Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Goldfish Soup

Somewhere deep in the crevices of my wee brain live two goldfish, they forget what they are called. Most days they wouldn’t respond to Snow White in suspenders, other days they just don’t leave me the hell alone.
Today they were lit up by the ever present neon warning glare, battling it out somewhere in the frontal lobe, I think it had to do with traffic, but they can’t remember either.
The husband question still weighs heavily, his confusion and personal issue with making some sort of choice is like waking up with a massive hangover, still wearing last nights six inch heels, one of which attempted a Marilyn around 3am…
Just to keep the issue clear, I have no wish to grow old with someone poisoning my chicken soup, or pushing me off a cliff aided by a suitably pimp Zimmer frame, but I also can’t be everything to everyone. It terrifies me that this issue could become our unslayable dragon, and yet I am exhausted… and I really want to wake up next to my husband in the morning, having had someone else remove last nights outfit for me.

It took darling at least a year from the time he decided to propose to get to the point where he actually did, spontaneously, and in truly chivalrous fashion while I was naked and dripping bathwater on the carpet, I didn’t really mind the lack of an engagement ring, but a towel would have been nice. How can I expect this same precious lump of hair and vital organs to make a truly life changing decision in mere months?

Anyone have a job for me in LA, or a recipe to murder imaginary cranial goldfish that doesn’t involve the unsavoury combination of heads and toilets?

1 comment:

kittiegurl said...

Yay... I'm the first comment maker :)

Welcome to the big bad blogosphere