Slowly, the idea that I'll be earning an income again begins to seem real. In the past, when I've accepted jobs, I'd start planning on how to spend my money right away. This time, I'm not thinking of it in terms of disposable income. Sure, I'm going to splurge on a present for my birthday, but only about $50 worth (software, most likely). I'm just too worried over John not having a job after December to think of my money as anything but insurance against living in a box. I envision holding up a little cardboard sign that says, "Have three pets, can you help?" and I want to cry. Mortality, homelessness, thoroughly unpleasant consequences; the potential for disaster hovers just out of sight.

This afternoon, I sashayed down to Dillard's to purchase some eyeshadow. Back to work means back to makeup and dresses and all those girlie things. I love wearing makeup if I have a reason to, so this is not a penance, believe me. Foolishly, I let a store clerk do a makeover on me at the Borghese counter. I don't even know why I was at that particular counter, actually. First of all, it kind of bugs me that there's no such person as "Princess Marcella Borghese." I know it's just a marketing angle, but in that case, why not go right for the jugular and call it Trophy Wife? Secondly, no makeup artist alive can resist doing the whole face even if you ask just to try the eyeshadows. This woman smeared makeup all over me, fussed with my eyes, did my blusher, and picked out a really hideous lipstick that I made her take off. I liked the eyeshadow but I knew she'd spent so much time blending and smudging and other "ings" that I'd suffer later. I am, in fact, typing this through puffy eyelids. I got the makeup I came in for, so I don't care. As I was leaving the counter, I looked at myself under really bright lights. Egads, I think I'm turning into Pepe Le Pew. The silver streak at the front of my head is actually two streaks. Rather dashing, if a trifle peculiar. Aah, luuuv; eet meks the warld go around, non? Mwah mwah mwah!

On the drive home, I rolled down the windows and thought about how nice it was. It's warm, but not alarmingly so. New York and Boston have our weather this year, I believe. Everyone I know who lives there is staying late at the office to take advantage of the air conditioning, not having it at home. Last year, Nashville enjoyed more than 90 days straight of temperatures in the 90's. Even the nuts who think hot, humid weather is desirable were complaining. I'm doing very well this summer in terms of coping with the heat. Look, I'm a really white person; I don't want the sun getting on me. It makes me red-faced and cranky, and then I get in the car and turn into a psychotic maniac. You've heard of road rage, right? People who just can't control their aggressions on the road? That's me when I'm hot. I drive too fast, I honk at assholes, I grimace at people, I yell at them, and I weave in and out of traffic. When I'm hot and driving, everyone's in my way. It's ugly. It's incredibly unsafe. I try not to drive under those conditions because frankly it is a miracle I haven't been in an accident. Today was fine, though.

As a final thought, let me mention the Nashville Scene's yearly contest entitled, "You are so Nashville if...". The Scene is the local arts and entertainment weekly newspaper. The contest is very popular and never fails to amuse me. One year's winning entry was, "You are so Nashville if your congregation is the tv viewing audience." This year's runner-up was my favorite: "You are so Nashville if you go to a microbrewery and order a Bud Light." Ain't it the truth?