Completely, utterly disjointed ramblings

I'm a glutton for punishment. That's why I'm back here writing another blog entry for the day even though I know it will involve more arguing with a doped up blog service who may or may not let me publish it. I'm supposed to be a few minutes from arriving at my writer's group. It's a half hour drive. I've been sitting here at the computer for the last half hour in a grumpy mood (which is probably hormonal but which I'm happily blaming on the computer), trying to decide if I want to go to it or not. I'm guessing, with two minutes left to get there on time, that I've decided not to go.

My arguments for where mainly centered around the fact that I should go, that I'd probably be in a better mood if I did go, and that I'll kick myself for not going at some later time, probably as early as the next hour or two. My arguments against going is I didn't have to go if I didn't fucking feel like going, no one could make me go, and I didn't have anything new written to share with them and I'd probably just rant on about my trip which they'd all enjoy but secretly think to themselves was wasting time that could have been spent talking about writing. Helloooo! Writer's group. As you can see, my arguments against are also probably hormonally induced. Too, you might be tempted to point out that I had indeed written something new, that in fact I'm sitting here writing something new at this very moment (or rather, the moment when I was actually writing this). You might be tempted, but I'll warn you straight up, it probably isn't a good idea.

Moving on...

My husband informed me that someone he works with came up to him the other night and said "Hey, my daughter says you live in The Hippy House." Apparently they were discussing my husband (and this doesn't surprise me) and the daughter had mentioned she knew where we lived. And the next time they drove by our house she'd pointed it out and he's said "Oh, they live in The Hippy House. I asked Jeff why he called our house The Hippy House and sure 'nuf, he'd asked the guy, and apparently it qualified because a) we have a peace sign hanging over our garage door, b) we have a lot of flowers, and c) we have bumper stickers on our cars.

In this conservative town I can understand the peace sign even though that's sort of a narrow definition of someone who desires a peaceful world - hey, they must be an old hippy - wha? The bumper sticker part of the argument actually makes some sense. Not that many people our age put bumperstickers on their cars unless it's something like My Child was Student of the Month at BlaBlaBla Elementary. Actually, we're old enough that it would more likely be "My Grandchild was Student...." But, anyway, FLOWERS? If you grow flowers you must be a hippy?

William has recently decided that he is brilliant and I'm just this close to needing to live in a group home and get help doing things like tying my shoe or writing my name. It was amusing for awhile. It's becoming less amusing. This morning I remembered to look up how many time zones there were between California and Hawaii because we'd argued over it while traveling. William looked at the information, which proved I was correct and commented "Gee, Mom was right for a change!" GRRRRRRR! I've gone through this four times already, but it doesn't make it less annoying. It's not fun to go from The Source of All Knowledge in the Universe to Stupid Parent Barely Tolerable Being Seen In Public With. Fortunately I know that in a few years (five, or if I'm lucky, four) I will regain my crown as Goddess of Knowledge. Maybe I'll even get my owl back.

Rosie was sitting on my lap earlier today while I was busy on the computer. Mostly I was concentrating on the monitor, but a little part of my brain noticed that Rosie lifted her head and put her ears forward on alert. Then she started growling. Quietly. The growling got louder. Eventually I shifted my attention and glancing down, realized that she was growling very agressively but looked too frightened to switch to barking. At the same time I realized that although I was alone in the house (except for Rosie and the cats), I could very definitely feel someone creeping up behind me. I could sense it and then, there was something there. Just on the very edge of my peripheral vision. I turned my head slowly.....

It was the Welcome Home balloon Jeff had bought. It was losing helium and was floating about midway between floor and ceiling. A stray current of air had made it move slowing but steadily across the room until it was just behind my left shoulder.

Okay, I'm a little less crabby now. That will change when I try to get this thing to publish, I'm sure. That reminds me, have any of you seen the commercial for the new Prairie Home Companion movie? I liked the bit where Garrison Keillor says "We come from people who brought us up to believe that life is a struggle, and if you should feel really happy, be patient: this will pass."

Talk atcha later. I'm dragging my husband off to eat fish and chips.