The Midnight Hour

It's a little disconcerting to be muttering, be here now, Betsy, be here now, and then come face to face with stacks of plastic pumpkins and scarecrows outside of A.C. Moore. That's just wrong. I mean, why is it that I go to buy flip-flops in August and all I can find is mukluks and parkas? All this hurrying everything along makes my stomach hurt.

Claire and I couldn't do another store after the pumpkin fiasco; we came straight home where instead of facing my paperwork and the on-going re-structuring of our upstairs study/office, I simply cannot focus...I got on the John Deere and mowed what's left of our toasted lawn. And then got big clippers and pruned branches from the tree that took a nasty swipe at my arm while I was on the mower.

Oddly, dear reader,while the song of the day, I'm gonna wait til the midnight hour, looped around and around in my busy bee head, I found myself fantasizing about the days when I'd wield a chain saw like a flannel-shirted lumberjack(son). I'd crank that baby up with one hand, work boot on the log, can you hear it, wood chips flying with this thing in my hands that could've cut my fucking leg off. God, I loved that! I am so looking for that girl...

Since I'm rambling, I want to shout out to Laurel, who outed herself as the 40th follower of This Being Alive, yes. And my heart is singing, any number of songs, to the rest of you lovelies, for putting your shiny faces on board.

Let's make it fifty, whaddya say?

Love a writer, pass this on.

xo b