Last night, waiting to fall asleep, annoyed at my insomnia (I always sleep wonderfully, except it seems the night before I return to work), I wrote a wonderful, witty, whimsical (such alliteration, oh my!) entry for this blog. In my head. And is it still floating around in this witty and whimsical yet empty head of mine? Somewhere where I might find it in some shape or form? Nope. Gone. There, in a nutshell, lies the problem with being a lazy insomniac.
The vacation was great, as vacations are wont to be, except for the rain. The rain in Paris, the rain at the cottage, the rain for the day or two we spent in Montreal. Everything is sodden (love that word, it captures the feeling so well). Sodden. The ground, the trees the birds the Eiffel Tower, me. Sodden. All of us. Two weeks of sodden.
Just as an experiment, let me play Pollyanna and put a positive spin on things – and watch carefully, because this isn’t gonna happen again any time soon. So: rain is good because once you get back from Paris you have nothing to do at the cottage in the woods except relax, and watch DVDs galore… It wasn’t a terribly exciting vacation, but Mr. Jazz made me margaritas aplenty so basically I have nothing to complain about. Margaritas, movies and nooky, what more can a girl ask for?
I did realize, coming back to work today, that I was born for a life of leisure. I was Marie Antoinette or Cleopatra in a past life and I want to keep it up in this one. ‘Course, seeing how they ended up… I’m sure there’s a lesson in there somewhere, something about idleness, something strong and puritanical of the “devil and idle fingers (or minds?)” variety, but I don’t want to know.
PS: This should've been posted yesterday, but Blogger didn't want me in here. If I were paranoid...