I'm reading Eloisa James' memoir Paris In Love which is a compilation of thoughts and Facebook posts during the year she lived in Paris. I followed her on Facebook that year and was entranced with her Paris writings but stopped following when she came back to the states and just became another Facebook author plugging her wares.
The book is lovely though but misses having an actual narrative. I love books about Americans adapting to foreign countries because I could never do it but I find it so terribly romantic.
This is Western Week in my little town of Honoka'a. We went to the kick off parade where we saw a lot of people on horseback.
The big part of the week is the block party on Friday. I plan to attend. Rumor has it that if one is a properly bad girl, one can get thrown into the hoosegow.
I have a goal now :)
I haven't been writing in almost 8 months and have started slowly getting back to it. It's hard and exciting at the same time. The possibilities come flooding back and it's wonderful to exist in that place. But on the other hand there's a fear now that I just can't write anymore.
While sitting watching the western parade yesterday, my brother kept exclaiming how much he loved living in a small town.
I was at the dump the other morning (we have no trash service, or mail...) and a man got out of the car ahead of me and was possibly in his early 60s, shirtless, brown and gorgeous. I mean, body of a 30 year old and drool worthy.
I really love the small town too.
My daughter went on a school sponsored camping trip and one of the boys was trying to claim her as a girlfriend. She wasn't having any of it but there was satisfaction in her that it happened.
Even if one doesn't want a certain fella's attention, doesn't mean you don't appreciate that someone wants to give you some.
On the other hand, she intends to make sure he knows she doesn't want his attention so I pity the young man.