I do battle with a junebug tonight Ė those loud, buzzy,
none-too-bright insects that suddenly turn up anywhere thereís light
each June, like when we first moved into this house two years ago. Theyíre
sizable little buggers Ė fat and round Ė but essentially harmless,
beyond the godawful-irritating noise they make. This junebug keeps
trying to crawl my way, my frequent swats with my flip-flop serving
little purpose but to make its progress just a bit slower. Normally, I
hate to admit, Iíd call the boy to come get rid of it Ė not that Iím
scared of insects; I just donít particularly like picking them up to
move them outside, and thereís certainly no point in killing a poor
dumb junebug. After 15 minutes of willing it to find its way to the
door, I sigh, give up, and escort it there myself.
Iíve just finished altering a dress -- bought two years ago but
only worn once because I decided it just didnít fit right in the waist
Ė when B calls again. Since the junebug has been my sole source of
interaction with any other being this day, I convince him to
procrastinate some more with his work and come over to keep my company.
Iím a terrible, terrible influence and I donít feel guilty at all.
Iím planning a true girlsí night tonight as my friend Jís
coming over. Itíll be homemade pizza and Ben + Jerryís, plus more Sex
and the City, of course. Right now, though, itís late afternoon
and Iím burnt out from staring at the computer. And as I walk from my
office to the kitchen, itís hard to escape this fact: the house is a
pit. When youíre living with another person, itís so easy to blame
the chaos on them Ė their stack of old magazines obscuring the coffee
table, their pile of clothes that may or may not need laundering, their
socks strewn all over the floor that most definitely do need to be
thrown in the wash. But the dishes sitting in the sink are mine, and the
laundry waiting to be folded is mine, and the papers obscuring the
kitchen table are mine, and the shoes scattered all over the floor of
just about every room are all mine, mine, mine. Yes, itís time to face
the facts: Iím a slob. Time to tidy up before J comes over and
discovers this dirty little secret of mine.
This morning I wake up hugging my pillow fiercely. I miss the
boy. Fortunately, he comes home in six and a half hours. Not that Iím
counting, mind you. Iím good at being alone, really.