Ramble Monday Morning
OK. I've got to go buy the rollers, the caulk, the trim paint and leave the girl home in bed asleep. And the room has to be completed before Thursday; let's see, there are three days, the paint will need to dry, then I will have to scrape the windows with a single edged razor, hang the paintings, clean up and get out. Our buyer, I have my fingers crossed, comes nigh. And then we will ready for the drive up north to ski on the remnants of the past winter's snow there, get back to school Tuesday and, let's see...
The dogs are fed and curled up for their morning siesta, the girl's still sleeping--she's a gorilla in the morning--and I have got to keep her fed and entertained somewhat, and the squirrels seem to have moved from the attic, at least we could not hear them this morning. Yesterday I crawled there to break up a nest there, their "dray," using a wrought-iron fire poker as I balanced on the rafters, feeling them out beneath the fiberglass and the dust and spider webs and it was just godawful, unhealthy, and I swear it, I am not going to go up there again, ever. The squirrels are displaced temporarily but who knows where they'll reestablish themselves? Outside it is raw and foggy, 37 degrees fahrenheit. It rained overnight and Sally's off to Connecticut with Nancy to paint those oriental screens for someone's dining room walls in the Sherry Netherlands, bringing with her a freshly made batch of delicious Jewish cookies--what are they "hamentaschen" or some such thing--to Ingrid's, especially for Mikki, an American Israeli who will run in the Paris Marathon six weeks from now? That's cool. He says if he wakes up and it is raw and raining, no way will he run. He doesn't need to, having run dozens of marathons already, sometimes for sponsors. This one's just for himself, that is, if he runs. My own pony legs are slightly sore from working out running fartlek pieces up and down the road with Sophie. Only one week ago she acted as if she would die, barely trotting along, more like lurching, full of tears. Now she has doubled the effort and her legs are no longer sore, as mine are, my youthless but broken in legs. If I can conspire to keep her at it, she'll be fast and learn to like the exercise and all of its benefits.
Now it is time to move along and get things done and hope this week will be productive and unmemorable; that is to say, I hope that nothing deadly or tragic will occur, that we will all exist in fun and harmony and appreciation of our selves, our lives, our friends, that we do good and improve the existences or the demeanor or the appreciation of all those we intersect with, keeping in mind how lucky, how very, very fortunate we are to be alive and well and experiencing this Monday morning's gift of life. And that is quite enough.
The dogs are fed and curled up for their morning siesta, the girl's still sleeping--she's a gorilla in the morning--and I have got to keep her fed and entertained somewhat, and the squirrels seem to have moved from the attic, at least we could not hear them this morning. Yesterday I crawled there to break up a nest there, their "dray," using a wrought-iron fire poker as I balanced on the rafters, feeling them out beneath the fiberglass and the dust and spider webs and it was just godawful, unhealthy, and I swear it, I am not going to go up there again, ever. The squirrels are displaced temporarily but who knows where they'll reestablish themselves? Outside it is raw and foggy, 37 degrees fahrenheit. It rained overnight and Sally's off to Connecticut with Nancy to paint those oriental screens for someone's dining room walls in the Sherry Netherlands, bringing with her a freshly made batch of delicious Jewish cookies--what are they "hamentaschen" or some such thing--to Ingrid's, especially for Mikki, an American Israeli who will run in the Paris Marathon six weeks from now? That's cool. He says if he wakes up and it is raw and raining, no way will he run. He doesn't need to, having run dozens of marathons already, sometimes for sponsors. This one's just for himself, that is, if he runs. My own pony legs are slightly sore from working out running fartlek pieces up and down the road with Sophie. Only one week ago she acted as if she would die, barely trotting along, more like lurching, full of tears. Now she has doubled the effort and her legs are no longer sore, as mine are, my youthless but broken in legs. If I can conspire to keep her at it, she'll be fast and learn to like the exercise and all of its benefits.
Now it is time to move along and get things done and hope this week will be productive and unmemorable; that is to say, I hope that nothing deadly or tragic will occur, that we will all exist in fun and harmony and appreciation of our selves, our lives, our friends, that we do good and improve the existences or the demeanor or the appreciation of all those we intersect with, keeping in mind how lucky, how very, very fortunate we are to be alive and well and experiencing this Monday morning's gift of life. And that is quite enough.
posted by Stonechuck at 8:52 AM
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