Love has quit smoking. He is also driving me bananas. Love never talked much before, but today he has talked all day. He is into popping sugarless bubblegum and sucking on tiny snuff packets. He's better learn to swallow the snuff.
I was sleepwalking last night. I dreamed that one of my dogs was outside, and I got out of bed, told Love I'd be right back, unlocked and opened the back and storm door, let my invisible dog in, closed the storm and back door, locked it, then went back into the bedroom to go back to bed. I woke up when Love asked me what I was doing. I told him I was dreaming and went back to bed. It really embarrassed me. I haven't done that since the early '70s, when there were too many bills and not enough food to eat. I don't mean that maybe I haven't been sleepwalking since then, but if I have, I didn't wake up, so, I don't remember it.
Have you noticed that all the models on TV and in the magazines and newspapers are beautiful or handsome, and young. At least they are younger than I am. When I was a teenager, all the models were young: they were older than I was, and I couldn't wait to be the age they represented. Then, I was their age, and that was okay; I was 'in'. Now, I'm still trying to look their age, even though I have creaks here and there I have acquired in the last couple of years. Of course, I can't afford vitamins or very good nutrition, and am tending to lose weight on this diet, even though I maintain my weight very easily. It's push, push, push to look twenty to thirty-five years old. I'm to the point that I really don't care to look twenty to thirty-five anymore, but it's expected of me. When I'm working, I'm much faster, organized, knowledgeable, and better personally to others than I was fifteen years ago, but I'm still expected to look as if I'm twenty-five years old. No way could I be twenty-five years old, and be the worker I am today, but experience really doesn't count. It's looks, y-o-u-t-h! With men, it's somewhat the same, but older men are at least respected, if not appreciated. Unfortunately, some of my ideas, like the new-nothing-string-bikini I want next summer, aren't quite as old as I am. Maybe I'm just at an awkward age for me. I'm not young enough to identify with the models, and not old enough to not care that I don't. What I'm leading up to is: I personally would love to have natural colored hair, and have felt this way for several years, but I am still coloring my hair, and even my eyebrows. My hair is long, and it takes three bottles of dye, plus peroxide, cotton swabs, tons of shampoo to wash it out, lots of conditioner, and bleach to rid my hands of the stain. Let alone the embarrassment of being seen that way. You can't tell me that Elizabeth Taylor, Joan Collins, Patricia Neal, etc. don't color their hair. Fake fingernails are another of my pet peeves, and needless to say, I wear them from to time. Is it simply vanity or vanity because of society?
My wart scabs are gone and so are the warts. Love's repairman didn't show up again today. I told him to put the car on ramps in the driveway, so, I could look at it sometime this week. He can drive my car in the meantime.
