I should be cleaning my room, but I'm not
This morning has been a comedy of errors... missing the laundry room window by seconds, overcooking my eggs because the review of the new Primus album was so compelling, moving around some art and finding rat turds (those cheeky little critics), finding and then immediately losing a cool ad I cut out.
Last night I hung out at LL's Moby. The non-deviant Morris Dancers were there, spreading their wacky peninsula ways and goofy accents from one end of the trailer to the other. I got beaten at scrabble by two foreign-born folk. (that is a sad sad commentary on the state of my domestic education). LL is a great hostess, the food was great and nutritative, the company was intersting, and the shoes were fabulous (I would have bought some, except I didn't have any cash).
I perhaps already jinxed Mr Right... no word at all. I am hoping that he just hasn't had a chance to check his e-mail, and that his digital silence has nothing to do with the fact that I wrote him saying that I wanted to meet him. Isn't that a good thing? Should I have pretended like I hated his e-mail? Should I have played difficult? Should I have been bitchy?