Dru Blood - I believe in the inherent goodness of all beings: It's a Decemberisty Day

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It's a Decemberisty Day

May 25, 2006

Maybe because I am wishing it was December - or any month, really, in which it wouldn't matter that my fucking A/C fan is broken. Fuck. I thought I was going to be totally flush for my vacation and now I am going to, instead, be scrambling for money.

At any rate, J is going to come over and take a look at it, which is funny because it was J who fixed it the last time...banging away on the damn thing until the fan motor came out. He spent about 24 hours working on it. I am hoping this time, if it is the motor again, it won't be quite as rusted tight. What I really need is an entirely new unit, but that will have to wait. I am hoping that it is the motor again. Or the solonoid. I am hoping this isn't an expensivey repair. All the better if J can pull it off for the cost of parts and lunch and the pleasure of our company.

I had a nice conversation with J last night. We haven't seen much of him around here lately, and I, for one, miss him. A lot. Monk misses him, too. I'm sure Coley does, as well...but lately all Coley ever thinks about is his mama (me). We are all supposed to go on an outing tomorrow before the boys go to their dad's house for. three. weeks.

It was a nice conversation with J, but I wish I wasn't such an oversharing freak. You know, for once in my life, I would like to be able to keep a freaking secret or two. I am finding that oversharing has become almost compulsive with me. Like there is nothing about me that I'm not absolutely willing to prattle on and on about. I want to be able to play it cool with someone...to hold back information. To not be such a freaking arm-waving dork so much of the time. But, no. I will happily spill whatever I am asked (or not even asked in the most remote sense, depending on my mood) to spill.

I would make a horrible spy. So, instead I will listen to the Decemberists and dream of a me who could, instead of spilling factual information, make up elaborate lies about who I am and what I am thinking or feeling or doing. Wouldn't that be fun?

My mother was a Chinese Trapeze Artist
by The Decemberists

My mother was a Chinese trapeze artist
In pre-war Paris
Smuggling bombs for the underground.
And she met my father
At a fete in Aix-en-Provence.
He was disguised as a Russian cadet
in the employ of the Axis.
And there in the half-light
Of the provincial midnight
To a lone concertina
They drank in cantinas
And toasted to Edith Piaf
And the fall of the Reich.

My sister was born in a hovel in Burgundy
And left for the cattle
But later was found by a communist
Who'd deserted his ranks
To follow his dream
To start up a punk rock band in South Carolina.
I get letters sometimes.
They bought a plantation
She weeds the tobacco
He offends the nation
And they write, "Don't be a stranger, y'hear."
"Sincerely, your sister."

So my parents had me
To the disgust of the prostitutes
On a bed in a brothel.
Surprisingly raised with tender care
'Til the money got tight
And they bet me away
To a blind brigadier in a game
Of high stakes canasta.
But he made me a sailor
On his brigadier ship fleet.
I know every yardarm
From main mast to jib sheet.
But sometimes I long to be landlocked
And to work in a bakery.

Posted at May 25, 2006 7:34 AM

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