It was a weather week and an insomnia week. Weather: grey skies, nearby tornadoes, humidity and temps in the sixties. The low sixties. Insomnia: Asleep by four am, though I’d been twitching in bed since midnight, then bolt upright at nine. Five hours sleep = Margaret, Zombie Empress from Hell.
It was an unproductive week. It was too wet to garden, my mind was too fuzzy to write, yadda yadda yadda. So, I’ll try to scrape my errant brain cells together and try to sum up the things that I learned this week. Or relearned this week.
I won’t spring for cable, but these two weeks tempts me, every darned year. Why? Wimbledon. I want to see every match on the outside courts, the white tennis costumes against the green grass, the passion and brilliance. I’ll get over it in a couple of weeks. But then the US Open will commence and I’ll have to hold serve and stay tough not to call some Godawful cable company.
I admire the writing of Elizabeth Berg, and I’ll write a full Library Card post about her. She can string together a plot with poetry.
I learned that stabbing a half onion on a fork then dipping it in olive oil is a swell way to oil a grill.
I’ll never stop missing my daughter and son-in-law. Ever.
I just don’t understand people who want to retire to a rustic farmette. I love the ‘Ville and all, but I want to walk out my front door and stroll to a street scattered with shops, restaurants and businesses run by folks I’ll get to know.
My archaeologist next-door-neighbor, “Little” Dale Simpson, (honorary nephew) was climbing Machu Picchu two days ago. I reel with jealousy, and salute Dale for his passion, and, as we say, following his dream.
I might not ever be a Jeopardy champ, but I could come home with a few thousand bucks.
Basil is always, always, reliable grown from seed.
No news here, but let me tell you, editing another writer’s work isn’t a clinical affair.
Friday night cheeseburgers with grilled onions and a beer is Friday night comfort.
I need insomnia advice.
And NBC is broadcasting Wimbledon tomorrow!