I cut my nails off, not that I care. They will grow back faster than I can come up with a metaphor. But my inner Peggy Hill has surfaced and she can't be quiet. No silly, I'm not sportin' size 16 1/2 shoes or substitute teaching Spanish at Tom Landry Middle School - but I have discovered the electric yard trimmery-bob and I think I like this gardening business. It's not so bad.
Greg and I have been posing as renters for the past 3 years. It's what we have known. We would mow the lawn and do the minimal requirements, but I want a pretty lawn, a place to entertainment. A picnic table. I could close my eyes and picture lazy summer afternoons, hanging out with my friends while the bunchkins frolic, but I'm liable to fall asleep. My fantasy includes ice tea and Rainier cherries; laughter. Perhaps tequila, if the kids keep bickering, but I'll save that subject for another day.
I would admit that my brain is frazzled and I can't write any more, but Mrs. Hill would never do that, not without a plausible excuse.
Does taking a bath count? I sure hope so.
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