Or Saturday, by the time I get around to clicking “publish.”
I.
Both dogs are sleeping. Right now would be a great time to put a Santa hat on one of them and take a picture.
I can’t believe that actually worked.
II.
I have been in a little bit of a funk for the past couple weeks, and this week was especially rough – I have been able to teach, but not take any classes after I learned the hard way that I am not quite ready for handstands away from a wall. So, Wednesday and Thursday I went for 75 minute walks in the middle of the afternoon. Even though it was cold and windy, the sun was out, and lo and behold, after the second day, I felt like myself again. I still feel like I could sleep for half the day, and I am still mad at a few things, but I am back to being goofy stupid happy about the world. Thanks, sun!
III.
My first intentionally filthy story -which, as it turns out, is not as filthy as I expected- will be done with another round of edits. I have now read it so many times that I am not sure if it is funny anymore, but it probably is, because really, what is NOT funny about a woman sucking her own toe, and dirty Dr. Seuss references? Nothing, I tell you. Anyway, a less visceral excerpt, still rough:
The sensation was pleasant and warm, and stirred the faintest flutter of arousal, but it was kind of like trying tickle myself. It just didn’t have the same effect without a hot guy attached, and it was a lot of stimulation to process all at once. I was trying to differentiate between the sensations in my toe and on my lips, when I heard footsteps in the bedroom. I jumped, jabbing my big toenail into the roof of my mouth. “Owwwfff,” I yelled into my toe. My foot didn’t quite make it cleanly out of my mouth; it caught my cheek, yanking my head down toward my right knee. Then, as if my toe were being fired from a slippery slingshot, it popped from the pocket of my cheek, sending my left leg hurtling toward my laptop. I shifted quickly to avoid the computer, and my ankle slammed onto the coffee table, as the rest of me spun off the couch from the effort.
Seth opened the door of the bedroom. I was on the floor on my back, with my one bare foot on the coffee table, big toe glistening. “Motherfucker!” I yelled.
“Are you ok? I got up to use the bathroom…” Seth rubbed his eyes.
“Yeah.” I said from the floor, indelicately hoisting my leg off the table, and rolling all of my parts back where they belonged.
“What happened?”
“I tripped. I’m fine. Go back to bed.” He didn’t notice I had one sock off.
I sat on the couch, wiped the spit off my toe and put my sock back on, hoping no one in the neighboring buildings had a view through the open window of me losing my footing. My ankle was throbbing, and I could taste blood on the roof of my mouth where I gouged myself with my toenail. Clearly, I had been wrong, earlier. THIS was the most ridiculous thing I had ever done. After checking the weather one last time, I closed my laptop. When I stood, my left ankle gave way. I regained my balance, but with each step, my ankle bellowed in protest. I gave up, figuring it would feel better in the morning, and hopped into the bedroom.
Seth woke me on Friday morning, shaking my shoulder. “Have you looked at your foot?”
I was still half asleep and sure he meant that it was pretty. “Thanks, sweetie.”
“Audrey, look at your foot. I think you need to go to a doctor.”
For the record, I do not suck my toes.
Or do I? A good writer never reveals her sources. Or is that, a good cook never reveals his recipes? Or a good mechanic never reveals his parts suppliers? Or, a good underwriter never reveals his actuarial tables?
Or something. Would I, could I suck my toe? In the snow? On a floe? Would I, could I, you’ll never know.
It has been a long week.
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