I’m conducting a scientific experiment. I made it up. Am trying to determine how observant others are. This requires me to wear pajamas everywhere. Either I’m invisible or own a mess of fine-ass sleepwear because no one I’ve been with has said a word. On second thought, I’m going to end this experiment immediately. Just remembered Crazy Woman Dancing. When I was in middle school, we lived across the street from a bigwig at some corporation. Every morning after he went to his coupon-clipping job, his wife would perform. Outside. In her pajamas. She had not seen her forties in many a moon; she looked like a potato on two sticks with dyed black hair. She would dance up a storm, waltzing here, twisting there, with a little cha-cha-cha thrown in. It’s fair to say she had a wee bit of a struggle with adult beverage consumption. Her “keeper” would wander out about an hour after the performance started and reel her back into the asylum house.
My eldest popped over yesterday. She has come to the conclusion that her father is very “regimented” and I am very “wiggly”; she claimed she and her sister were smack dab in the middle. She must have seen me dancing strolling down the grocery aisle in my pajamas street clothes. Under the influence of caffeine. Wiggly?
Rather than rant on Justin Bieber (who cares who he’s kissing? blech!), rip some very strange Freshly Pressed selections sandwiched between outstanding choices (an ongoing mystery with no end in sight), and cry for the poor soul playing the new female football coach on Glee, I guess I’ll just let my head explode for the umpteenth time. Or start dancing on the driveway ….
Better wiggle out of these pajamas first.