Took a voicemail from a woman named “Olga” the other day.
One more item crossed off the Life To Do List!
Life’s To Do List has been moderately lengthy of late, which leads to the no-updating of the blog. If I had my druthers, Life’s To Do List would be handled by a crack team of cheerful Boy Scouts named “Skippy” and “Royal”–there would be whole merit badges to be gained via the organization of my desk, regarding which the phrase “nuclear winter” comes to mind–but as matters stand, it’s just me. Nose to the grindstone, that’s what.
That saying has always discomfited me. “Nose to the grindstone!”
A random list of available Boy Scout merit badges:
A random list of available Girl Scout merit badges:
A Healthier You
Art In the Home
Being My Best
Do I need to go on? I needn’t, need I?
“Ms. Fix-It”! Bwahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa gender roles.
Also “Doing Hobbies”.
Kimbo and I took a last-minute trip to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, last weekend.
We brought snacks. Kimbo cut up a pepper.
Also, there was a ferris wheel.
Kimbo bought a small wooden bird from a wood-carving man at a craft fair. He was grizzled and kindly.
He told us that the color of each bird was the exact color of the wood from which they were carved. They are unpainted, but lacquered–“umpteen coats” worth, as I overheard him telling a prospective customer.
He does not have a website. Kimbo got a business card.
We walked by this painting. It’s the one on the bottom that caught our hearteyes.
I had to eat a bratwurst immediately to regain control of myself.
Whatever the universe asked of us that day, we said “Yes!” or “Yes, we will!”
UNIVERSE: Stop by this vaguely unnerving farmhouse yard sale and examine old pots!
KIMBO AND ME: Aye aye!
They were selling–what, like Mason jars?–for some serious dollars. Those farmhouse yard salers! Give them an inch, and they’ll thresh a mile on their combine! Ha ha! Whew.
The “m” key isn’t working very well on my laptop right now. I’ll be clacking away, and then suddenly realize that the sentence I’ve just typed reads “The rain in Spain falls ainly on the plain” or “I don’t like ja on y bread” or “Holy ackerel!” It’s like typing with a head cold. One of these days, some kind of chaos is going to erupt over this “m” issue. Mark my words.
SOMEONE VERY IMPORTANT WHO HAS RECEIVED AN E-MAIL FROM ME: My name isn’t “Ary”.
ME: I’ sorry.
Sometimes, on waking, she would close her eyes
For a last look at that white house she knew
In sleep alone, and held no title to,
And had not entered yet, for all her sighs.
What did she tell me of that house of hers?
White gatepost; terrace; fanlight of the door;
A widow’s walk above the bouldered shore;
Salt winds that ruffle the surrounding firs.
Is she now there, wherever there may be?
Only a foolish man would hope to find
That haven fashioned by her dreaming mind.
Night after night, my love, I put to sea.