Well, not entirely out of Monet; I have enough to get me by until payday. And I have enough to eat. And more than enough trash bins and recycling bins, but that’s a story for another day.
My birthday package arrived safely at the office, all wrapped up in pink and raspberry paper with chartreuse (not yellow) accents and a bit of glitter. And a purple ribbon, which I am of course saving. My sister sent it there because I lived in apartments from 1993 until last year. Iffy apartments, in neighborhoods that were not iffy when we moved in but which became so not long after we unpacked; I must have an Iffy Magnet. Complete with percussion on the kitchen counters in the upstairs apartment at 2:00am and the extreme likelihood of incoming packages being shot down by “Section 8” missiles or absconded with entirely.
Yes, I did something rather out of character: I opened the card and the package two days ahead of schedule, on the principle of “Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first.” Behold my new earrings. When I opened the box, I immediately took out my silver hoops and put these babies in.
Behold, also, much handpainted loveliness. My coffee table is becoming a paradise of purple pulchritude. [Spiro T. Agnew just rolled over in his grave and got a mouthful of merino for his trouble.] Not one scrap of blue in this yarn, despite what you see; it’s all some variation on the theme of purple.
The card made me hoot out loud in most unbusinesslike fashion. It features a sleeping dog whose tail is in the flight path of the business end of a stapler upon which a bunny is about to land. And inside it says “It’s your birthday. Live dangerously.” The cartoon is from Andy Riley’s “The Book of Bunny Suicides”, which I had never heard of, sheltered creature that I am. The card company is Sunrise Greetings. I might get one of those duplex frames to display the cropped card and the sentiment; I’ve framed other cards she’s sent me.
I finished tweaking and printing my tax return about 9:45 last night and spent the next hour and a half trying to find a post office that was open until midnight. Four useless post offices close to home in Fort Worth. I had just missed the cut-off at the main PO, which is by the T&P station where I catch the train. And I was not in the mood to drive to far north FW to find the one on that was open [one of those times when GPS would have been nice]. So I drove over to Arlington, where in years past they have had somebody standing at the window, accepting envelopes. Nada. That was the fifth post office, and I had had it. So I chunked the envelope into the slot and said ‘to hell with it’; I am already having to pay a fee for the installment payments, and penalties, and interest. What’s one more cha-ching?
Like Miz Scarlett, I will worry about that one tomorrow. Or next month. Or whenever they send me the bill.
On the way back to my car, something bounded across the grass, then turned to look at me. A raccoon. At 11:00pm. He didn’t look any happier than I felt. [Raccoons pay taxes?] I wonder if he washed his 1040 before sending it off to Austin?
I slept until 6:38 this morning, which is about the latest I can leave the house on a work day and get on the train at the T&P station without sprinting from my car. Strolled out to the living room and stretched my legs on the couch with some magazines and then knitted for awhile. I have a little over two pattern repeats left on BittyBit’s sweater, and then the blocking and putting-together and the crocheted edging.
But I am setting it aside in favor of sluicing off and heading over to the Main Street Arts Festival, where I will get fresh air and exercise and a slew of business cards to add to my long, long list of people whose art I like enough to want to buy. Someday.
Brother Karitas wants me to take pictures, lots of pictures. I will try to remember; I’ve set my camera next to my planner and keys. And I am going to drive over to the T&P station and catch the train to the ITC, which is two blocks from the Festival. I’ll walk around in the cool of the morning and avoid [I most devoutly hope] the crowds that will be there tonight.
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!