It was one of those loose end kind of days. I heard back from another handy person somebody recommended and I'm going to go with him, I think. The other fellow was very nice, too, but charged considerably more, as there were two of them. Besides, the guy I chose is named "Hugh," which was my husband, Pat's, actual first name, so that's significant, I'm sure. NOT! Anyway, I hired him and he'll come Wednesday to do the deed.
Got an e-mail from Michelle, my accountant, that I hadn't included some documents in my tax papers. Darn, I hope I can find them without a hassle.
Went into town, which was just jammed, but I stopped at a few thrift stores to see if I could find a stroller. No luck, but I bought a box of Christmas cards and some folding boxes. Also went to Wal-Mart and got a thing that melts scented wax and smells good. Am I nuts? Yes, and I'm taking it back today.
I started reading the book by the mother of Dylan Klebold, one of the Columbine High School killers. It's harrowing and I found myself crying several times. Horror beyond belief for this poor soul.
I don't know why, but I've always been fascinated by murder. How can people do it? I don't mean those who are borderline retarded or have been abused themselves or for whom there's some possible "reason." It's the ones from stable, middle-class homes who plan and execute murder who puzzle me. Maybe it helps them to see it as a solution to whatever because we're taught from babyhood that certain forms of killing other humans are acceptable, i.e. abortion, execution by the state, and the big one, which isn't just permitted, but celebrated: "It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets." (Voltaire)