In Which Rock Makes His First Appearance

Shameful to have missed a day on this chronicle, so soon after it was begun and on a weekend day at that. Perhpas it occurred to someone that I've run out of things upon which I may carry on at uninteresting length (i.e. four figure blog entries). Nope - I fell asleep, under the Italian light fixture the previous owners installed over their martial bed, with the three hand-blown and disturbingly vulvar light shields. A fertility thing, no doubt. Hmm, wish there were another place to put the bed.

I had a toddler drowsy then asleep on my chest (conceived without strega photonic assistance, I might add), rescued from what I think must have been a nightmare, with frantic and still asleep yells. I just could not move, despite not having showered that night, or that day, or the previous night (at this point mothers with young children or good memeories can start waving their hands in recognition). I was, as Rock deRien might say if he were feebly attempting to be one of a people that went away a couple of decades ago: "Oh my, grody!" Not whiffy, mind you, because my body is largely hairless and my pheromones are more like pherosighs - very subtle - and I really don't smell much like anything at all. I hear in Africa they call overly scrubbed white guys "dead men" because the lack the health odor of the living, not unlike the newly dead. And, unlike Rock, I don't feel the crying need to drip any foo-foo on my clavicle with my little fingertips.

But - I had just spent four hours out the yard; I was in greenstained tube socks and green-kneed blue jeans, and I ewas certainly covered with finely minced cicada parts mixed in with the many wisps of mowed grass. Anyway, baby and I slept way until morning, although since no one crept into the bedchamber in bare feet and bad intentions, I'm beginning to think Rock was right. Grody. Grody, indeed.