Secrets

Post Secret: I love this site. It always makes me feel better to read someone else's secret....it reminds me that my life just ain't that tough.

Burn

I've been on a slow burn lately. I think it's my age. Or maybe my hormones. Or maybe my job. Or maybe I just always hated everything in the entire world and never realized it. I've been thinking about what I want to do with my life now that I'm not defined by motherhood. Who knew there was an end to that tunnel? It sure caught me by surprise.

I want to do stuff I've never done and go places I've never been. I want to go to the desert. I want to camp, even though nature basically scares the crap out of me. I want to take off in the car with a tent and a laptop and see where I wind up.

And before I die, I will go to Burning Man.

Above photo "face to face" by Brian Herman from Burning Man 2005.

Claymates

What's up with Clay Aiken and his new look? Decidedly creepy. I saw him the other night on Entertainment Tonight getting powder-puffed and hairstlyed before a photo shoot for his new record. He was getting worked over with a flat iron. No lie. That 'do requires styling? I figure a ride in a convertible with the top down would be all that's necessary.

After much too much contemplation, I realized who Clay reminded me of. He's obviously been possessed by Chris Gaines. It's the only explanation. Garth "retires" and then Clay arrives on scene? Think about it....have you ever seen them both in the same room at the same time?

I rest my case.

Endless

My sister and I took the kids for a walk last night, like we have most evenings in the last couple of years, weather permitting. We usually make a big lap around town, sometimes stopping to do a quick errand along the way.

So last night we stopped at the library and horsed around there for a while. By the time we rounded everyone up and moved on down the street to Dairy Mart, I was pretty sure we’d been walking for about five hours.

We ran into a very nice older gentleman we know at DM; I was in line behind him for about three hours while some tattoo-neck bought $800 worth of Pick Three tickets…I’m pretty sure he played every possible combination of numbers in the universe.

I started telling Sis a story when we were still about fifty miles from home that got interrupted probably forty thousand times by picking flowers and answering questions and soothing the baby and talking to neighbors and retrieving fallen flip-flops.

As we trudged uphill toward home I realized that I hadn’t finished my story. But I couldn’t remember what in the heck I’d been talking about. “I know I was in the middle of a story, but what was it about?” I asked her.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t seem to remember.” We thought about it for a while. “Was it something about work?” she asked.

“No, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t about work.” We thought about it some more. Still nothing.

“Jesus Christ,” I said, “How painfully boring must a story be when neither the person telling it nor the person listening to it can even frickin' remember it?”

Then we thought about that for a while.

“What time is it, anyway?” I asked.

“Midnight?” she guessed.