The Internets** applied the salve to a recovering Sunday. Instead of over-nursing my hangover with pathetic, attention-getting moans or wiling the day away under cover of a napping duvet, I spent the day researching very important things and telling Petunia all about them.
(Involved in her own computer associated activities, Petunia was good enough to keep me company during my recuperation; whereas the Mista carried on with the requisite performance of Weekend Chores. His performance of the whistling-while-you-work lead was a tadbit overacted. I suspect he knew better than to give me any cues. It was, afterall, the Mista who had produced my current situation: he had made the arrangements for the Saturday night soiree. Then, when he was of two minds as to whether he should go or not because he wasn’t feeling quite right, he might-as-well-have-insisted I go.
“You wouldn’t go without me?” He asked incredulously as if disgusted by the idea of a clinging little stay-at-home-wifie.
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe. But, it won’t be as fun without you.”
I didn’t need to remind him that they were more his friends than mine, and there would be a wee bit of acting required on my part. The small talk would require that I rise above my natural role: the wallflower. I would do it out of obligation, but I wouldn’t be happy about it. That was good enough for him. It got him out of an obligation.
A pact was born. I’d fulfil the Saturday night social obligation without complaint. The Mista, alone, would fulfil the Sunday household obligations, without complaint. Never mind that he overacted. I lounged guilt free on the sofa regaling Petunia with those previously mentioned very important things.
“Did you know Nutella is Italian? Not French!”
High school French clubs across the United States erroneously spread the falsehood that Nutella is French whilst their members smear gobs of the delicious Hazelnut spread across American baked baguettes at their breakfast meetings.
“And, did you know that Nutella can’t be marketed as a chocolate spread because it doesn’t contain enough cocoa? And, the only reason why it’s been ‘cut’ with hazelnuts is because taxes on cocoa originally made it prohibitively expensive to use a higher density of cocoa?!”
“Hmmm. That’s interesting.”
Petunia is an angel.
It was her idea that Nutella was precisely the medicine required for my convalescence. Her HmmmThat’sInterestings are heartfelt and followed on by follow up questions that further demonstrate the sincerity behind her interest.
“Jesus. There’s even a World Nutella Day! Check this out.”
We laughed over the fact that two women have registered a domain name and paid tribute to Nutella by giving it a day of it’s very own. That’s something Petunia and I might do. But not for Nutella. That’s already been done. Intimo is another Italian product worth worldwide evangalisation; and it has yet to be truly discovered.
“Did you know that the Nutella logo hasn’t been changed since 1964?”
“Really? That is a LONG time for a brand logo!”
“I know! Isn’t it?”
Having overheard snippets of our exchange while puttering about doing the household chores, the Mista shook his head to himself. A gesture that indicated partial amusement, partial frustration and partial flabbergastation.
Here I am: doing things while these two twitter on about WHAT?***
*This hangover was not the product of worrisome drinking as were the occasions alluded to in my previous posts. This was social, out-and-about drink cocktails and spot celebrities drinking. This hangover is condoned.
**Plural usage a la George W. Bush (via Henry Rollins in his show The Spoke Word)
***My second occasion to put myself into the Mista’s head and reveal the contents here, on the Internets!
This is exactly what I was afraid would happen.
I think I knew it this morning when I woke up. And at work this afternoon when I began thinking about going home. I sensed it during my evening walk with the dog: today’s post won’t come easily. None of those topics — that seem so crystalline just as I’m dozing off for the night or during the early morning hours when I can’t sleep but I’m too lazy and warm and comfortable to get out of bed — inspire me.
Not the business meeting in Fitzrovia nor the business dinner on the South bank nor the misrouted drive through the West End on Easter day. Not my state of perpetual astonishment at how society works or my moments of paranoid certainty that I’m about to get the sack or lose the customer.
My total lack of inspiration begs the question: then why post? Why consume more internet real estate with yet more nothing when the internet is already stuffed with so much nothing it’s like starving obesity? Why do it? Why not stop yourself?
Because
I told myself I would. It’s a challenge.
Although I am feeling sadly uninspired, there have been other, similar occasions when I broke through the total lack of inspiration to something closer to inspiration (if not inspiration itself) just through the shear act of writing itself. I recognise the possibility that this is a boring process to witness (I’m sorry!) (No, I’m not sorry! Instead, I’ll ask, ‘Why are you still reading? Turn away! Turn away!’)
My increased prolificity has got me feeling juicier even if the juice isn’t quality, it’s something. It’s this: I’ve got more blogging ideas popping into my head at 4 or 5 in the morning than I ever did. Now if I could just harness the discipline to tackle them straight on rather than circling around like I don’t know how to approach them.
Filed under: nuthin' to say
Lucy in the sky with white rocks like rockets, how did you get here and why? I’m only here because I promised myself I would be. I’m sorry for wasting your time. Next time will be better.
Sometimes you don’t have to look up or down to see the leaves. Sometimes you might walk right into them. Sometimes you might not see the wood through the trees or the trees through the twigs, and if you’re not careful and you run too quickly through the woods and under the branches, your hair might get caught up and tangled, which might pull and hurt a little, or might just leave remnants of nature in your hair, which might look like you’ve had a bit of a tussle and pull in the woods, which you just might have to explain to someone or other.
I’m just saying, sometimes might.
Do you remember Dolphin shorts? They were it in the 1980s. Meant to be kit for runners, but became a craze across the land. Fat girls, thin girls, fat boys, thin boys, adolescents, young adults, even the the middle-aged with little predilection for activity. Everyone had to have Dolphin shorts. I don’t remember my pair ….
or pairs?
My mom wouldn’t cater to the whims of fashion. She is classy. Dolphin shorts weren’t. She knew it. If I had a pair, it was a plain pair; probably dark or light blue. The really, really cool Dolphin shorts were the stripy kind. The retrospectively tackiest of all. Vertical white stripes and some-other-colour stripes showing off how really very cool you were. I seem to remember a little dolphin on the lower right hand corner, but I could just be inventing this.
Who doesn’t remember the Beatles’ With a Little Help From My Friends?
Who thinks of a pair of orange and white striped Dolphin shorts when the Walkman randomly selects With a Little Help from My Friends ?
I do.
Am I hopelessly mired in the 80′s?
Filed under: nuthin' to say
Happy Canada Day.
The sun decided to come out today. It wrestled with the clouds and found its place in the limelight. I almost didn’t recognise it. I was torn.
Do I applaud? Or, do I give it the finger?. Damn thing’s just now making an appearance. We’re in fuckin’ July for Christ’s sake! Lazy bitch of a sun! Where you bin?
I’m empty. Dried up. Nothing of interest to say.
A concert for Diana is on the tv.
I have to take a piss. I’m going.
