Oh man, where to start?
For starters, what’s up with this weather? Crabbily chilly in the morning, and then truly running hot and cold all day– just enough mindfucking to have you wearing a heavy jacket with slippers and no socks, thus making it possible to sweat hot and cold at the same time, while your nose runs.
It’s typical Pisces to do all this, and boy do I have an axe to grind with all you Pisceans out there– my mindfucking soulmates that you are.
But I’ll save that for another time, my dears. There are far dorkier matters at hand for me to discuss.
As if the weather weren’t enough to get me off-kilter, I actually
was rudely awakened by someone who really should hash out his huggy-time issues a little better than just barging into the room at three in the morning demanding to be all "Rain Man" on my friggin’ head woke up in the middle of the night thinking that I really used to like this one song called "Midnight Confessions" by The Grass Roots, even though it made me kinda sad because you know, it’s kind of a sad song. Sample lyric:
In my midnight confession
When I say all the things that I want to
I love you
But a little gold ring you wear on your hand makes me understand
There’s another before me, you’ll never be mine
I’m wasting my time
And then I started thinking that this would be classic 1968, where this guy would think that he would still get some privacy while confessing all these sad thoughts at midnight, instead of writing a schlocky entry on his blog about how much he loves this girl who’s off-limits and then BAM the whole world knows and so much for it being "Midnight" and "Confessions" and "saying all the things that I want to."
But then I thought two things:
1) There’s a lot of people who are awake at midnight.
2) This was a certified gold record for the band, so chances are that whoever it was (the girl, I mean) probably knew. Like, knew KNEW.
And then I thought one more thing:
3) You always kinda know KNOW, you know?
Oh yeah. Click here so you can see some very young people singing this song (yikes! 60s!). Ah, the magic of youth: everyone is good looking when they are young, aren’t they? The tasting-of-the-pudding moment is that Paul Newman moment, a.k.a. Will You Really Be Good-Looking When You’re, Like, You Know, Eighty-Three?
The other thing in my mind is this whole Bay Laurel imbroglio.
When we first moved here, there was some bush in our little front yard that was unidentified and I thought it was rather overbearing and…. okay, say it… yeah, I thought it was kind of ugly. I know there is some sort of karmic law that says that one day I will regret thinking that, but there it is.
I guess part of the thing was that it was very shaggy and shapeless and in dire need of someone to either dig it up and throw it away or take some delightfully sharp shears to it and go crazy.
So as it happens, I did option B.
Most notably, like half an hour ago.
As it turns, laurels are pretty much all-around kick-ass champion plants.
And my, are their leaves ever tasty in a marinara sauce. I can attest to this, as I used a fresh leaf in mine yesterday and ooh! Deliciousness, really.
And then there is the fact that they are plants from antiquity, and meant to signify strength and heroism and Apollo himself and excellence and all that is right and just and fair in the world.
And then there is the tiny part of me that thinks that, symbolically at least, I might have killed my chances of ever being a Poet Laureate because every laurel bush and tree in the world has put out a laurel mafia hit out on me. (let’s not dwell on the fact that I’m not a published poet for the time being, ok?)
And they actually take very well to pruning and shaping, so I guess the fact that as of 4:22 pm this afternoon my laurel looks like a giant took an enormous bite out of its southern facet just means that I have a very creative approach toward, er, "topiary" making.
Maybe if I call it, "Fe Fi Fo Fum" and say it’s art I’ll feel less guilty.