crazymaking boy

Last night I dreamed that somebody I wouldn’t want to live with showed up at my new house with a truckful of unpacked stuff and then started to complain to passersby that “I had changed” when I said No Way. “I’ll just move all my things into the attic”. Uh, no you won’t.

Sigh. I had to call Paul on the cel phone and let him deal with it. We call this practice “Hiding behind each other’s skirts” when we have a social situation that one of us can deal with and the other one can’t.

Very useful.

Kira is trying to kill an inanimate object. Maybe she should go outside and hunt something.

Katie’s conquest of technology continues apace. Paul said he didn’t want the MP3 player so I got it. Essentially that means Kate got it, because even though I loaded it up with my favourite playlist, she figured out how to get her own music on it, so I’m not taking it to work today. I just handed it back to her and said, uh, yeah, well I don’t want it back until I have a better playlist because I don’t want to listen to Sandstorm by Da Rude. Okay, maybe I do, but it’s one of those things you don’t talk about in public. As for the rest of the songs, wouldn’t you just cry to learn that she put MY tune, Crazymaking Boy, on the playa (You are… my hero from a fable, my supper on the table… etc) and played it for her swain and her swain’s mum last night. Said swain opined That’s Not Your Mom and Katie said, for true it is. Then he listened to it twice. The way to a mom’s heart, et.f.cet.

Keith is making coffee, like the young godling he is. My routine is now half assembled … the young Frankenstein of modern humour. Run…! Run for your very wits!

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Born when atmospheric carbon was 316 PPM. Settled on MST country since 1997. Parent, grandparent.

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