via http://ift.tt/2pYbqFG:
I need to be loading my car. And I’d told myself, you know, on all these early-spring trips to the farm, I should be bringing and organizing things for the yurt, and i kept saying to myself, yes, I should be doing that, sure, next time, and well, now it’s next time. if I don’t get the yurt set up on Friday I won’t have anywhere to sleep that night. (Well, unless I drive a staggering eight miles to my mother’s house, gasp. But still. It’d be great to just– get the yurt up, because we’ll be busy all week and there won’t be time.)
But I didn’t do all the things I was going to over the winter to get it finished, and then I made up for it by making an exhaustive list today at work, and I … left the list on my desk, and I’m meant to load the car tonight and leave straight from work tomorrow and you know. You know.
Anyway. I’m a champion at procrastinating, we all knew that.
I gave myself the Chicken Processing Manicure today at work since I’m sort of unsupervised and so nobody was going to care if I sat at my desk trimming, filing, and painting my nails. I have really really really really short and neat nails now, and I painted them deep shiny crimson because I had the bottle in my pencil case. (OPI, Not Really A Waitress, to be specific.) And here I’m thinking, again, that these are definitely Lesbian Fingernails, like for sure these are the nails you see on a girl in a bar and think oh yes, my dear, you know what you’re about. And every other chicken slaughter or so I make a joke to that effect, and it falls flat every time, because everyone else there is either a straight woman or a dude who doesn’t think about these things (but really, really dudes, really, surely you know about this sort of thing, for real????) and they all kind of blink at me, and I say, never mind, but I can never resist trying again. This is a manicure to make love to your old lady with, okay? Especially when painted, because then you can see the little soft half-moons of the tips of my fingers where the nail is so short the soft flesh extends beyond it. I’ve never picked up a girl in a bar, but the thought remains.
Being a bisexual woman in a relationship with a dude is really not the same thing as being a straight woman in a relationship with a dude, it really isn’t, because I just don’t think the same way. But anyhow.
Meanwhile, apropos of nothing, I looked up Stan Rogers because a commenter on Home In The Wind suggested him, and I’d heard a lot of his stuff before but hadn’t really ever sat and listened much. So I gave Sweet Young Thing Kalonia a song of his in the latest Lost Kings update (she’s old enough that she was in the Rebellion, she sure was), and I’ve been listening to Rogers’s Greatest Hits on Google Play on my commute lately.
And i keep getting The Flowers Of Bermuda stuck in my head. And in the recording, it’s really really upbeat, almost too much so. But the version I always wind up half-remembering and singing to myself when nobody’s in the room is definitely not. Has anyone ever done a wistful cover of Flowers of Bermuda? Someone surely has.
He was the captain of the Nightingale
Twenty-one days from Clyde in coal
He could smell the flowers of Bermuda in the gale
when he died on the North Rock Shoal

I need to be loading my car. And I’d told myself, you know, on all these early-spring trips to the farm, I should be bringing and organizing things for the yurt, and i kept saying to myself, yes, I should be doing that, sure, next time, and well, now it’s next time. if I don’t get the yurt set up on Friday I won’t have anywhere to sleep that night. (Well, unless I drive a staggering eight miles to my mother’s house, gasp. But still. It’d be great to just– get the yurt up, because we’ll be busy all week and there won’t be time.)
But I didn’t do all the things I was going to over the winter to get it finished, and then I made up for it by making an exhaustive list today at work, and I … left the list on my desk, and I’m meant to load the car tonight and leave straight from work tomorrow and you know. You know.
Anyway. I’m a champion at procrastinating, we all knew that.
I gave myself the Chicken Processing Manicure today at work since I’m sort of unsupervised and so nobody was going to care if I sat at my desk trimming, filing, and painting my nails. I have really really really really short and neat nails now, and I painted them deep shiny crimson because I had the bottle in my pencil case. (OPI, Not Really A Waitress, to be specific.) And here I’m thinking, again, that these are definitely Lesbian Fingernails, like for sure these are the nails you see on a girl in a bar and think oh yes, my dear, you know what you’re about. And every other chicken slaughter or so I make a joke to that effect, and it falls flat every time, because everyone else there is either a straight woman or a dude who doesn’t think about these things (but really, really dudes, really, surely you know about this sort of thing, for real????) and they all kind of blink at me, and I say, never mind, but I can never resist trying again. This is a manicure to make love to your old lady with, okay? Especially when painted, because then you can see the little soft half-moons of the tips of my fingers where the nail is so short the soft flesh extends beyond it. I’ve never picked up a girl in a bar, but the thought remains.
Being a bisexual woman in a relationship with a dude is really not the same thing as being a straight woman in a relationship with a dude, it really isn’t, because I just don’t think the same way. But anyhow.
Meanwhile, apropos of nothing, I looked up Stan Rogers because a commenter on Home In The Wind suggested him, and I’d heard a lot of his stuff before but hadn’t really ever sat and listened much. So I gave Sweet Young Thing Kalonia a song of his in the latest Lost Kings update (she’s old enough that she was in the Rebellion, she sure was), and I’ve been listening to Rogers’s Greatest Hits on Google Play on my commute lately.
And i keep getting The Flowers Of Bermuda stuck in my head. And in the recording, it’s really really upbeat, almost too much so. But the version I always wind up half-remembering and singing to myself when nobody’s in the room is definitely not. Has anyone ever done a wistful cover of Flowers of Bermuda? Someone surely has.
He was the captain of the Nightingale
Twenty-one days from Clyde in coal
He could smell the flowers of Bermuda in the gale
when he died on the North Rock Shoal
