Self had trouble falling asleep.  Now, barely 10 minutes after awakening, the house feels like the inside of a refrigerator.   Activity for today:  driving to San Luis Obispo to watch a concert with son, several of whose friends will be singing.

Other than the fact that son thought it would be “fun” to watch, self knows very little about the concert.  She actually called son yesterday to tell him that she’d read a small article about the San Luis Obispo Vocal Arts Ensemble.  “They have a concert in the mission on Saturday.  Is that the one we’re going to?”

Son (poker-faced, or about as poker-faced as self can imagine him being, over there in San Luis Obispo):  No.

Yesterday was glorious, oh so glorious.  Self got to hang 15 more ornaments on the tree (only four more boxes to go!).  She saw a movie:  “Four Christmases” (murky, only semi-comedic, and how did Vince Vaughan get away with becoming so fat?).  She finally got to sample Marble Slab Creamery (not at all worth the $4.09 for a small scoop).  She got the creche from the garage and set out the figures on a book-case.  She paid two bills.  She continued reading Sean Wilsey’s bitter and manic memoir, Oh the Glory of It All, which describes young Sean’s travails with a mother who Armistead Maupin refers to, in his kinder moments, as “that stupid twat,” a description to which Sean’s mother professes to be completely “impervious.”

Which brings self to the real reason for this post:  she loves that word!  When she first encountered it this morning, she was regarding the upcoming road trip with hubby as akin to a visit to the dentist’s office, for hubby is none too happy about the state of the economy and will have approximately three hours in the car to expound to self on same.  Either self will arrive in San Luis Obispo cross-eyed, mind reduced to jell-o, or she’ll find an opportune point (probably around Paso Robles) to jump ship.  Oh, how self would love to park herself in some tasting room and sample Central Coast wines!

Here is an example of how Wilsey uses the word:

Mom could do regal, she could do poised and dignified . . .  After . . .  a few days she transformed herself from sexy society divorcee into widowed stateswoman . . .  Armisted Maupin, through one of his male characters in Tales of the City, had this to say about it:  “That stupid twat thnks she’s Eleanor Roosevelt now.”

Mom did not care.  She was impervious, bigger than all that.  She had a mission now.

How absolutely fab!  On the drive down, self will be impervious.  When she arrives back home tonight, bleary and exhausted, and the dogs mill around her feet, self will be impervious.  Tomorrow, when self will awaken with (no doubt) tremendous eyebags, self will be impervious.

Impervious.  Impervious.  Impervious.

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