soapboxdiner

Saturday mornings and all the things we never discuss

So, Saturday morning yet again and already. It is a strangely moving time of the week and day. Especially since it has been cold and dreary and rainy and did I mention cold? Yes, it has been a soggy and cold week here in Seattle. Sweaters have been reinstated to their rightful places in the closet. London Fog attire has been spotted on my person. I've on several occasions this week even put sandals aside in deference to my more insulated loafers. LOAFERS for pity's sake!

But something about sunny Saturday mornings always makes me optimistic. There is no rush to prepare small children for school (which I am half hopeful will someday soon be a thing of the past. Even his daycare providers are agog at this child's level of dependency on his mother. "Here Mom, hold my coat, tie my shoes, can you zip my pants?") And no, he isn't retarded or handicapped or anything that tragic, he's just figured out how to work the system. The system being, If I drive my mother to the brink of violence and insanity and impending REALLY FUCKING LATE FOR WORKness, she will do all the things I don't want to do for myself. It's a gamble on his part, really, because sometimes I DO go insane and violently glare at him with my eyes twitching. But he's a gambler, you see, and loves the rush of that edge.

Anyway. Optimistic Saturday mornings. Unrushed. Savored with cafe au latte on the patio with a cigarette and book. It is sunny today, which only adds to my desire to conquer the world by way to getting the heck out of Dodge to tramp about the waterfront shops and listen to street musicians and such madness.

Pehaps we will - later. After we (*we* apparently meaning me) rediscover such things as counter tops and floor carpetting. It seems we (*we* apparently meaning the child) tend to lose them throughout the week under toys and videos and discarded clothing.

P.S. The parakeet has been undergoing his first molt. He has been especially bitchy and neurotic of late - what with his fits of conspicuous manly-man wing fibrillations and perturbed, schizoid struts about his cage. In one such fit witnessed this morning, I took special care to note that he is growing himself some boxom boobies. Mmmm, boxom parakeet boobies. I hear they taste like chicken.

Oh yeah - and another thing I found milldy amusing this week. There is a church nestled back from the road I traverse every day. This church has a billboard next to the street. The billboard reads, "Download your worries here." Which is rather disturbing if you think about it. I mean, I'm sure it's convenient to have access an internet worry bank - but I like to acquire my my worries the old fashioned way - by being a complete blundering asshole. Generous of the church to offer though, don't you think?

9:50 am - 09.13.03
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