I'm starving. It's late. Since quitting smoking I have been voraciously hungry. I knew this would happen. I cut my toenails too short the other day--all of them. How does that happen? Really? All of them? Really.
There are two massive windows facing the front of my house with a lovely view of the elementary school, park and main street below. It's like looking into a snowglobe of my entire town. I refuse to put curtains on them even though I am sure dogwalkers and pot smoking teenagers in the park can glance up at my every move. And why not? Sometimes I feel like a fairy queen smiling down from my tower at all the hustle and bustle in the village below. Why have windows to keep them covered up? They're practically store front sized. When we had new ones put in this year, the men from the window company said that none of the windows in our house are standard size and some of the biggest windows they'd ever seen.
I know it's late because when I gaze out I see my reflection illuminated in the soft glow of the computer screen gazing back at me. The lamp posts in the park are all dark. That means it's really late. The only thing that would make it flawless would be some lightly falling snow, but we've had enough of that.
It's been a long but productive week. I bit the bullet and submitted my application and video for the spring burlesque show. The lighting in the video is horrible and until recently, when my husband gave me a quick lesson, I barely knew how to turn the video camera on. Overall, I'm happy with the results. I feel like I'm on to something---in/with myself.
I also got to spend some quality time with my grandmother last weekend. She was reminiscing about her life right after highschool. She was working as a bookkeeper at the telephone company where she met my grandfather. She enjoyed her job; however, she had to leave because the company had a policy not to employ married women. It was during the Depression era and apparently companies wanted to avoid paying two salaries per household--they wanted to keep men working. So she met my grandfather at the job and was basically let go when she decided to marry him. How about that? She wanted to go back to work but, according to her, my grandfather felt her place was in the home with the children. Once the children were all in school he rolled his eyes at the idea of her getting a job--even though most of her friends were employed. She was sad and resentful talking about it. I asked if she felt that way at the time or if age had given her a different perspective. I knew the answer without her having to say it.
She wears a wig now, like on special occasions. It's baffling. She has a full head of hair and even has most of her natural brown color. It's senior citizen peer pressure! All her friends are doing it! She decided not to wear it to her exercise class one day and her friends made comments about it. Some friends! I'd be goddamned to be 85, have a full head of hair and sweat my face off under a synthetic hood at exercise class. They're just jealous. I don't get it but I don't say anything. It seems to give her some sense of security. She can wear a dead raccoon on her head for all I care as long as she keeps telling me everything she remembers--again and again.
Anyway, late night QVC and a pan of brownies are calling my name. Keep your fingers crossed that my application is well received and I make it into the show. Otherwise, I'm going on a summer tour of Lane Bryant promotional events and Howard Johnson's front lobbies. Are there any HOJO's left?
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