Good morning and happy Monday.
(Is that last part an oxymoron?)
Anyway. The Wisdom Teeth Weekend is over, I survived, hallelujah. (And isn’t it odd that two other readers of this journal also got teeth pulled this weekend? Bizarre-o.) While I was knocked out on painkillers Friday, my husband (who had to stay home with me to make sure I didn’t pass out cold in the middle of the living room, or something) put together the last piece of furniture for my office. Now I have a new desk, a new chair, a new rolling cart and a new file cabinet-thingy that is very futuristic looking, all slate gray and melamine. Fancy schmanzy, as my mother would say.
That same day, we had to take out my old desk and bring it to the dump. I LOVED my old desk. I wrote every single one of my published books on it, as well as several unpublished that most likely only I will ever see. My husband (then boyfriend) built it for me when I was in college. Being the sentimentalist that I am, I was really sad and stressed to see it go. I even had a moment where I was convinced I’d never be able to write on anything else. (I tend to have too strong of an attachment to objects.)
My husband took it to the shed at the dump where you can leave stuff that someone else might need or want, but the attendant there said he should just take it to the dump itself, that no one would want it. This made me *so* sad I almost went there—doped up on painkillers and all—to retrieve it. I mean, I’d used it for years! How could no one else even want it? My husband took it to the dump part but he set it up, all nice: he was sure someone would take it away. But maybe he was just saying that.
There’s a point here. I’m just not sure what it is. My dog is barking so loudly at squirrels downstairs that I can’t even think straight. I bet Stephen King doesn’t have these problems.
have a great day everybody…..