Tired (Tried!) to add page element went super. (a.k.a. didn't work at all). Oh well, try links again another day.

Bought film today. Maybe I will go film the hollyhocks now.

Cheese had sleepover here last night. Dropped off the extra boy at his house today, and then went to mall in search of shorts, came home with a pair of jeans. Never a good idea to go there, always makes me want stuff. But the truth is the stuff that I want, doesn't fit my life at all. What, should I wear cute girly dresses while I clean, and garden, and write? If I had money and was graceful, and had fine manners, maybe I would. But as I do not have money and am a great slob, they would just get rumpled and stained, I can see no point in having them, so tell myself again and again "stop wanting them!". Oh but I do want them. Like a child in a candy store, their colors call out to me, such pretty sweetness, I run my hand across a front, touch frill, and hem. And imagine for a moment a different sort of life, one where I wear little dresses like these. Is it too late, I wonder, can I still be that girl? Still become a woman like that? So no one ever sees me, so I never go anywhere, still I want to see me dressed like that, want to be me, dressed like that. But then we are back to the issue of money again. And denim capris and t-shirts fit both my life and my budget.

Vesper indicated that I should probably be working on my writing more, and blogging less. I totally agree. I go on vacation soon, and I am hoping that will propel me to finish typing stuff from my notebook onto my computer (so I can print it out). It makes me nervous leaving my work. What if something happens to it? I need to have several copies in several locations. A complete copy must be here at home, and also one must be with me. The notebook is fragile. Already Cheese spilled water on it, and it has dirt smudges from being in the garden with me, and folded pages from being shoved in and out of my purse. ( I like little cutesy purses, but bought a big one this spring, for the notebook, and for books I am reading).

My front yard no longer smells of death. The beetles were taken with the trash this morning. It is odd to watch oneself do things one doesn't actually feel comfortable with. The unbagged beetles, the ones I slide off of petals into a bucket of water, well they were also starting to stink. Some were dead, some were not. At least fifty of them were in there, probably closer to a hundred. I scooped them out (with plastic throw away food container) letting most of the water drain out, plopped them into another big plastic container, then when I was done, poured out all the icky stinky water from the buckett, carried the beetles to the driveway, dumped them out in batches, and squashed them with my sneakers, by jumping and slidding. It was both mushy and crunchy, smelly, and all together gross. I heard this voice "Who are you?", a mix of curiosity and horror. " I don't know what else to do." was my only reply. I can't let them eat all my plants. It seemed a shame to dead-head the roses, to cut away spent blooms (well in this case not spent, some were just buds, but were bud and bloom alike eaten to shreds) so new ones would form. Why bother, when I will just be feeding the beeltes and never see the flowers. Last year they were just on my roses, but this year, they go to all my plants. I have already started a new bucket, 20 this morning, I should go round again, but it will upset me. They tuck their hard little bodies between the delicate petals, hidden tucked into fragrant beds. I wonder what that would be like? To sleep between folds of silky soft petals. To sway gently in the wind, to breathe the fresh night air. Your days, sex, and food, all part of this fragrant bed. Except of course for me, the giant monster, who comes and steals them from their beds, drowning and smashing them. Ah, each the villian in the other one's story.

I am not inclined to spell check today, so please forgive. (and do make excuses for me...she must be very tired not to notice she spelled....)