I made awesome chocolate cake. No, it wasn't the regular "good" chocolate cake. This was applebees triple chocolate meltdown good.
And I took my botany notes in cursive because I was using my mermaid pen. Trust me, that makes complete sense. Anyway, the result is me not being able to read my botany notes.
Amber Romance smells SO good. I now have this scent in many products. Apparently its "A warm, alluring blend of Black Cherry, Creme Anglaise, and Sandalwood." I just learned that.That's so a word I cant think of right now. Remember that black candle from Target that smelled wonderful? It was Sandalwood too. I guess I like sandalwood. Yum.
And I played my song and strummed the cords for it on an autoharp. It felt very campfireish.
I have that jingle The Jolly Green Giant in my head.That'ss because I like "Demolition Man" too much.
HEY! Did I tell you that my Classical myth prof talked about 7B47B today? Oh, for those of you not completely obsessed in completely healthy manner,that's Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. We've also talked about Xanadu and mannequine. I cant spell that last one.
I'm telling you, my hands smell so very nice right now. That would be because of the Amber Romance, of course.
I was thinking about hands. In church one Sunday Chad was talking about how important hands are. They are the symbol of our strength, but also of our tenderness. You build things with your hands. You defend yourself with your hands. You break or fix things with them too. You can discipline or even talk with your hands. But you also hold people, draw them near, comfort them, touch and caress them, with your hands. How close are you to someone when you can hold their hand? How much closer does it bring you? What about just touching them? Patting them on the shoulder, slapping them on the back, touching the hair, the cheek? I think I could measure how close I am to people by how comfortable I am with touching them, them touching me. I grabbed my dads hand today. I cant think of anyone I'm not related to that I would feel comfortable just grabbing their hand.
My dads hands are rough and stained. His labors show on them. All the years of deep cuts and machine grease leave their mark in black slashes and calloused fingers. My brothers hands are begging to look that way with bruised knuckles and red palms. My mothers knuckles and joints are swollen. Her fingers are unwilling to straighten. Her skin is dry and cracking in protest to the cold, dry winter air. My hands, well, right now they smell nice. What do your hands say about you? And what will you do with them?