Note: I had this post formatted all cute...colors and stuff. Blogger ate that part and I'm too tired to redo it, so just read the damn thing.
Today's family lunch was a smashing success. We laughed ourselves 'tarded and ate ourselves into carb-induced comas (my favorite kind, as you all know). I only got 3 hours sleep, so that was a bit of hitch in the day, and I almost fell asleep in the floor at one point, but I managed to pull it out and stay conscious until everyone left.
My aunt's hubby, the one that gives off the molestor vibe, drew me diagrams of my exhaust system (the one on my car, that is). He asked, "Hey, Andi, what kind of exhaust system do you have on your car?"
-blank stare from me-
"Umm, I dunno. It works, and it's quiet."
Later he tracked me down in the kitchen and that's when he drew the diagrams to explain how mine is different from most, and I need to get the mufflers extended. He'd been on his back in the garage checking out my exhaust. Yeah. The conversation sounded a lil something like this:
"Wah wah wah yadda yadda blah blah wonk."
He also tried to have conversations with me about my XM radio and computers. That's the usual. I think he still thinks I'm a web designer.
My aunt Peggy painted a picture of a horse about 20 years ago that looks just like a mule. It was sitting in the living room because we returned some paintings to her and Murlene (don't have room for them in the new abode). She didn't remember painting it, but the mule thing became a running joke today. The Molestor took a picture with it. How fitting. Two asses on parade.
It was a really fun day. It reminded me of how deliciously warped my family is, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
The other Saturday I alluded to in the title of this post is a book. I'm reading Saturday, by Ian McEwan and loving all 40 pages I've read. I can see that the main character may jump up and down on my nerves by the end, but the writing is gorgeous. In a nutshell, it's about a day in the life of a neurosurgeon, Henry Perowne. It starts with him seeing a flaming plane headed for Heathrow airport. One of those post-9/11 stabs that I've bashed before. I'm hoping to be pleasantly elated in spite of my distaste for 9/11 fiction.
Here's a passage I was fond enough of to actually, physically write it down in a paper journal. That's the utmost compliment.
But is there a lifetime's satisfaction in twelve bars of three obvious chords? Perhaps it's one of those cases of a microcosm giving you the whole world. Like a Spode dinner plate. Or a single cell. Or, as Daisy says, like a Jane Austen novel. When player and listener know the road so well, the pleasure is in the deviation, the unexpected turn against the grain. To see the world in a grain of sand.
In other reading news:
Trick, I'm sad to report that Gilead made me want to die, so I chunked it. I'm all for an internal story, but at least the main character could've been interesting. Suzz, can I have an "Amen!?" Maybe I'll try it again someday, but not anytime soon.
I also ditched One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Too many penises. I'm not in the mood for dick lit.
Oh, and I ditched one more: Serving Crazy with Curry, by Amulaya Malladi. Stilted dialogue drives me INSANE! Suzz, one more shout out to you: never read this book. Adverbs and adjectives out the ass.
TV: Long gone.
CD: Rascal Flatts' new one--Feels Like Today
Reading: We've covered this.
In my head: A zoo.