Frantik Girl
Monday, March 31, 2003
Wearing a Nightshirt in Public
I've used most of this morning to clean house, which includes: changing the catboxes, sweeping the floor, washing dishes and laundry. When I clean the catboxes and haven't showered, I feel covered with grit, and an indefinable film of badness, which may only exist in my mind, but which is still unpleasant. So I wear my nightshirt, which is still soft and aromatic from the night before and won't notice the difference.
But then I'm confronted with the very real need to drag my ass down the three flights of steps into the public laundry room in the basement of my building. And on this journey, made with bare feet that pick up every crumb of dust and scum they step on, I have to pass a glass door which opens onto the street. It is a well traveled street and at any moment I see people there; and more to the point, they see me... in my night shirt, hair unwashed, grit covered hobbit feet.
The feeling is one step below that dream where you show up to school in your underwear. Still, I shrug it off and gather my clean laundry. Because maybe I just don't care.
Sunday, March 30, 2003
The trees were still bare, the hints of new green leaves were no more impressive than the many years of moss that grew on the trunks. Still, it was a warm day and as we walked, the warmth on my face and the sweet clear air in Olympia gave me fuzzies in my belly. Flowers were beginning to bloom, and among the blurry, verdant landscape, spots of color popped like fireworks.
It would be easy to juxtapose a day like this with the war in Iraq, and because it's early in the morning and I'm feeling lazy, I will. I don't think the weather is half as nice in Iraq as it is here. It's very dry over there, and while you'd get plenty of sun, you'd get sunburned and your lips would chap if you failed to use very thick, SPF 30 lip gloss. There's almost nothing green over there, and everythign seems to be covered in yellow dust. I'm willing to bet that it does not smell like new flowers.
Elaine and I walked the town for about an hour, then had lunch at The Spar. The Spar was armored in dark wood, and covered in sepia toned photos to prove that they were a historic meeting place for the city's fedora-ed gentlemen. Although on this day, they were filled with small, purple and pink children sipping over-sized and over-priced milkshakes. Elaine and I both had milkshakes of our own, and fighting the natural capacity of our stomachs, we managed to finish them. We felt like good Americans.
Friday, March 21, 2003
What with the war and the killing and the President with the ears and the nose and those hairs on his head, I thought it was about time we had a weblog that made absolutely no commentary on world events.
This is not that weblog.
But I will soon start another Blog linked to this one tenatively titled, "Waverly's Day." This log will chronicle the continuing story of Waverly... a guy with issues. I promise that it'll be funny, touching; characters will hug and learn and grow and possibly change genders, and/or species. We'll see what happens togther.
Cheers,
Kat
