Translation: "Shit, there's a vole in my house!
Our cat brought some outside in - and now it is somewhere in my living room.
I took part in an exhaustive round-up effort, armed with a stick and a towel
(for herding and capturing respectively), but the dog was too much help
and I think the little thing is either in shock under the piano - or...who knows?
I had a weird dream last night, part of which involved finding myself
accidentally attending some kind of retreat or camp out. In the dream,
I had memories of this happening before and I was looking for blankets
and shoes because I was again cold and unprepared.
All of which put me in mind of the time my mother took me into town
and dropped me off at our little local college gymnasium and said,
as I got out of the car, "Have fun, I'll see you on Sunday morning...
oh - here's your bag." When she handed me the suitcase I didn't pack,
I finally realized I wasn't going to some vaguely defined girl+ scouts+crafts thing
- but a real life weekend-long event. In a gym filled with girls I didn't know.
I think that is a weird thing to do to an 11 year old - or to any year old, really.
Saturday night I had a birthday party for my friend C. - who turned 54.
15 women came to my house and we all sat around and made hats.
It was very loud and made a huge mess - but it was actually very fun -
and made me think about how I might steer that sort of gathering toward
creating things for women in need....along the lines of sewing circles and
quilting bees back in the day. Because alcohol is no longer part of my party equation
- I really love having SOMETHING to do with myself besides wander about
obsessing about not obsessing about drink. And - what's not to love about fabric
and feathers and vintage buttons and gems and all the other frou frou
that we tossed all over my house for the 4 hours we worked?
Hold the phones, bloggerees - I believe I had a good time -
and am actually posting something positive for a freaking change of pace.
But fear not, as I tend to keep at least one of my feet on the dark side at all times.
Balance.
Defense.
Habit.
Goodbye Richard Pryor, you crazy burning star, you master of dark comedy, you.
Farewell Eugene McCarthy, you poetry reading, anti-war mongering gentleman, you.
I am off to finsih painting my bathroom -
"Concrete Paws" and "Jute" --
green-grey and creamed brown for those of us who
don't work in the nuthouse where colors are named.
TV viewing this weekend: Paradise Lost: the Robin Hood Hills Murders -
Finally out on DVD, this documentary is a SCARY look at small-town,
southern American 'justice'.
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5 comments:
Great afternoon today. Even your moles are charming.
Microtus, Ah! I knew him well. Dug up his ancestor, Ophiomys meadensis, at my fossil site in the Columbia Basin (Gawd - a dozen years ago now!). Actually found him by bring buckets of site-sand home, washing it thru a sieve, and picking individual vole teeth out of the mix ... with tweezers and under a magnifying glass.
Glad to see you doing a positive mood piece ... gives you something to refer people back to if they accuse you of gloom 'n doomliness.
Doomliness...moi?
never!
Reminds me of my family's "Mole in the Bathroom on Christmas Eve" story in which I figure as the unlikely hero, going into the bathroom alone with a shoe box, squealing giddy, trying to get the SCARED-TO-DEATH little thing. Not exactly lore, it's turned into an oft-repeated, Night Before Xmas, kinda thing. And testimony that I am braver than my 250 pound, sports-lovin' brother-in-law.
Happy to see you happy. It feels good, doesn't it?
Smooches to you. RJ
It do.
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