… Zosted.
When I was a little girl, age six or so, I drew a picture of my mother. In it she was reclining in a chair. My caption: “Mommy is zosted.” I used to wonder why she would have been zosted, and then I’d remember that if I was six, then my sister was five, and my little brother was three. Our older siblings were nine and twelve. So? Zosted.Me? I am zosted, too. The end of the year finds me weary, not feeling my best. I have been working too hard and not getting enough rest, and all that blue blueness didn’t help, either. But now ~ now that I’ve begun my weekend off, and now that the New Year is about to unfold ~ now I can relax and rest and welcome it. I won’t be zosted for long.
~:~
So that’s it? We’ve reached the end of the alphabet already? And you say it took the whole year? Wow. Thank you, thank you Anne, for having this wonderful idea. I’ve stretched and created and pondered my way from A to Z, and I decided that since I began with a picture of Miss Annabelle, I’d end with one, too.
So that’s it? We’ve reached the end of the alphabet already? And you say it took the whole year? Wow. Thank you, thank you Anne, for having this wonderful idea. I’ve stretched and created and pondered my way from A to Z, and I decided that since I began with a picture of Miss Annabelle, I’d end with one, too.
Not Plain Jane 