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Monday, Aug. 09, 2004 / 5:56 p.m. ~About My Day~ This would be one of those times, if you picked up the phone to call me, and you asked me about my day, I'd not be able to remember. I'd say, "It was a day". I worked. At lunch I ate food. When work was over I picked up some more food and ate it. Fed the cats. Food. Good. Work. Money. Bills. Food. Later, TV. Now, computer time. I could expound, if I wanted. I could tell you that the cloud cover kept the temperature a very reasonable low 80something, and that I parked in the shade again at work, and that it makes such a difference I don't know why I didn't do it sooner. And as I drove my car I was distracted by the shiny vinyl-ness of the dashboard, having wiped it down with both Armor All Cleaning Wipes and Armor All Protectant Wipes on Saturday. It's fabulous now. New floor mats too, all vacuumed and neat and clean-er. I'd see a hair, one of mine or one of Gladys', as the cats' hair follows me wherever I go, no doubt, and I'd find myself reaching for it, to put it outside the window. Or I'd just look around and realize I wasn't paying any attention to the driving part of the process, or the road, or the other cars. After work I ate a Filet O' Fish Sandwich in the car, because it was hot and fresh and I had a craving as I pulled up to the McDonald's drive-thru window for my Chicken Caesar Salad with Caesar Dressing. I ate the sandwich whilst driving, thinking of the aftermath of the collision, someone asking, "Was she on a cell phone?", and someone responding, "Nah, she was eating a Filet O' Fish". And a third person saying, "They ought to make those things illegal!" Now, now is now. And the temptation is to put on the shorts, the t-shirt of my choice (working my way through the entire collection lately, rummaging at the bottoms of my drawers for the oldies but goodies), and lie on the sofa, pass out to whatever movie is on TCM, something with Paul Newman, or Katherine Hepburn, maybe Cary Grant or Ingrid Bergman. Just watch for a moment, close my eyes, still listening, until I wake up and realize I slept through the entire thing. I could expound upon my physical condition, tell you I've gotten my 'period pimple', I see it coming up red and big and deep, and I could tell you I'm due to start Thursday, and my body runs like clockwork, right on time, and I'll be home and sleeping on my day off, just in time to feel like I don't want to get out of bed anyway. But really, my day is over, and let's move forward from here, shall we? Cost of the War in Iraq
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