It was laundry day today, meaning that Bessie had to help me out of my week-old footsie pajamas, which was quite a relief. After all, flannel is a bitch to wear in the summer heat, but Bessie says it's more absorbent than cotton, which keeps the bedsheets from getting sweat-stained. So until those came out of the dryer, I had to sit around in my poly-cotton bra and big cotton panties, sticking to the leather chair that's chained to the floor in my room.
I hate summer. Most people love the long, golden hours of sunlight and the balmy warmth of an on-shore breeze. But that not for me. I itch when I sweat, then the itching leads to scratching and the scratching leads to hives and the next thing you know, the National Enquirer is running stories about some fatal skin disease that I must have picked up from some pedophilia ring. That's so crazy. I mean, it's not really a ring, per sé.
I was always a bundle-up-in-a-wool-sweater kind of gal. Give me a cold, crisp night on a city street any time. For me, it's way
With nothing else to do, I spent a fair amount of time thinking about how I can help other Democrats win election in the 2018 elections. I made a few calls to some hopefuls across the country, but had to leave messages for most of them. The rest had their assistants take a message, where I tried to break the ice by referring to them as my "resistance persistence assistants." I thought it was clever, but I guess they didn't, because they just mumbled something about not needing help "torpedoing their campaigns" and hung up before I could even leave my number.
Maybe I should take up macramé again. I bet Dr. Morell would allow me to hang a fern in the corner if I promised not to eat the leaves.