It has been the quietest and tamest of days and I have done little bits of things here and there. I hung clothes on the line and when they were dry, I folded them neatly and put them into the basket the way I do and returned everything to drawers and shelves and swept the kitchen and watered the porch plants and tried to take a picture of the grandest spider and failed and did not open the door to the Glen Den.
Yesterday when I left Lily at her house I said, "Don't call me tomorrow. I will be resting," and then I felt bad and said, "Well, call me if you need me." And she took me at my word and toted the boys to the museum downtown by herself and I was sad because I wanted to be there when Owen saw the mastodon skeleton for the first time and the giant armadillo, bigger than a Volkswagon, which I have told him about.
She said he liked the armadillo the best and was not scared of the mastodon. I wonder what Gibson thought of it all.
I read an article about Matt Damon in the new Esquire and it did nothing for me and then I read an article about the neurosurgeon who wrote a book about his experience in almost-dying and going to heaven and so forth and I came out of that with no respect for the neurosurgeon but even more respect for the Dalai Lama and you'll have to read the article in order to understand what I'm saying. I'd send you to a link but you have to pay $1.99 to read the article and I'm not sure that's worth it but you can buy the magazine for not a whole lot more and read a lot of articles and columns, too, some of them about sex and some of them about cooking and some of them about how to dress. If you're a man. I rarely read that column, to tell you the truth. Still, I feel I got my money's worth.
I will always get a thrill when I get a new magazine in the mail. And in my opinion, magazines are about as good a bargain as there could possibly be. I get The New Yorker and Vanity Fair and Esquire and Oxford American and there is nothing like a magazine which you can roll up and put in your bag to take with you wherever you may need to go. The very definition of a nightmare to me is being stranded somewhere with nothing to read and yes, my phone always has something to read on it but there are places (and we drove through them yesterday) where there is no cell reception at all and not much sign of human habitation either, but miles and miles of one straight road leading from one tiny village to another with a great deal of nature in between. Just in case, one should always have water and something to read.
I have been listening to Neil Gaiman read his book Stardust as I've worked and walked and it's enchanting and his voice is velvet and the best voice, of course, to read his own words. I have dreamed about the possibility of ever being thin again, even while eating banana with peanut butter and hummus and flatbread and pieces of watermelon, cold from the refrigerator. I have had the mild regret of not going to the museum with my grandsons but I know there will be more trips there. I have thought about going to a movie but of course did not. I have cut and trimmed my fingernails and wished that I could figure out the secret to these strong nails of mine which seem to grow so fast and this hair I have which is almost down to my waist now so that I could bottle it and sell it and become rich. I have wondered why anyone ever tries to get me to do whatever-it-is to be connected with them on Linkedin when I do not work and thus, do not network and some of these people do not work either so why? I have seen pictures on Facebook of distant and not-really friends and their children doing rather boring things and I have no idea why about that either. I have thought about the fact that the You Know You're From Tallahassee Page should definitely have a post entitled You Know You're From Tallahassee If You Have Horrible Grammar And No Concept Of Where Apostrophes Go. I'm sorry, but it's true. It's embarrassing.
So it's been that sort of day. Checking for eggs and picking cherry tomatoes and peppers and a few beans and finding one rather large cucumber when I thought there were none at all and feeling slightly guilty for not really getting anything done or being of any worth or use but it's been fine. It's been good. And tomorrow the boys are coming early and it will all be completely different. Owen will tell me about what he saw today and Gibson will be his merry self. Owen will hide from me and when I walk into the room where he is, I will say, "Where are you, Owen?" and from his hiding place he will say, "I on the porch!" and I will pretend to look on the porch and then I will come back and say, "No you are not. Where ARE you?" and he will say, "I in the bathroom!" and so it will go until I get down on my knees and look under the bed where he actually is or perhaps in the depths of the closet and he will laugh and I will say, "Oh, Owen. You fooled me," and he will be delighted that he fooled his old Mer Mer once again and Gibson will hold his arms up for me to lift him and even though I am an old Mer Mer, I will raise him to my right hip where he will settle in as if it had been designed specifically for his own very darling butt and I will show them both the giant lady spider, which, although not as big as a Volkswagon is impressively large for modern times.
And my husband just got home and I am so glad and he's looking for the bat as we speak.
All is well and all is well and dammit, I'm seriously happy he's home.