For a few days I’ve been trying to think of something to write. I wanted it to be funny and pithy and current, but not about Miley Ray Cyrus and her Lolita pose featured in this month’s child friendly magazine Vanity Fair. And I use child friendly all sarcastic like since one of the arguments all these people in arms has is that children will see the pictures. Uhm… yeah, if you let them skim the pages of Vanity Fair. Here’s a tip, don’t let them. Yeah, yeah, yeah, she looks like she either just woke up or just had sex. Or like she just woke up after having sex. It is a provocative picture, but I totally get that it might have seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, fookin’ Annie Liebovitz (and, hehehe, Spellchecker wants me to call her Liverworts. Spellchecker is awesome.) was the photographer. Annie Liebovitz could suggest I suckle a goat and I would do it because, hello! Annie Liebovitz. But then, I’m an adult. Miley isn’t. She’s 15. The people who should have stopped it – Miley’s handlers – are the ones at fault here.
But I don’t wanna write about that. I also don’t want to write about gas prices, because it will just depress me. I hate having to be organized enough to say, if I’m going to be on the west side of town, run all my west end errands (in a west end town with dead-end walls). It stifles my carefree spirit. I hate knowing that it will cost me over $4.00 just to visit my friend who lives almost 20 miles away. It puts a price on friendship, almost like saying, “Sorry Glenda, but you’re not worth $7.00” Yes, there are many of you who have it much worse, however, I’m not talking about your pain, I’m talking about mine. But like I said, I don’t want to talk about that.
I also am reluctant to open a dialogue on how I’ve addicted Renee to sugar. I’m her supplier. Her sugar pusher – sugar mommy if you will. The other day when I said no to a sucker and thought the conversation had ended, she proved me wrong by returning to my study with her sand castle bucket full of granulated sugar. She was eating it by the spoonful and had two or three before my brain wrapped itself around the fact that my child was eating sugar by the spoonful. So, I guess that was a yes, huh? I’m really not looking forward to weaning her off the sugar teat. Life is much easier when she has a sucker in her gob.
And lastly (is that even a word?!) I don’t want to talk about the fact that I’ve almost completely lost my sense of smell. What up wit dat? This year’s lilac bush? COVERED with the purple blooms that I remember smelling like heaven. I buried my delicate schnoz in the blooms and inhaled deeply the gift of God and… nuttin’. It smelled like… overly oxygenated air? Same with the chili-fries that we got to go last night. “You seriously can’t smell this?!” Amy asked incredulously (in case you didn’t get that from the punctuation). “It’s like totally invading the van it’s so strong.” Nope. Couldn’t smell a thingy ding ding. I don’t have a cold. I didn’t have trauma to my head or nozzle. I just woke up one morning a month or so ago and realized that I didn’t smell anything. Wicked weird, huh? Also? A little depressing and worrisome.
But I don’t want to talk about it.