Saturday Morning

Zed's asleep. June's stirring in the kitchen. I should be showered and ready to get out of town. I'm not. I will be soon. We're going to pick up some packages today, hit Ikea so that the basement gets a little more useful, and then I'm going to get a ladder and crawl onto the roof to seal a chimney I couldn't care less about sealing. I'm going to try to listen to music in the car today, if Zoey lets me....you know, it interrupts her talking and that's just not something she's willing to tolerate. I'm going to think of something to do tomorrow. It would be nice if any of the people that we knew on this planet ever called our house, like ever, because I'm so totally done with trying to pull them into something interesting to do.

I'm particularly pre-occupied with wondering why bands and artists must play their shows on random week nights rather than weekends because I can't go see you at the Lager House in Detroit on a Wednesday night because I have to drive an hour and a half in the cold darkness first thing Thursday morning to listen to a kid cry about how he got kicked out of his house the night before. That doesn't sound fun, and so neither does your stupid mid-week show. It's a painful pre-occupation I've been enjoying for the past few years. I don't know why it's resurfaced this morning but it has, so there you have it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to wash my hard to reach places leisurely, and in quiet solitude. Then I'm going to wake Zoey up, and then I'm going to go to another country and tease people that look funny. I'm also going to eat swedish meatballs and drink Lingenberry juice, and maybe drape my wife with public displays of affection while also behaving badly in that same public space, you know, so that she doesn't get spoiled. I hope you have a good Saturday. I'm going to go about mine gently, with a steaming hot cup of awesome in my hand to remind me that life can taste as good as it feels.