We’ve established conclusively that Obama is one of the sexiest presidents ever, right? Right. Obviously. No question. So, in the hope that his spell extends beyond the US, and that it has coaxed the rest of the world into forgiving and forgetting the extreme lack of sex appeal that characterized the previous regime, I bought a plane ticket. I am going to Paris! And this time there won’t be that urge to apologize constantly for a hideous government, or the impulse to plaster Canadian maple leaf patches all over my suitcase.
Instead there will be cathedrals, cafes, and catacombs. There will be museum halls crammed with art. There will be trains! Most of all there will be my beloved niece Sophie, who is already over there for her semester abroad. I will definitely check in with her. Someone’s got to make sure she’s drinking enough wine and not studying too much.
All weekend I’ve been memorizing seed catalogs and nursery websites, obsessing over what to buy for this year’s garden and where to plant it all. In a fit of especially high-pitched mania I ordered a variety of tomato that costs $8.70 for 10 seeds! If these tomatoes induce half the euphoria the catalog claims, well, 87 cents a seed will have been a shrewd investment.
But most of the mental gasoline has burned up over the question of layout. I have a gorgeous fenced area to work with, but not all the intended plants will fit inside. Many will have to be cast into the badlands where stalk the throngs of hollow-eyed zombie deer. There are some plants deer don’t actually enjoy devastating–daffodils, currants, alliums (the evening-gown Latin name for onions & garlic)–so those will go out in the open. The most toothsome tenders are the ones who must take shelter behind the fence.
Behind the fence. I used to live in a place where the phrase “behind the fence” referred to the top secret section of a nuclear weapons laboratory, guarded by mercenaries equipped with machine guns and armored vehicles. That was some impressive paranoia. There must have been really nice lettuces and strawberries back there to justify that level of security.
The assignment: sneak into a bookstore after hours and swap the Literary Fiction books with the Metaphysics/New Age section. The hypothesis: this will immediately cheer up the five listless souls who actually read LitFic’s postmodern puke. These days metaphysicians and crystal-gazers are the ones who write startling and original prose that doesn’t make you feel like you drank embalming fluid for breakfast.
The calendar thinks the first day of winter was a week ago, but actually it was yesterday. 23 degrees, windy, and lots of the white stuff for which Eskimo languages have 2000 words. As a result my accomplishments for the day were: 1) drank a giant mug of tea, 2) faced the elements to walk Chloe, 3) napped on the sofa all afternoon, and 4) taste-tested a trial run of champagne punch for my sister. A banner day of indolence, as is only proper during Christmas vacation. It was fabulous.
I do realize this state of affairs can’t last forever, but I am pleased to report that it can last one more day. When I turned on my computer this morning (technically it was still morning), I found an email announcing a champagne tasting this afternoon. Evidently this is a week when champagne just will not taste itself. This must have something to do with the snow, but I haven’t figured out the connection. Regardless, it means it’s time to get a move-on. I am already behind schedule on the napping.
And yet this wonky darling showed up tonight, complete with a brand new string of lights. My brother reports that he heard a voice while he was circling the tree: Oh no, Mommy, that man has a chainsaw! Clearly he’s making it up. There is no way a little baby like this could have made himself heard over that saw.
Posted in Notes, Sightings
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