Sometimes I forget myself.
Like last night, I was reading one of those damned Somerset Studio magazines where all the art looks the same. It was called 'artful blogging' and featured a slew of artful bloggers who all took beautiful pictures of their beautiful damned woodland estates and groomed children and oh yeah they were all so precious about everything.
So I thought, I should write like this too!
Precious precious. Precious day. Precious children. Precious tea cup, precious bookshelf, precious me, precious life.
Then I remembered that I'm not. You know.
Thank god I remembered before it was too late. Otherwise you might be reading some ode to the snowy fields right now. While staring at heavily photoshopped children. Or something.
I spent more time than is healthy in Boulder this weekend and I can confidently tell you that I am the only woman in the world who doesn't own a pair of knee high boots.
But ohhhhhh lordy, do I want some bad. I want them buttery and tromping.
I was reading Whole Living. I always think I should read all these magazines I see every day at Black Ops Job and then I read them and they are faith-in-humanity-losing boring. Whole Living was about losing weight and, best I can tell, learning to match your oxwool slippers to your throw blankets?
Shit, man. Just. . . . shit.
I'm not good at reaching out to people but sometimes they reach out to me. So what happened was this: Me sitting in the wrong city reading the wrong magazines getting the wrong ideas about my life. Be more precious be more holy be more ambitious be more better. Then Kimmy calls me and I start to remember.
Thanks Kim. Carry on, my wayward authoress.
I am Vesuvius and I think a blog is like a polaroid in print.