Second-hand sense of purpose
Dec. 14th, 2003 08:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
silverfae9I noticed, in washing the dishes, that cookie dough seems to colonize everything. I'd pick up a pyrex dish and dump out the water inside it and out would fall a million globs of chocolate-y stuff. "What?" I'd say. "That dish had no cookie-related happiness in it, it was filled with tomatoes and things." (I cooked[ish] last night also, an old favorite that even I have trouble screwing up...although I did nearly manage last night with what was almost a basil-related catastrope.) Regardless, the kitchen is clean, and if not exactly spotless then at least not entirely flour filled. The cookie making experience was totally worth the mess. I'm sure you can all guess why.
Ok, so here's further gathering of wool about what I'm trying to do here. I don't know where I'd be if I couldn't talk about doing things instead of actually doing them. The whole purpose of, well, everything, I've decided today in my chocolate cookie induced haze, is to look in the mirror and if I can't manage to see someone I'd like to be then to at least see someone I'd like to hang out with.
Yes, I've been thinking about this today instead of thinking about my paper which, I'll remind everyone, is supposed to be in the mail in two weeks. (Insert wave of anxiety here.)
And finally, an old, half-remembered snippet from the road trip:
"How many fingers does that guy have?" I'm trying to count them from across the room, looking at him out of the corner of my eye so he doesn't see me staring at him. I think I'm being pretty clever but really I probably look more like a loony than I would if I walked up to him and asked him to hold up his hand. Andrea is understandably mortified.
"The usual number, give or take, I'm sure. Would you quit staring? We're in Montana...they probably eat girls like us for breakfast around here."
"Ooooh, now you're talking." I nudge Andrea's foot with mine and she blushes furiously. We're both a bit worked up from 15 states full of farm boys and, while all we really need in life is a bumpy road and a tight pair of jeans, we wouldn't pass up a cowboy.
"Shut up and eat your buffalo burger. I bet we can make Washington state by tonight."
"Hey, do you think he lost his finger in a threshing accident? Do they have threshers in Montana? What does a thresher do?"
Andrea gives up, with a sigh, and polishes off the last of her freedom fries.
Ok, so here's further gathering of wool about what I'm trying to do here. I don't know where I'd be if I couldn't talk about doing things instead of actually doing them. The whole purpose of, well, everything, I've decided today in my chocolate cookie induced haze, is to look in the mirror and if I can't manage to see someone I'd like to be then to at least see someone I'd like to hang out with.
Yes, I've been thinking about this today instead of thinking about my paper which, I'll remind everyone, is supposed to be in the mail in two weeks. (Insert wave of anxiety here.)
And finally, an old, half-remembered snippet from the road trip:
"How many fingers does that guy have?" I'm trying to count them from across the room, looking at him out of the corner of my eye so he doesn't see me staring at him. I think I'm being pretty clever but really I probably look more like a loony than I would if I walked up to him and asked him to hold up his hand. Andrea is understandably mortified.
"The usual number, give or take, I'm sure. Would you quit staring? We're in Montana...they probably eat girls like us for breakfast around here."
"Ooooh, now you're talking." I nudge Andrea's foot with mine and she blushes furiously. We're both a bit worked up from 15 states full of farm boys and, while all we really need in life is a bumpy road and a tight pair of jeans, we wouldn't pass up a cowboy.
"Shut up and eat your buffalo burger. I bet we can make Washington state by tonight."
"Hey, do you think he lost his finger in a threshing accident? Do they have threshers in Montana? What does a thresher do?"
Andrea gives up, with a sigh, and polishes off the last of her freedom fries.
