At the beginning of February, I started keeping a journal. It’s a really fancy-shmancy leather-bound journal my former managers purchased for me after I left my accounting job of 11 years, a year and a half ago. I tried using it to write my stories, but it ended up filled with more scribbles and scratches than words, so I set it aside and kind of (tisk, tisk) forgot about it.
Realizing how strange my perspective can sometimes be, I’ve started logging my random observations and conversations in my journal. Below is a sampling of what I wrote about this first week of my new-found love for my journal.
Me, to Billy [husband]: “No, I don’t want a penis wedgie!”
Anxiety: Picking the nail polish off of all the fingers on one of your hands during a 90-minute meeting.
Snow is just another word for glitter on the ground.
Sign at the Boise Hotel: “Welcome Idaho Weed Conference.” The first thing I thought of was not the pesky things that grow in your yard uninvited.
A friend tells me that while her brother was in the Mormon temple getting married last weekend, she drew penises all over his car.
Billy: What are you doing?
Me: Playing with your chest hair.
Billy: There might be bits of Twizzlers stuck in it…
Me: (Pause) How? They couldn’t have gone down your shirt. (Analyzes T-shirt collar, stumped.)
Billy: (Shrug) I wasn’t wearing a shirt while I was eating Twizzlers earlier.