16 June 2013

by jkatejohnston

 Dear Max,

It’s Sunday morning. Teresa and Enzo just left for four days in Tahoe. I have to stay home and work, and I’m ecstatic.

Whenever I’m alone, I quickly figure out that it’s not them that’s preventing me from doing everything I want to do, it’s me. Or it’s life. But they only left fifteen minutes ago, so I haven’t reached that stage yet. Right now I want to go for a long bike ride with awesome snacks, cook lots of food that they don’t like, organize the pantry, color my hair, buy a new hat, watch a movie, get my Al Stephens stuff out of the basement, put away my winter coats (buy mothballs), read for more than twenty minutes at a time, and finally figure out how to play that fucking ukulele.

Oh by the way, happy fucking Father’s Day. Suckers. (I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean. I’m sure fathers are very happy. But I like the way it sounds.)

(ten minutes later)

I’ve already done two things that would irritate the shit out of Teresa. I got soap bubbles all over the bottom of the Brita pitcher when I filled it in the sink and the bubbles ended up on the kichen counter. I borrowed her sunglasses. She has about six pairs and I have zero. Because she has never lost or broken a pair of sunglasses in her life. And I have. All of them, in fact. That’s why I’m not supposed to borrow hers. But I did.

(two hours later)

Back from my bike ride. I had two glasses of red wine and 3.5 ounces of dark chocolate for lunch. Urge to organize pantry fading fast. Just ate some mulch off the kitchen counter, thinking it was chocolate.

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