The Battle of Waterloo

The Battle of Waterloo

Billy Joel’s “Movin’ Out” keeps running through my head today. It began with my morning micturation. I looked down into my toilet bowl, and a fly circled by in that dark hollow. Flies, you know, have those two large compound eyes. They can process visual information about seven times faster than I, which means mini Jeff Goldblum had a tremendous advantage over me, even with my tall vantage point and thunderous thighs. Wellington at the battle of Waterloo used his Royal Horse Artillery to “plug up holes in his line . . . Major Bull’s troop was brought forward in support from its original position towards the rear of the allied position.” Cannons served that army well. My unbridled hair had yet been tamed into its Zoom-Room-ponytail. But, I too brought my artillery from its original position towards my rear, up front. I jammed the wadded TP into reverse (which any OB-GYN will tell you constitutes a risky tactical maneuver) and...
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CoronaDiary

CoronaDiary

Guys. I was doing great until the coffee spilled all over the counter this morning, and then I just completely lost my shit. “Great” is relative. I woke up semi-rested. Tutoring kids in my dreams isn’t what I’d call great recovery sleep. It’s not particularly lucrative either. But no one fell down a well or anything, so we’ll call it a good night. I meditated fifteen minutes. Got all centered and you know. And then, feeling ready to greet the day and the people who left my clean kitchen with midnight-snack dishes in the sink, I woke everybody up just as sweet as those yams I popped in the oven. I emptied the dishwasher, washed dishes, rewashed sticky pan the husband washed last night, loaded laundry, sliced the fruit I’m genuinely grateful to have, made the boy French toast—I had all the balls in the air so the husband could get to his virtual school, and the son to his virtual classroom. Everyone in their place. My toast...
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