I’m still journaling about the same shit. Men and food.
 
Trying to decipher his words and to adapt to his mood. Blabbing about Lays Potato Chips and my big belly.
 
Maybe I’ll make my journal man-free and food-free. But then how will I get to the good stuff? But maybe I’ll lose weight?
 
Art: Mary Cassatt at the Louvre: The Paintings Gallery, 1879-1880. Edgar Degas (French, 1834-1917). The Cleveland Museum of Art Open Access Collection.
 

After a stay in an Airbnb dwelling, the owner reviews you and you review the owner. And it’s all very civilized. “Lora even makes the bed!” “Such a delightfully decorated place.” Staying in other people’s home might be wearing thin on my psyche because this is what I really want to write this time…
 
Though the house is sparkling clean, there’s an undercurrent aroma of sweat. Those reed diffusers mask nothing. Are you a grandma disguised as a man?  
 
When your fucking Roomba vacuum robot started up during my mid-Saturday Netflix binge, I nearly soiled your leather sectional. Speaking of which, decorating with a leather sectional demonstrates a serious lack of imagination. And promotes laziness. See mention of Saturday binge.
 
You have a furniture problem. There’s too much in the living room and too little in the bedroom. I need a fucking bedside table!
 
And I really don’t want to get personal but Cocoa Puffs? 
 
Maybe I’m a hotel girl at heart…
 

It started in Morocco. A rug store salesman asked, “Sister, what do you think?”
 
I thought I misheard him until he said it again. And again. Our guide said addressing women with “sister” is a sign of respect.
 
Then when I arrived home the extremely helpful security guard in my building said he considers me the sister he never had. Then my office landlord exclaimed when he saw me, “Sister!”
 
I guess it’s better than “grandma” but still it made me a feel a little old. Even though catcalls definitely disrupted my state of mind when I was younger, part of me would prefer catcalls to “sister” calls.
 
And I address my aunt as “Sister.” But she’s a nun. And a nun’s life wouldn’t suit me. All that community living. All that promise of no hootchy coo.
 
I feel a little dried up when a man calls me sister. Like I’m outta juice.
 
My friend disagrees. She said, “sister” is such a cool term of endearment. It’s shows deep affection, she said. Which makes me wonder if, despite my reticence to date, maybe I want more than affection.
 
Here’s another thing. I already have three brothers, three big dude brothers. They might get jealous. And you don’t want them to get jealous. 
 
So how should you greet me? Maybe “babe” would be ok. Maybe “beautiful.”
 
 Art: Reading. 1873. Berthe Morisot. (French, 1841-1895). France, 19th century. Oil on fabric. The Cleveland Museum of Art Open Access Collection.
 

I’d rather do my taxes or my laundry or the dishes than face returning items to overstock.com or amazon.com. Sometimes I’ll even give them away just to avoid the process.
 
But I have $50 worth of glass cabinet knobs that do not work in my bathroom. Who knew that the length of the attachment screw mattered?!
 
So yesterday I did my taxes, my laundry and the dishes. I should be grateful for all the work I get done but still…
 
Art: Frieze of Dancers. c. 1895. Edgar Degas. (French, 1834-1917). France, 19th century. Oil on fabric. The Cleveland Museum of Art Open Access Collection.

If you marry at 17.
If you start a business without working many jobs.
If you work on teeth all day.
 
That’s just fine but you should know that your vision leans toward short-sightedness.
 
“I’ll stay married even if he’s mean because all men are mean.” “How hard can it be to run a business?” “Patients love me even if my staff is sullen.” 
 
Vision is myopic without perspective.

Art: Tulip. 1875. William Morris. (British, 1834-1896). England, 19th century. Roller printed cotton. The Cleveland Museum of Art Open Access Collection.