It's visible, from the left of the sink where the coffee pot sits, across the kitchen, up the stairs, over the landing, heavy on either side of the french doors, and right to the chair I sit in at the computer. It can be followed like a trail of breadcrumbs. It's coffee sloshes. No matter how I try to adjust the amount of coffee I put in my cup each time, I spill some (quite a lot) on my way back to the desk. And I really have to wonder how I managed to wait tables. And why is it just a coffee thing. I can walk with the world's biggest glass of coke (it's all coke), run even, and never spill a drop, but I can't even tip toe with a cup of coffee without spilling so much it becomes a sound effect.
Name that sound! Thud, splat, thud, splat, thud, splat...that's me, walking with a cup of coffee (if I have my sandals on that is). There is much to be learned from the sounds of my steps and sloshes, like the time of year. In the dead of winter when it's cold outside and in and I'm wearing my slippers the sounds are swish, slosh, swish, slosh, swish, slosh...you get the picture.
It occurs to me as I wrote the winter step description, that I'm also inadequate at walking in slippers. My slippers are the kind you slip your feet into, and though I can pick a quarter off the floor with my toes, turn the bath water on and off, and lots of other cool things, I can not hold shoes with no back strap onto my feet. So I slide them else my shoe goes flying off ahead of me. In some areas I am just a dufus, there's no denying it.
Austin appears to have shared with us the big nasty that is whatever was going around in daycare (please don't let it be strep) before it closed down and now Jake, Leirin, Emily and I have really, I mean REALLY bad sore throats, low temps and lots of coughing from the funky throat that feels like we've swallowed a rock with a feather attached to it. Just great. Austin goes to the doctor this morning and I'll see how everyone is holding up this afternoon. So far, it seems I have the worst of it. It just doesn't seem right.
Last week while Austin was napping, I clicked to watch Under the Tuscan Sun on PPV. I've never rented a movie on PPV and it was pretty scary. So easy it could be addictive. No driving involved in renting or taking back, no late fees (and I ALWAYS have late fees) and the scenery in the movie alone was worth the price.
There was this one scene that pretty much summed up the romantic idea I've always had of foreign men...particularly French and Italian men. I've never met a Frenchman, but I've known enough Italians to get the idea that they are romantics and this scene in the movie just drove it home. Francis was doubting herself, her sanity, for buying the house in Tuscany and thinking she must be insane. The man she was talking to (I can't for the life of me remember his name) was not what I'd call a handsome man. He stood there, looking a bit shy and said "Francesca, if you do not stop being so sad, I'm going to have to make love to you. And I have never been unfaithful to my wife." And there I went. Just like every time on Buffy when Oz, Angel or Spike turned their face to the wind and sniffed for the scent of their woman, my heart beat out C-O-O-L in morse code.
Name that sound! Thud, splat, thud, splat, thud, splat...that's me, walking with a cup of coffee (if I have my sandals on that is). There is much to be learned from the sounds of my steps and sloshes, like the time of year. In the dead of winter when it's cold outside and in and I'm wearing my slippers the sounds are swish, slosh, swish, slosh, swish, slosh...you get the picture.
It occurs to me as I wrote the winter step description, that I'm also inadequate at walking in slippers. My slippers are the kind you slip your feet into, and though I can pick a quarter off the floor with my toes, turn the bath water on and off, and lots of other cool things, I can not hold shoes with no back strap onto my feet. So I slide them else my shoe goes flying off ahead of me. In some areas I am just a dufus, there's no denying it.
Austin appears to have shared with us the big nasty that is whatever was going around in daycare (please don't let it be strep) before it closed down and now Jake, Leirin, Emily and I have really, I mean REALLY bad sore throats, low temps and lots of coughing from the funky throat that feels like we've swallowed a rock with a feather attached to it. Just great. Austin goes to the doctor this morning and I'll see how everyone is holding up this afternoon. So far, it seems I have the worst of it. It just doesn't seem right.
Last week while Austin was napping, I clicked to watch Under the Tuscan Sun on PPV. I've never rented a movie on PPV and it was pretty scary. So easy it could be addictive. No driving involved in renting or taking back, no late fees (and I ALWAYS have late fees) and the scenery in the movie alone was worth the price.
There was this one scene that pretty much summed up the romantic idea I've always had of foreign men...particularly French and Italian men. I've never met a Frenchman, but I've known enough Italians to get the idea that they are romantics and this scene in the movie just drove it home. Francis was doubting herself, her sanity, for buying the house in Tuscany and thinking she must be insane. The man she was talking to (I can't for the life of me remember his name) was not what I'd call a handsome man. He stood there, looking a bit shy and said "Francesca, if you do not stop being so sad, I'm going to have to make love to you. And I have never been unfaithful to my wife." And there I went. Just like every time on Buffy when Oz, Angel or Spike turned their face to the wind and sniffed for the scent of their woman, my heart beat out C-O-O-L in morse code.
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