You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ category.
So far today, I have envisioned:
- a banana apocalypse. Bananapocalypse!
- a giant-donkey apocalypse. Donkapocalypse! Asspocalypse! Nuclear mule-ocaust! It’s a jackasstrophe!
- a dirty-dish apocalypse. Sinkpocalypse Now!
It might be time to take a break from apocalypse-centered entertainment. Oh noes! Buffpocalypse!
[confidential to a.c., if you're reading: this is bunk. We're on for the next Buffy-and-beer night, whenever.]
Small things making me happy today:
- blackberries from my sister’s yard.
- a tissue-weight cardigan in Grover blue, perfect for this cool summer afternoon, and refashioned from a little-worn long-sleeved tee.
- an iced Americano.
- at long last, WiFi.
- new shelves I put up in our space-wasting bookcases.
- a canvas floor cushion I whipped together from scraps, and the palmful of dried lavender I tossed inside before I sewed up the last seam.
- A sliver of chocolate mousse cake, which The Fella picked up for my fortieth birthday last weekend.
- the new sewing box I cobbled together from a shoebox and some pretty paper, so all most of my thread, needles, and notions stay in the same place.
- farmstand tomatoes.
- eight rolls of duct tape.
- sorting beads.
A few moments of unadulterated joy this week:
- the fluttering lashes of my littlest nephew, and the sharp smack as his brother high-fives me but good.
- baking bread on a rainy day.
- Sitting in Gramma Suzin’s kitchen with Gaoo and Airdna, eating leftover pierogi and laughing and laughing and laughing.
- hot espresso with good crema, served in Granny’s demitasse.
- a strong, smart, dazzling girl who sends out jokes (really funny ones, too!) from the heart of her grief — a semaphore that signals I’ll be okay!
- a celadon-glazed ceramic strainer (a wedding gift from Elli & JM) filled with plump, cheerful cherries (a gift from me to me).
- drunk on prosecco and polenta fries, looking over the table at The Fella and realizing that my face hurts from smiling.
- an old friend reminding me of a night long submerged in my memory, when we sat by the coast and watched, by turns chattering and hushed, as the moon rose shrouded in red.
- a videotape featuring 30 minutes of non-stop frollicking kittens. For real.
- the fluttery wings of butterflies in my stomach reminding me that I’m head-over-heels, first-crush-blushingly, absolutely mad for my (oh my gourd) husband.
Last night I had a strange third-person dream wherein a woman was waiting for two friends on a completely darkened street. A car with no headlights pulled up and two men got out. When I realized they were going to grab her, my consciousness shifted and I became the woman, yelling, “help, help, help” to alert the friends. Most surprising to me was that I actually said the words, waking myself and JM who put his arm around me. Usually I only manage some sort of moan or cry if I wake from a nightmare, yet this wasn’t typical because it had all been third person and I only jumped into the picture to save the woman. My vocalization seems to have affected me more than the dream itself.
JM took off very early this morning and I stayed in bed snoozing. At some point I swear I heard him call my name as if from outside and I jumped up, then remembered he was long gone. It creeps me out when that happens.
Researching our local marriage license application process, I learned that once issued, the license is good for 90 days. Sensibly enough, I counted back from our wedding date (because apparently I cannot perform the months-to-days conversion in my head?) to see how soon we could safely apply, just to have it out of the way…
… and discovered that we can apply this week. That’s right — it’s less than 100 days away.
Uh. We may have some errands to run and tasks to complete, say, every single day between now and then.
Something to be thankful for, from the New York Times: A surprise bounty from a food stamp lawsuit:
Monica Ryan learned of her good fortune when she went to her corner bodega in northern Manhattan to buy bread and milk. She was picking up just the necessities because she was conscious of having less than $5 in her account. But when the clerk swiped her card, it appeared that she had hundreds left.
Hundreds?
There’s no denying that this is, at bottom, a story of injustice and poverty, of the long, slow grinding wheels of bureaucracy for once delivering people their due, after a horrifically long wait. That’s heartrending.
But it’s joyous to hear that so many people are getting an unexpected chance to celebrate, and beautiful how many of them choose to celebrate by taking care of others: holding a holiday celebration with extended family who could not afford it otherwise, making a special meal for yourself and your son just because you can, and (oh, Mr. Abdelkader Louali, you might be my favorite) buying a few sacks of groceries for a neighbor because your larder is full.
In a shop window along my small city’s main street, there’s a big printed sign embellished with the stylized hand that signifies palmreaders and other soi disant psychic services. The text, unnecessary capitalization and all, reads:
PSYCHIC READINGS
Appointment Only
No Drop-Ins
“No drop-ins”? But… but… shouldn’t they know I’m coming in?
This week is about to get busy what with the cleaning of the current, rather large apartment, organising the move, finding a place for the interim, finishing a website, catching up on nanowrimo, and going for medical tests, one of which includes collecting pee for 24 hours and then transporting that pee with me to Perth via train on Wednesday morning. What, you didn’t want to know that? Tough pee.
I told you, November always throws this stuff at me…
That’s all. Ended up renting the last season of Lost and having an all-day marathon. No longer good for words, heading off to bed.
I wrote this note to myself a week ago, but forgot to post it. I think. I’m not going to look it up. I’m that lazy.
Me: (fixing dinner, singing) You picked a fine time to leave me Lucille. 400 children and a crop in the field.
Brain: 400? That seems wrong.
Me: 400 children and a crop in the field.
Brain: No, really, that’s wrong.
Me: 4 hungry children and a crop in the field.
Brain: That sounds better. Now why am I singing this?
Elli
Elsa
