You can’t bring Pepsi.

I’m so happy to be home.  The cat is ignoring me while keeping me in view.  It’s cracking me up because she acted like a puppy when I first entered.  Then I rolled in my suitcase, and she remembered she’s a cat.  I expect to be forgiven in a few hours, (based on having done this routine before.)  I missed Her Majesty so much, which is why I keep pausing to grin at her between sentences.  I didn’t even wish she was a dog the whole time I was in Denver.  (Sometimes, I just have to conjure an image of all the dog owned in my building in January, and I forget why I ever wanted one.)

My mailbox was stuffed with mail, (and echoes of annoyed murmurs from my postal carrier, no doubt.)  I got a postcard from a friend (squee!), so it wasn’t all magazines and thank-you cards from Democrats from other states.  I’m saving all my snail mail correspondence from Senators and Representatives (assistants).  I plan on being adopted as a grandmother by some delightful young person who needs one someday.  Since I rarely take photos, I figure I’ll need something to back up my stories of how much better or worse things were in the good old days during our visits.  I may even figure out how to bake.

I need to order groceries, do laundry, and clean.  M. restrung all five of my guitars in my absence.  I almost cried when he showed me.  They’re all polished and shit, too.  He gets me more than I realized.  I (over) thought about it in the shower.  I believe he’s my lobster.  I didn’t even realize I needed one.  Bonus.  He has two weeks of vacation beginning tomorrow.  I’ll likely be preoccupied with him over the next few days.  His parents will be visiting soon and taking S. when they leave.  It’s going to be like a scene right out of The Color Purple when she leaves.

Celie:  Write!

Nettie:  Nothing but death could keep me from it!

Except, we’ll Facetime to stay in touch, of course.  She’s not going to be here when Stevie Nicks is performing in St. Paul later this month.  I’m kind of relieved she’s bummed by this because it makes me feel more relaxed with my obsession infatuation enthusiastic appreciation of Stevie Nicks.  I’m not alone.  Her queendom knows no national boundaries.  (Music is more universal than math.)  S. is taking one of the documentaries home, (not In Your Dreams.  Mine.  I’ll send her one for her birthday.)  She also doesn’t know how to feel about Lindsey Buckingham.  (I kinda lean toward forcing maintaining civilized thoughts based solely on his contribution to Fleetwood Mac.)

I’m still pretty anxious about meeting The Parents.  I feel like I should do something to prepare, but have no idea what to do.  Aside from pacing, that is.  Sitting on the edge of my bed will have to suffice.  (Inside joke.)  I watched Dave Chapelle on Netflix earlier.  I think I pulled a muscle from laughing so hard.  Damn, I missed him.  The only thing that’s changed is his audience.  It’s like a casting call for a Benneton ad.  (So diverse now.)  I love it.  (He still got heckled, but it was all positive, and he took it in stride.)

I’d better get busy with my chores.  There’s probably a few cats worth of fur collaborating in the corners since it’s been two weeks without vacuuming.  I’m a vacuuming ninja, so it won’t be there long.  Hi-ho-hi-ho… off to clean I go… 🎶

 

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