I like mopping.

Funny how I only do it about twice a year.

But it's nice to get all sweaty and feel my arms (not wrists) work, to look at a relatively shiny (I cleaned the top layer of grime off) sheet of linoleum and know beyond the inkling of a nagging doubt, that I accomplished something concrete with the last half hour.

I like the way my mind wanders around the kitchen, the shelves of baskets of tea, honey, the same jar of sugar that's been there since we moved in (that's how I know I haven't been cooking), sponges and aluminium foil and mismatched ceramic bowls and jars and housewarming gifts.

I like the way I've got work off the brain until Tuesday, tommorrow being The Gemplus Golf Tournament on the South Shore, and Monday being EQ-day/Labour day assuming I survive Sunday night.

Ahem.

momentary pause while I pick my mind up by its haunches and remove it from that stale topic again

Dan's borrowing my car in a few minutes to run errands, there's so much left to do at his new place -- I figured a car would help him out. It feels good to be able to help justify owning a monstrous contraption by handing it over to someone else.

Tony's parents taught me about sharing, ain't it weird?

Sure, my parents taught me about discipline, uhmmm, discipline, arrogant pride, over-ambition, moneymoneymoney, discipline...

But I learned about sharing from ex-in-laws, seventeen years late.

What's the point of luxury if I'm going to horde it? I don't get it.

I understand the squalor they've been through.

I understand why my father will never again eat rice (tho once in a while he'll eat my biryani and I'll deign to eat my mum's potatoes), I understand why marble floors were proof to them that the war was over.

But I don't understand, why after 20 years of central air-conditioning and walk-in-closets and custom-made wallunits, they're still aching for more.

I can see the hunger in my mother's eyes when one of her Amway friends go by in a BMW.

Never, you hear? Never.

But I said that about high-heeled shoes too.

So Dan's borrowing the car soon, and tommorrow morning I'm driving a handful of my programmers to the golf course, and tonight after demos and hair-pulling, and hand-shaking, and nerves rattling, I almost drove all the way to the Canadian Tire in my parents' perversion of a "neighbour"hood where everyone watches everyone elses' tiniest shudder with the eyes of a starving hawk, but where no one will help you carry your groceries to your car, to buy furry seatcovers and a steering wheel cover and other charms for the car.

Halfway down the highway, I couldn't wait to get there.

Then I stopped.

(there's a red light on the highway, you see)

I stopped and told myself, yes, I need a seatcover cuz my seat's too low and it's kinda uncomfortable. Yes, I need a steering wheel cover cuz it's uncomfortable. Yes, I need a shovel for the winter (to find parking) and a brush for the snow.

And I can afford them and still not have to ask Dan to pay me back the gaz money.

But I don't need them *right now*, and I don't like the taste of it in my mouth.

I'm sorry cf, I don't want to be richer or more aesthetic than god.

I just want everyone to open their eyes when they sneeze. :)

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