron, the back yard unkempt and weedy but mowed regularly. My bedroom was a refuge. My windows faced onto the balcony and during cool mornings I fell in love with the breeze that tiptoed through. High ceilings, wood floors, tall white walls begging for art. Incense and lipstick and memories of my lovelies that lived there before I did. I hope, when I am old and senile and memories escape me that I do not forget that old brick apartment building that made me feel welcome and loved and so very much like an artist.

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