Dramatic production put on in our living room last night: She brought all her American Girl dolls downstairs, patted all their little backs, rocked them, sang to them, and put them in a chair to watch TV. Why? She needs Marisol, the new American Girl doll. She borrowed a catalog from a friend at school yesterday. We weren’t even out of the car line before she was shoving Marisol in my face. LOOK! Marisol! She’s only available in 2005! (It’s only March, I pointed out, and it’s past your birthday and nowhere near Christmas.) I can get her for spring! she said. What? We are now getting spring gifts? (Where’s mine?) Easter! she came up with. Sigh. She is difficult to resist, especially since I happen to love American Girl dolls, too. I pointed out that I hadn’t seen her play with her dolls lately. No sooner did we arrive home than the production of doll-mothering began.
I have no idea where she picked up her evil ways.
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I’m falling in love with my merman. I’m not sure if there is any point in writing the rest of the book because after the scene I wrote yesterday, there is no way I’m going to let this other wench have him. HE IS MINE. I’m jealous of her. I want it to be my soft lips he places his hard ones against, my desperate mouth he breathes his oxygen into, my needy tongue he accidentally touches with his, my cold, shivering body he holds underwater against his lean, mean, hot, safe-but-dangerous build. I want to know that twenty feet above us on a dark, storm-washed bridge, terrorists would kill me but for this amazing man of secrets who pulls me into the deep blue and mysteriously, shockingly, oh so sexily, keeps me alive.
I would live undersea forever for him.
I bet he doesn’t even have a cat that will wake me up at 3 a.m. EVERY DAY. Cats don’t really like water….
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