procrastinating. again.

The clouds this morning do appear to be lined in silver, backlit by the sun somewhere out there over the water. I need them to stick around because if they don't, I'll want to be out there, too.

I have no right to be scribbling here right now, have put this task off so long that I've given up my right to choose. Sure, I could file an extension, but it is a source of pride now, not to have ever done that. The fact that Grandpa's forms don't match and that the household paperwork, which is outside the scope of my responsibility, had to be dug out of Thelma's stacks doesn't matter. If they are not finished today, it is my fault.

Yet I can't keep from playing with words. Taxes. Spelled backwards… sex at… .hmm

But there are things I want to write, so:

- the possum on the baseball field. Just a baby, pink and fuzzy, snooping under the bleachers first then chased by the little kids whose big brothers were playing, into the dugout, then the pen where the pitchers warm up. It didn’t' seem to be afraid of people, as though it was happy to be a little league adoptive mascot. It even left the park when the game ended. Funny little creature; reminded me of rats.

- I haven't seen many rats in my life. One in Galveston that freaked me out and made the superstitious Midwestern voice in my head, the one I try to forget, whine about signs and bad luck. Another in New Orleans. Both times were times I wasn't sure I should be in that particular location at that particular time. The Galveston one was the beginning of the end of a great friendship, and some of my own naiveté, the New Orleans one was during Allison, and while I was watching rats, my house was flooding. Well not really. What really happened was that the pool overflowed and no one knew how to waste it. You can bring us to the city, but you can't give up common sense.

- there are always stories to be told that can't be told to certain audiences because the foundation for them necessary to make the story work comes across wrong. Like my story of the tollbooth in France. I was so proud to be DRIVING on the freeways in France, that I could read enough of the signs, that I could actually find the sea without help. But it had been a year of international meetings and I was not along for my brain. We'd been in Mexico the week before France and I am not good with currency. Not even US currency. So when the toll was (I don't remember how much the toll was. Five franks? Does that make sense? Doesn't matter really.) I handed the operator the change in my bag that added up to the correct amount, and didn't understand why she was asking for more. She kept saying "not a frank, not a frank" like it was some animatronic response. Only when I realized that I'd actually given her some pesos did it click. So cosmopolitan G.

- I'm going through something similar as my spouse finally gets the job he came here for. I have a sense of resentment that makes no sense at all and can only wonder if Hilary felt this way. I'm going to deal with it, because no one deserves resentment when they've worked this hard. I am going to drink champagne. After the taxes.

- My dog has major ocd. She cried to get out a while ago, and then just stared at the patio table whining. I finally went out to see what was going on and there were two tennis balls up on the table. Her sheep were out of the pasture I guess. She brought them in where she could watch them and is now curled happily beneath my desk. Yesterday she played so hard with the twelve year old that she came in with bleeding footpads. All the way to the bathroom there were little Scout blood prints, like a gruesome crime ending at the toilet where she of course had to get a drink. I'm not sure why there weren't prints back. She's smart enough; maybe she gave herself first aid while she was in there. What kind of pet fetches a ball on a sidewalk until her feet bleed? Today she is limping too. You'd think she were ancient. Just an old soul I guess.

- it is clear I have nothing really to write and am just stalling. Odd how it works the other way when I'm supposed to be writing.