a pot of old

I could have gone to bed the minute I got home. And well, I did, sort of. I snuggled in and turned on the TV, just to tune in and tune out for a bit. And then the phone didn’t stop and I finally rallied for dinner and a movie. But, yawning be damned, I made it through.

When faced with the possibility of going out and getting sloshed on green beer, my mind said, “Go home, go to bed. Screw the leprechauns.” And I love the Irish. I love all things that might give my white bread some flavor. I’ve never been a green beer drinker, a St. Patty’s Day reveler (well, there was this one time in Memphis, TN…). It isn’t a call inside me that must be answered. I can let Erin Go Bragh; I have no problem with that. I just don’t need to go with her.

I’m a homebody. I like my place, my space and my friends close by. I don’t need parties and craziness. I like saneness and intellect. Sometimes, though, given that I knit like a fiend, I feel like an 80 year-old woman.

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