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It's late, very late. I stayed up to watch Adaptation. We've had the DVD sitting around for a month or more. Just haven't been in the mood. It was diverting enough but didn't come close to the choking-aneurysm laughfest that was the first half of Being John Malkovich.
Tonight was the loveliest night. I hung laundry in the dark on my new clothesline, slowly remembering my old tricks. I may not be good for much, but I am good at hanging laundry. At least I think I am. There may be others who are better at it, but I can't imagine how so.
Duff's parents left one of those "we need to talk" messages on the answering machine for him. (They don't talk to me unless they have to.) I'm dreading their conversation because I'm afraid they're going to tell us we have to move. I don't want to move. I keep begging him to tell them we don't want to move. I want him to be difficult and exasperating, not conciliatory. I want him to tell them if they want us out of here, they'll have to evict us.
It is, of course, entirely within their rights to sell the house. It is theirs. But surely they haven't got their whole retirement sewn up in this damn house. I want us to buy the house from them. I want Duff to make it all better. I want to live here until I am good and goddamn ready to leave. If they really do make us move, I swear I will frost them like a new ice age. (It's not much, but it's all I've got.)