Once upon a time there was a girl who used to blog, and her name was )en. )en was lame for not blogging, not only for what this inflicted upon her readers (if any remained), but also because not blogging makes )en lame, as a person. She was very regretful, to others and to herself. She wished to apologize and vowed to do better in the future. )en then paused to reflect and thought, what a waste to say "do better in the future." Is there any other time she could vow to do better? She said aloud to herself, "I vow to do better in the past! I vow to do better yesterday. yesterday is going to be so much better than... the days before it..?" This could all be possible if she had a time machine but alas, )en did not.
)en went on a trip and returned last Friday. She flew a red eye flight with her small lima bean of a kid who wore blue fuzzy pajamas and a wild look in his eye, despite the dramamine in his system. After an hour of screaming and flailing and thrashing and many near-misses of skull on lip contact, he calmed down and fell asleep while )en held him, arms aching, legs aching, because sitting for long times hurts, and because she's 80. She eventually slid him to his chair and held his feet on her lap while she stared at the tv in front of her in a lethargic daze. The man next to her invited his own rear to sneak into her space and given his angle, )en seriously considered leaning her body onto to his. But she didn't because )en doesn't lean against strangers.
She returned to snowy weather, french toast & hot chocolate across the street at her favorite French bistro, her silver fur-lined rainboots that remind her of astronaut boots (<-- the reason for the purchase), and to a bedroom totally revamped, rearranged, redone. It was beautiful, the work of her husband who slaved in her absence. She took walks with her child, once again reunited with the stroller and stroller blanket, and mittens and hats and furry boots. The walking hurt her lungs for she hadn't done much of it in weeks. She had thigh-high socks and wrapped her face in a scat (scarf + hat)*. She banged the stroller on curbs, squeezed through narrow openings on the sidewalk, heard the bells of an old old church, and as her glasses fogged and her nose dripped, she thought, well, I am glad to be back.
*someone said this meant animal droppings. Though i stick by my made-up word (it can't be undone or renamed), that is funny & gross, and i question its validity. Has anyone else heard it?
It's true, you should avoid scat. How about "scart"? It still sounds kind of cool.
Walking hurt your lungs? You may be doing it wrong. Try standing up.
Yeah, "scat" is already taken. But "harf" isn't much better sounding...
Scat. Yes. I like Harf.
i thought scat was the kind of improvising that Jazz singers do. Wow. Maybe I'm way off.
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