In every instant, two gates.
One opens to fragrant paradise, one to hell.
Mostly we go through neither.
Mostly we nod to our neighbor,
lean down to pick up the paper,
go back into the house.
But the faint cries—ecstasy? horror?
Or did you think it the sound
of distant bees,
making only the thick honey of this good life?
So many sad things this week: Bill Holm, Charlene Hegland, Phil Keillor. It seems fitting for this time of year when you can't tell where the land ends and the sky begins. I feel like my nerves are sticking outside my skin and everything is irritating. Everything brushes against me like sandpaper. Wine doesn't help for long.
I made a meatloaf for dinner which is an odd thing for an early spring dinner, I know. In the time it was cooking, I lost interest so we had meatloaf and ketchup, or meatloaf and bread and ketchup as you preferred. No sides, as Peter observed. Hey, they sell potatoes at McDonald's and Taco Johns.
Regis took the dog out for a walk which irritates me because it's icy in spots although he won't admit it. He could fall down and crack his head and die. Some days I am more circumspect about this and realize you can't sit around your house avoiding falls and accidents. Today, I think you should sit around your house and avoid accidents and death.
There's a great article in Vanity Fair about Tina Fey. She is a rule follower, a life philosophy I ascribe to. Don't drive along side semi trucks. Don't get on carnival rides. Don't put paper in beer bottles. Don't play with shiny garbage. Follow the rules and bad things won't happen to you.
I'm planning a meal for next week: prime rib roast, Yorkshire pudding, and a Guinness cake. That's all that's on the menu for now. The Irish were not known for their cooking (my theory after viewing hundreds of recipes for cabbage and potatoes) so I might keep it simple. The Yorkshire pudding sort of puts a crimp in my style as I like to make Irish soda bread but you can't have that many breads at a meal and no vegetable. One bread has to be beer.
I worked really hard this week so the tax payers can feel vindicated. Here I am feeding at the public trough. Not that I don't work hard every week but this week, I especially worked my fingers to the bone and I have piles of paperclipped stuff to prove it. You could probably put all that shit in the recycler on Monday and nobody would ever be the wiser. Is this how I spend my life? A friend of mine told me today that work really gets in the way of her life. I feel like that, too, somedays.
If it doesn't snow on Sunday, we're going to meet Tiffany and Eric at Don Pablo's in Bloomington. I'll get to hold Elliot again. I can hear him in the background when Tiffany calls. It makes my heart hurt. She said she can't believe you can fall in love with a baby so fast. I remember clearly that I did the first time I saw her picture.
Peter is off to Mankato tonight, being a little vague about his plans...a bar, a band, a friend. That's as much as we know.
Charlene's funeral is tomorrow. Bill Holm's on Sunday.
Happy birthday, Mark.
Laurel, buy a big red spatula. I heard you mom say she'd get you one so don't let her get a cheap plastic one. Something heavy and colorful will do.
Jane, enjoy the outdoors in St. Louis. We're jealous. Here's the drink list: Harvey Wallbanger, margarita, vodka tonic, martini, and whiskey sour. Hi to Darla and AJ.
Deb and Larry, have a good time in Rome. Rent mopeds and drink limoncello. Not at the same time.
Tom, thanks for the blue cheese dressing recipe. The stuff I buy for five dollars in the styrofoam cup is so good...why do I want to make it myself?
This kind of sounds like the end of the prairie home companion. It must be time to go to bed.