Song in my head this morning: the Plimsouls’ “A Million Miles Away” which is so eighties and so completely from that dark moment of my life when I moved in with my grandmother and infant daughter that I recall clearly feeling young and lost and as if time passed me by. Startling how little changes with the passage of twenty years.
Paulie’s gone to the bank. The sky’s gray and over the city hangs a stillness even a slight breeze does not disturb. Larry sleeps on a bag of Paulie’s snakeskin swatches he’s using to reupholster his car. The bag is large and Larry has declared himself king of it. Paulie returns and collects scraps from the floor. Yesterday, when he got up I was watching a National Geographic channel show about an AeroPeru plane crash. Later, I watched a new show about the state of Titanic’s structural integrity. I can’t resist the forensic examination of a human disaster. Or sharks. I can’t resist sharks. They’re bitey.
And speaking of bitey, the dryer buzzer went off. Must fold, must fold.
Clean laundry hangs from every hook, niche and doorknob in the joint. Paulie’s flight for Scotland leaves tomorrow, dinnertime. For Heaven’s sake, it’s time to buy enough Ricky Ricardo shirts to last longer than a week. Sometimes it looks like a black velvet painting exploded in our living room.
Right now, the sky could open again at any moment, so he’s outside bolting his carburator to the engine. I think. I’m sorry to say I don’t know a blessed thing about cars. For all I know, you bolt carburators to cup holders so your soda stays bubbly. This is not a knowledge deficit one ought to crow from the treetops. Instead, I think I should issue guarded apologies to automotive engineers throughout the ages. It’s on my To Do list.
Friday afternoon. I can’t express my love of Friday afternoons. I plan to try by driving home and staying there.
Paulie’s plane leaves for Glasgow on Sunday, I think. What sort of gifts does one demand from a visitor to Scotland? Anything but haggis. I love haggis, but I’ve pictured a horrific scene with bomb-sniffing airport dogs and a bag of meat.
I have eaten a cookie.
See, the words don’t do it justice. I don’t eat cookies, and I generally stick to small portions of food, and have been on a diet since 1977, essentially. So when I say I have eaten a cookie, it should be read with the same announcer voice in which one hears ads for monster truck rallies:
WEDNESDAY! WEDNESDAY! WEDNESDAY! I HAVE EATEN…A COOKIE!
Fortunately, it was a delicious oatmeal cookie with raisins and a light cinnamon flavor and quite moist and I hardly even regret it very much, though I wish I hadn’t drunk the SlimFast first.