Remember that long post that I promised here? It's not ready yet. That's because I haven't written a single word since the last time I posted. It's meant to be a discussion of beauty and aging in 2009, as seen through impressions I formed while witnessing a conversation between two women at my dentist's office. It might turn out to be one of those "it seemed like a good idea at the time" posts. Maybe I'll finish it eventually, and maybe it will be consigned to draft folder oblivion, like a post I started about how much I enjoy hearing non-native speakers trying to curse in English. That one actually cracked me up, but it fell flat at the end. One of these days, I'll pull it out of my draft folder and the perfect conclusion will just step up and write itself for me. Because that happens all the time.
Meanwhile (how often do I use that word? I'm going to do a search; I'm afraid that the answer to that question is "excessively often"), a return to what appears to be this blog's new theme: how can a person who hasn't had a job for six months be so busy all the time? Swim season is fully underway, and I've been named secretary of the team association, so in addition to my usual bake sale asssisting and stopwatch wielding, I'm also writing the weekly newsletter. See, I'm writing something. I'm an attention whore in print. In person, I'm quite happy to blend into any available background, but I do love when people tell me that my writing makes them laugh. The real reason for the busyness, though, is that my husband is deeply enamored of the idea of himself as the husband of a stay-at-home mother. I bet he calls me a "housewife". Not within earshot of me, of course, but I bet he at least thinks it. Words aside, (too late, right?), he now delegates every single aspect of life to me. Every time I speak to him, he has a to-do list item for me. His list combined with my list is a lot of damn list. I won't complain, however, (once again, too late), because my current reading, about Russia under Stalin, has given me new perspective on life's discomforts and inconveniences. Any day spent anywhere other than Kolyma or Lefortovo is a pretty good one. And it would be a pretty good one anyway.
So, once again, my undisciplined rambling must come to an end. We have an early swim meet (on the 4th of July! Outrage! But wait, at least I'm not on a cattle train bound for the gulag, right?) and I'm either going to go to bed now, or I'm going to finish my open-book take-home midterm (100 insanely arcane questions, nearly none of which I can answer without aid of the index. I did the reading, too! Being an adult student sucks. Not as much as Lubyanka, though!)
Eventually, I'll finish the long post of legend and song. In the meantime (neatly bypassing the use of the word "meanwhile"), speaking of gulags, I'll soon update you on the increasingly harsh conditions under which my son lives. A preview: He was given a summer reading list, and I am actually insisting that he read some of the suggested books! He received birthday presents, and I am forcing him to write thank-you notes! Take that, Beria.