Here is a post with no moral compass, no philosophy or political opining, no responsible reason for existence. It’s just about me. Me, me, me.
The Scoots, finally having earned one of Donna’s Buckwheat Days sugar bears.
G has taken Chaz out on a date—dinner and the new Studio Ghibli movie. This is a big deal. G hates anime. But Chaz loves it. The father has dumped his wife in order to spend an evening with a darling daughter, doing something she will love—all completely his idea. The wife? Facing the evening alone (he’s had church or work every evening this week – so it’s been many evenings) with determination to indulge herself nigh unto death. And so has she done.
My Valentine’s morning greeting. You can’t read the candy hearts – they’re private.
Today was a kind of good day. I finished the image correction of my 397th (and last) page of my project just yesterday. Then I had to wrestle with Photoshop, unraveling the arcane Batch Automation function – which I finally did this morning, turning the big computer loose to resize, apply a black border, and save the .psds as .pngs all by itself. The process, even for the computer, took two hours. But I didn’t have to do a thing. Very satisfying. And I wrote a letter I’d been meaning since October to write, and paid my irrigation dues and even finished up the discussion questions for the back pages of the up-coming publication of Breaking Rank. And cleaned out the dishwasher. And filled it again.
But it was tonight I meant to write about.
The first of a long line of next Christmas’ camels.
I had planned my evening out, this date with myself—thought it over for days —and when I woke this morning, I knew what I wanted more than anything: the best Philly Steak sandwich in this little western town; this morning, I researched it thoroughly. And a piece of French Silk pie, easily collected along with a triple-berry bribe I lovingly bought for my friends who will bring me hay this July. But the piece of pie was smaller than I’d imagined it, so I stopped at the Great Harvest bakery down from the sandwich place to buy a giant oatmeal/chocolate chip cookie (which so reminds me of my mother) and managed to collect a buttered sample slice of exotic wheat bread and one of an even more esoteric peach bread as well.
My sad attempt at Fuzzy Mitten’s Pookie pattern.
Then I went through every movie we own, sifted through Netflix and on-demand and Amazon prime, looking for a movie that would charm me, carry me away, make me feel something special – and came up with what I must now admit is probably my favorite (and most often watched) movie in the world: You’ve Got Mail. It was the only one that spoke to the evening.
This is one of the first toy patterns I collected – two years ago? Joey’s house.
Now I am fat and sassy. The sandwich was still warm by the time I got to unwrap it. The pie, smooth as it purported itself to be. The cookie is yet uneaten (is enough really enough?). The movie, touching and sweet and dear. The evening is growing toward dark, and the house is quiet, except for the dog who is sneaking around upstairs, not knowing I can hear the boards creak under his feet.
I am deciding about the cookie. Debauchery. Wildness. A madness of unbridled carbs. So unlike me.
I am smiling.
This is what the children mean when they say, “I can’t wait till I grow up and I can do anything I want.”