Saturday morning

By Mir

October 2, 2004

I should not be surprised when the neighbor’s dog pounces on Chickadee a week before school pictures and leaves a horrible-looking scratch down her cheek.
Neither should I be surprised that–in retelling this story to a friend–I am laughed at for belaboring the photo angle just seconds after saying that a millimeter to the left and she would’ve lost her eye.
Friday nights are hard.
Sometimes they are unexpectedly made easier with Instant Messenger.
I am going to hell.
My children will allow me to sleep in on Saturdays, if by “sleep in” you mean “come tattle on one another relentlessly until I get up.”
It seems I sent Jay a whole lotta traffic last month.
Which is why I’m quite sure he will nominate me for a Diarist Award. Seems only fair.
Apparently this is the last quarter I’d be eligible in the “new” category. (Hint, hint.)
I am uncomfortable plugging myself. But not so uncomfortable as to render me unable to do so.
I am going to hell. Possibly for all the immoral and annoying things I do, or maybe just for being repetitive.

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