Usually my feet don’t smell. But I have just slipped off my slightly pinchy shoes and I caught an up-draft in the left nostril. Yooooeeee. Synthetic shoes are the work of the devil.
I do enjoy their cuteness, though.
The Dead Milkmen wrote a song called “My Many Smells.” Sometimes I just sing that line and let it trail off for other people to pick up but they hardly ever do.
The photocopier has stopped humming. The sun has come out. The Stone Roses CD has ended so I will put Billy Bragg and Wilco (Mermaid Avenue) back in. It’s a jolly album that makes me feel not so alone. (Not that I am suffering from loneliness; just that I am by myself in my cubicle and the duck is having a nap, so. Never wake a sleeping duck.)
It would never have occurred to me when I was dating, (“taller than 6′? check. guitar player? check. points out Big Dipper? [buzzer sound]”) but being married to someone who likes to make pie is really nice. On Sunday, Saint Aardvark said, “I think I’ll make a pie,” and we decided on apple. OK, I suggested apple, because we had these apples with tough, waxy skins and they were just going to go bad there waiting for me to be desperate enough to eat them. We ate it just warm, with vanilla ice cream. Delicious! It was exactly the right thing yesterday afternoon around this time when I needed a snack and lo, behold, etc., it is once again exactly the right thing today.
I wonder if monkeys eat pie and if they do, if they look for other monkeys to mate with who know how to make pie and if they do, what they put in the pie. Grass, coconuts, little spiders, maybe. Monkey Spider Pie!