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18 February 2006
What's on your couch? Mine has a passed out South Dakota girl of Norweigan ancestry who we met earlier tonight, an afghan, and some pillows.
My mother- and father-in-law. The latest in a stream of visitors this week. Ever since the doctor prescribed total bed rest, pills, injections, etc. for mr. taz, the house has hardly been empty of visitors. This is how Greek people get sick, evidently: with lots of onlookers.
I wish. It's actually the opposite. I wake up in a panic to dust and scrub and sweep before anybody gets here... And of course, mr. sick always ends up taking them into whatever room looks the worst. If I haven't touched the bedroom, that's where he has to take them to look at the view out of the unwashed window. This is after I have sweetly whispered those three magic words into his delicate, shell-like ear: NO HOUSE TOURS.
We've been together so long I've actually tried all the beating variations, multiple times over; the poking with needles thing is new, though. So far, it hasn't worked either.
The Great Book of Amber, a calendar from Uwajimaya, backpack, present for a Mechazen, bag of possibly important papers, empty Maker's bottle, information about my 403 (b).
My agent Susan Samuelson, drunk off her tiny, Betsy Johnson ass, talking to me about how I need to consider moving away from Seattle and get back on stage.
photo by splunge
photo by TheophileEscargot
photo by Kronos_to_Earth
photo by ethylene
