So Top ‘O the Mornin’ dear reader(s), I come to you from my hospital den room, where I spy snow flakes gently falling outside my window. Sweet Legs and Lily have been slumbering all morning, and of course I’m not disturbing them to get them outside for their morning constitution. Guess that means there’s a good chance Legs might soil his dog bed again, but I’ll be quick to clean it up before Michael comes downstairs. Talked to mom on the phone and we are both excited for our sleepover tonight at Chip’s house—perhaps we can make a fort in the basement after we get out of the hot tub? Anything goes!
Alas my High School clique text chain has been disrupted lately, what with people using Apple’s voice to text (pesky Tim Cook, wanting to ensure his phones won’t be outlawed in cars) and confusing everyone and setting off paranoia. Cancel culture, conspiracy theories, what’s the CIA up to, group think, COINTELPRO, it’s all very fascinating and thank goodness my old hard drives are up in the attic where I stored all my sleuthing into this back when the Backstreet Boys were touring around. I’m chucking to myself, loving the fact that hoarder-light Michael has kept all our electronics from years gone by. Clearly he’s the brains of our operation, though I’m not too shabby myself (winkedy wink).
I see Fetter today, and as always I’m looking forward to it. There’s much to discuss, top on the list is the plethora of old artworks I am remembering I did, and importantly if I dare to show those that have survived at my art show in May. I definitely want to hold a few back, to take to the Lindsay Gallery, though I’m guessing the dealer won’t have the nerve to display my most controversial works, which seem to only find a home in my moldy basement. I mean, who in this town dares to take on The Ohio State University besides me? No one, that’s who. If you do, you get an old musket pointed at your head, and few have the guts to stand up against a tree and face the firing squad like I did.
So there’s that to discuss, plus Michael’s current hair do, which is making me feel like Jack Nicholson with the Indian. We know how that ends, the Indian is the one who gets to run free at the end, with Jack left with Nurse Ratchett (mom’s name for herself as she was nursing Dad right before his death—or rebirth?). Though I should say Michael’s Indian headband (which he stole from me) matches his flannel shirts perfectly, so I’m at least happy with his dress. Wish I could say that about my own shabby threads. I don’t know why Michael’s hair is irritating me so, except to say this fucking (pardon my language) Depakote utterly destroys my beautiful curly hair, and were I free of it, I could grow my hair just as long as Michael’s. So it’s jealousy again, a sin, resentment, all that nasty stuff and today I’m going to wallow in it, at least in Fetter’s office.
Otherwise, I’m feeling pretty good today, got plenty of sleep so I’m ready for the day. Our basement is dry once more (after flooding yesterday), and Michael is going to do his own investigation of our neighbor’s shenanigans which may be at the root of our basement flooding problem. Better call the City, maybe an ambulance chaser too…perhaps we can get a little convoy on the way to court. Wonder what good ole’ Steve Smith from The Madison Press is doing these days? I should find him! He would know how to handle pesky neighbors. Au revoir all. Have a great day (and night)!
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