Silly, really

I imagine that lots of people have things they need to say to me. Urgently. So I check my email obsessively, and wait for these people to say these things to me, curious, of course, about what it is they so urgently need to say. And when I refresh my email and see "Wells Fargo Statement Notification" or "Interlibrary Loan Past Due" or "Cougar Mail White Out" or "SaleMail Shop-it-to-me-Alert", I feel deflated--not popped, which is important because I think my soul makes that little noise that sounds like someone farting during a baby blessing (am I allowed to say this?), that noise that balloons make when the air is being let out slowly and painfully instead of with one gracious pin prick. The automatons behind these emails do have urgent things to say, mostly WE NEED YOUR MONEY, NOW! but I'm not that interested in hearing about it, and they go directly to my trash, shouting all the way.

I am happy to see that not all is lost from the good old days ("We exchanged letters, you know--mail." "You know, I've heard of it?") and that my joy at correspondance has transferred from paper to screen, and that I haven't missed out on the irritation of opening my mailbox to find only bills, notices, and impersonal spam.

Perhaps this is a plea for emails. If you have something urgent to say, and don't have someone to say it to--my inbox is always open.

So many things to say on a day like this...

...when I'm eating homemade bread (thank you Marie) and local honey (thanks Aunt Nanny/James) and there are blossoms on trees outside and a breeze through my window;

...when I'm surrounded by plastic eggs and packing peanuts and stale peeps because the fabulous Easter Bunny tracked me down this year and showered me with candy goodness (Taylor Hawes, if you're out there: "Will you be my foam peanut?")

...when another semester is almost over, and it's time to put everything away, this being my sixth April of leaving a home behind to return to my everhome for just a few days before this summer's adventure (California.)

...but most of all, when--drat. I'm late for church.

tangential

I was just reading outside on a blanket with Davey and I remembered: the cookies! I burned not one batch but two today, and I wonder why, once they're hopelessly burned, I still rush to pull them out?

It's been a good weekend, for a number of reasons. My legs hurt every time I take a step and I walk like I have to go to the bathroom (for those of you who know my brain, this sentence is not the logical progression from the previous. Maybe we'll get there a few lines down, but I take what the old machine gives me and don't ask questions. Actually, I was thinking the other day about how I've never really thought to curb the randomness of my brain; people say either, "you are so frustrating to talk to, can't you focus?" or, "ha ha you're so random I love it" in that tone that lets you know a "bless your heart" might be coming up next. And my response is usually, "I know, right?" My favorite all-purpose response, currently. But even though my thoughts come out like people rushing from a burning building, I can't help but account for them and try to get them to stand in neat lines like we did in elementary school. My brain has been infiltrated by the MAN! For example, right now, I am aware that I haven't explained why my legs hurt (because I ran a whoppin' 20 minutes) and that I haven't given any of the number of reasons why it's been a good weekend (conference, family, yada yada yada), and I won't be able to finish the blogpost in good conscience until I trace back all the threads I dropped from my pockets. Thoughts, unlike cookies, are not usually burned when I'm late getting back to them, though they're sometimes very irrelevant. The phone is ringing, and since I'm at my father's house I never answer it. David answered it--oh dear, he's given up on me and the blankets since I've been away all this time typing on my blog about how I forget to return.)