sticky notes

Everyone who reads my long Facebook posts tells me I should blog. Once I started blogging I realized that I’m not one for consistent essays, I’m a jotter. I start out wth a grand idea which never really goes anywhere.  Which is why I’ve started  making notes. My phone has this app. It looks  like a yellow legal pad sticky note, but only allows 400 characters.  So it’s like I have half a dozen sticky notes. Here’s just a few.

The first one is actually titled, “World Domination” But as I’m basically lazy and non confrontational, you know I’ll never be taking over the world.  I did however, make a list of random thoughts.

1) Why I think Thanksgiving is a way better holiday than Christmas: I  get a guaranteed four day weekend. The weather is usually better. There is no gift giving anxiety.  You still get pie.

2) Why waffles are superior to pancakes. Pancakes are limp and round like doughy place mats. Waffles are crispy and square with many tiny syrup cubbies. Both reek when burning.

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3) In my personal opinion, women over 40 should knock back on the bedazzling. I like sparkle as much as anyone, but rhinestones on your ass kind of translates as desperate cougar.

4) I have not now nor ever been able to bend down and touch my toes.  While I consider this a useless exercise, I’m embarrassed that my 73 year old mother and my 21 year old daughter (as well as the old man-at 52) can do this.  Now I have a goal….a possible attainable goal.  (see earlier note about being lazy..)

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I had an interesting dream the other night.  I was at a dinner party with my ex-husband. (I’ve never been divorced) I was drunk and loud and desperately trying to impress the other guests.  The ex (a co-worker of mine. !) was also trying to be the center of attention, swilling wine and retelling glory stories of his prior music career and three ex-wives. (Pretty sure he’s never had 10 platinum albums and only 2 exes) Anyway, I was so confused because his dates didn’t match up to my memories. (what memories?) And I was so mean and rude to him.  I woke up feeling horribly guilty that I was such a bitch to my mythical first husband.  I had a unbelievably strong urge to apologize and forgive him the drinking, lying, running around. But. We. Were. Never. Married. (or dated or geez even shook hands).

What do you suppose this means that this is not the first time I’ve dreamed I’d been married before Steve? What are the odds the coworker will recognize himself? I pictured him more like a really short American Elvis Costello.

 

 

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