My Inner Diva

I have a lucky sweater. I wear it all the time. People say they do something "all the time" and they just mean "often." I mean that I wear it every day. Perhaps not when I leave Green Acres, but I wear it at least part of the day every day. It's thin and tight knit and black and grey striped and goes with just about everything. It had a teeny tiny little hole in it that I sewed up because I absolutely cannot part with this sweater nor can I replace it.

It really is an awesome sweater. Ignore the face and the disaster. We're remodeling. It does strange things to a person.

I'm not exactly saying I'm more partial to the sweater than, say, my children. Obviously if it came down to a choice between the sweater and Beanstalk I would choose Beanstalk... But that's a very academic decision right there. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind a chunk of my psyche is standing there in her red-bottomed Louboutin pumps screaming:

"THERE HAS TO BE A BETTER WAY!"

She's not my favorite member of my mental group conscience. In fact, the other eleven members frequently have to toss her out on her rear end for wreaking havoc at least once a month. So, when I drove the truck to the dump today wearing my favorite sweater and there wasn't an attendant there to help me and I found that the trash had been chewed into by an animal and there were maggots--well--she lost her mind. Maggots on the sweater, y'all. Maggots.

Because this just wouldn't be my blog without something remotely gross and scientific.

Oh my holy ham biscuits!!

There are, in fact, members of the mental group conscience capable of handling maggots, rain water, and holes in trash bags. I used to determine time of death for roadkill using maggots in college (it was a post doc study for a prof. Ick, emkay? Just ick). However, I think they're the ones who dislike anything that occurs before noon. Imelda (that's her name) tapped into some sort of override and there was some screaming and yelling and flapping of arms and legs and shuddering.

It was horrid, I tell you. HORRID! (How those Chinese folk got in there I do not know).

And that woman has a mouth on her because I cursed Buddy up and down the entire way home for telling me that I wouldn't even need to get out of the car "now that they have attendants to help with things." Not.

I came home and straightaway got in the shower to clean up. I tossed the favorite sweater in the wash as advised from the eleven other conscience members who had been rocketed out of bed by all the screaming. They advised I take Imelda to a closet to make her feel more at home, but that didn't work so I got on Pinterest for a while. She likes that and is mostly in charge of my Pinterest boards. I got sidetracked looking at Tumbleweed Tiny House Company so she wrote me this Haiku:

No no no no no
No no no no no no no
No no no no no
-Imelda

It could be a very long day.
Scat