“Above, clouds like dyed cotton wool hang low, so low I feel I can reach out and squeeze the moisture from them. The new rains will come down soon.” ~ Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, from Purple Hibiscus
Wednesday afternoon. Rainy, cool, and humid.
We are feeling the effects of the tropical depression making its way off the coast. It’s been raining steadily since early this morning, which means the dogs go to the door, look outside, and turn around and walk away. The frequent opening and closing of the sliding door has finally taken its toll: the cracked glass on the bottom half fell out onto the steps sometime during the night, which may have been why part of my dream involved the sounds of shattering glass.
The good news is that the glass was taped, so it fell out as almost one piece. The bad news is that I now no longer have the bottom half to the sliding door. The good news is that the wood that Corey put up is still there. The bad news is that its a piece of plywood.
Yes, I can assure you that I am freaking more than a bit over being so exposed. I mean, what good does an alarm system do you if you have plywood for half of the door? Unfortunately, I can do nothing about this until Corey gets home. I haven’t the vaguest idea as to how to begin to fix this problem.
Speaking of fixing problems, I had another long encounter with our cell provider yesterday, which culminated in me telling them that I was taking my business elsewhere because I was so tired of being told something different each time I called. I was completely serious. You would not believe how fast I was transferred to someone who then had magical powers that allowed our account to receive a hefty credit and then just as magically made our monthly bill come down by a nice chunk.
I had heard that if you told a provider that you were seriously thinking of going elsewhere that things might happen, but I never believed it. I do now.
“How many years have slipped through our hands?
At least as many as the constellations we still can identify.
The quarter moon, like a light skiff,
floats out of the mist-remnants
Of last night’s hard rain.
It, too, will slip through our fingers
with no ripple, without us in it.” ~ Charles Wright, from “11”
The unrelenting rain means that the backyard will not be mowed again today. Eldest son has put of doing this part of his assigned chores for days, excuse after excuse, which means that the grass is starting to come up past Alfie’s haunches (he’s the shortest one). I am less than happy about this, but there is nothing to be done as it really is impossible to mow in the rain.
But last night—granted, it was a very strange night of ups and downs and very disturbing dreams—last night before the rain I am positive that I heard someone riding down the street on a drive-on lawn mower. The sound went into the park and dissipated and then came back about half an hour later. I wonder if it was someone whose vehicle access has been curbed by a driving infraction? I’ve heard of people who travel by mower, and I’ve seen many people travel by motorized chair, but the sound of a ride-on is unmistakable, and it was one in the morning.
It would be funny if the field next door ended up with crop circles . . . just saying . . .
Anyway, I dreamed a whole host of strange things—that I was working in retail again and my office had glass walls, which bothered me, and then there were crime families involved somehow, and then a man who was following me who submerged himself in mud to hide(???), and I followed him on a bicycle, and then someone shot him, and I wondered how he could still be walking without a head, then there was a basketball game, and a younger woman who lived with us who accused me of starting arguments all of the time and who said that she wouldn’t pay rent because she did too much, and I told her that I wasn’t arguing, that I was just trying to tell Corey about the man, and my mother showed up unannounced and I went into my bedroom and raked everything off the dresser with my arm . . .
Yep . . . busy . . .
“Perhaps it’s true, my happiest moments are the anticipation
of other moments still to come.” ~ Susan Mitchell, from “Bird: A Memoir”
Well Brett just helped me to clean up as much glass as possible from the falling half pane. He was quite persnickety, as if I had somehow designed this whole task to annoy him. Yes, it’s glass. Yes, big raindrops were falling on our head and down our backs. But no, the magic fairies had no plans to take care of this chore for us, so, what? This is my fault?
Of course, the 17 degree drop in temperatures and the barometric shift are wreaking havoc on my sinuses, which feel like someone has pushed pixie straws up my nose and stuck them there with super glue. Like that image?
I was hoping to bathe the dogs today so that I could put the cone that I bought on Alfie. I bought this dog medicine (recommended by César Milan, dog whisperer, love that guy) that’s supposed to help with hot spots, yeast, wounds, the black plague, no wait, not that one. Anyway, I decided that the price of the medicine was cheaper than a vet’s visit, so I bought that and a cone so that maybe, just maybe, I can get that sore on Alfie’s face to heal. Every time it looks better, he scratches it, and we have to start all over.
I’m hoping this wonder spray also works on Shakes’s hot spots and his ear, but no baths today, or maybe baths later. Who knows. What else is there to do on a rainy day?
“All of our actions take their hue from the complexion of the heart, as landscapes their variety from light.” ~ Francis Bacon
I have a question for you? What is it with people today who no longer feel a need to respond to RSVPs? As far as I know, only three people are coming to the shower. If I planned the menu based on this, I’d just go out and buy a half a dozen cupcakes and a two-liter of soda. I mean, what’s the point?
I have a really nice shower planned; I even looked up stupid games to play that were a little different from the ordinary games. I have the stuff for the gift bags. I’ve been picking up pastel serving dishes at Target and WalMart as I come across good buys. So will it be Lex, my mother, and me sitting there looking at each other?
I know that more people are coming, but that contact info on the invitation? It’s not just there so that I can remember my telephone number.
Yep. I’m, being bitchy, but hey, the pixie stick sinus thing, the wet dog smell, the bad dreams, the glass, and no RSVPS ten days before the shower are all combining to vex me mightily. Where are the manners, people? Common courtesy passé, perhaps? Admittedly, my mother was not a social butterfly who passed along those hoity-toity (aside: from the French, haut toit, trans. high roof, as in looking down on) social graces, but she did school me fairly well in the basics—thank you notes, get well cards, RSVPs . .
If she could do it, anyone can.
“I am alone here in my own mind.
There is no map
and there is no road.” ~ Anne Sexton, from “January 24th”
Eamonn got The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo in his NetFlix, so I’m looking forward to watching that. Unfortunately, most of my regular shows have had their season endings, which means that the months ahead will be filled with lots of Real Housewives shows and their knockoffs.
I really want to see Snow White and the Huntsman, but I’ll wait for Corey to get home. I’ve never been a go to the movies by myself kind of person. I don’t think that I’ve ever done that. Corey said that when he was stationed in Michigan on the ice breaker, he used to go to the movies by himself and buy a large popcorn. I think, unfortunately, it’s one of those gender things—not many women feel comfortable sitting in a dark theater by themselves. I could be wrong, but I’m betting not.
When I was a kid, my mom took me to see all kinds of movies, and we always had a great time. First we went in London, and that was when they still had cigarette girls walking the aisles, and I could get one of those orange sodas. Then here there used to be this really nice theater less than three miles from her house. It was called The Garden Theater, and it was close enough that my friends and I would ride our bikes to see movies there. It was big, and they had first-run movies. Now it’s a really dingy thriftstore.
They don’t have theaters like that any more: freestanding, single, large auditoriums. They’re all cineplexes, and most of the time you can hear the movie next door. I miss the big old theaters. I miss drive-ins, too. That was one of the few things we did regularly as a family—Mom, Dad, me, maybe Cathy Weaver, and probably some friends of theirs. Those were good times.
Oh well, time passes, and everything changes, and not necessarily for the better.
More later. Peace.
It’s a Genesis/Phil Collins kind of day, “I Don’t Care Anymore”
You know for sure you are lucky.
Luck fills you like the shape of your breath.
Then one day as you are reading it leaves.
It lifts up like the shadow of wings,
With the clean ease of smoke on a cold day.
Your luck is gone. You watch it fly away
Over the tracks, beyond Providence Road
Until it is out of sight. Your luck is gone.
Still somehow you trust tenderness
And all its romance, the fine caress,
The salt on your hands wearing away what they touch.
That is not part of the story.
If I should die, you said in the prayer
You said each night. If I should die before I wake.
You woke and listened again to the bent apple tree,
To the wind work the sweet ache of its load,
To the wren and the air it shivered through.
Luck, like hope, is always hollow-boned. Always
There is an updraft to carry what it can.
What it cannot falls upon your head like a blessing.
~ Eric Pankey