big hands i know you're the one
So, as you may have gathered, I'm deep into the Bargaining stage right now, frosted with lashings of Depression. I have the superstitious fear that if I can be perfect, I can keep the Boy from leaving. I'm hoping that I can be loveable. Is this a tremendous strain? Well, that's where the depression comes in.
(On the more laughable front, I even tried wearing one of my new super-bras, hoping that I might be able to subconsciously hypnotise him. No such luck.)
It does bring my other problems into perspective, however. Like the reappearance of my athlete's foot this week. (Rocketbride is neither an athlete, nor fleet of foot. Discuss.) I first "came down" with the a.f. this summer, during my week of painting hell. Not having ever succumbed to it before, I was a little ashamed, and yet a little proud. Maybe I was dirty, but at least I hung around in too many locker rooms! (Ask me about my athlete's foot.) The cream worked well, but as is typical, I stopped too soon. And like a summertime housefly, it came back to bug me.
Last night I realized that things had become much worse, and I was having difficulty staying on my feet. There was a new player in town, and it made walking painful. I spent today shuffling around as fast as possible, hating my lopsided gait. I was afraid that the doctor would utter my favourite word: lance. Instead, he told me that it was a blister, probably caused by new shoes.
My Fluevogs? My Blister? My Fluevogs? My Blister? Not to mention, et tu, Tiff Brogue?!?
So that's okay, I suppose. And Moe Berg of The Pursuit of Happiness may or may not have bought Mason's cheese grater in a yard sale. Can't you just see Moe bent over his supper prep, saying "I'd sure look stupid lying dead in a ditch like some cheese-eating high school boy"?
No? Maybe that's just me.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*