Summer’s here, but I don’t think the time is ever right for dancin’ in the streets. Seems obnoxious. And possibly risky.
Dancing in the streets. Fekking hippies. Get out of the road. Get a job. Unless one gets a job in a parade, and then one’s job would literally be dancin’ in the streets.
…I realize that summer is not technically here yet, which was always something Ned had to point out.
Me: [sample kvetch] It’s spring. Why is it so cold?
Ned: [sample mansplain] ACTUALLY, spring is in 12 days.
Ned: It’s not autumn until the 21st.
Ned: No, it isn’t. It’s still technically not the vernal equinox.
And that is why Ned is in a shallow grave.
Also, he always had to correct me saying, “rug” when I apparently meant “carpet,” or maybe it’s vice versa. Whatever. Apparently one covers the whole floor and the other is for an area. You’d think as a copy editor I’d care about this, but the depth of my caring about this is as deep as Ned’s shallow grave.
But ALSO, Ned insists on calling the living room “the den.” I think this came from having grown up richer than me, and having one of those fancy living rooms no one ever goes in–and what is the point of those?–and then the room everyone gathers in to watch TV–which probably no one does anymore but that was the plaid-walled idea in 1967–is called “the den.”
You’d think as a copy editor I’d care about the structure of that alarming sentence, but the depth of my caring is about this is as deep as Ned’s shallow grave.
Anyway, it always bugged me when he lived in an apartment and referred to his living room as “the den,” particularly because he had a two-bedroom apt., and there was the bedroom he slept in, and then another bedroom that just had a couch and a desk and his computer, and THAT, to me, would be a den.
But he never called that room a den.
I harangued him about this for a long time, till one day I was around his brother, who referred to his mother’s living room as the den.
And right then I knew.
It was a family thing.
Marvin used to always leave the foil top on things. You know how when you open peanut butter or new aspirin or what have you, and it has the annoying foil lid on top of it for no reason other than the Tylenol scare of 1812? Marvin would peel it back, but not remove it entirely. Then for the rest of time, you had to wrestle that foil lid, like a teensy obstacle course. I think he thought it kept the aspirin fresher or something.
Once I was at his mother’s, and got something out of the cupboard, and sure enough.
The half-on foil lid.
It was a family thing.
Years after he left, I got some spice out of the cupboard, and you can imagine how much spices get used in this House of Lean Cuisine. But I got down Chaucer’s Choice Ye Olde Spice Blennde, purchased with bones because money hadn’t been invented yet, and there?
Was a half-on foil lid, left over from Marvin days.
I ripped it off. It was so satisfying.
But I was talking about summer being here.
June, I’ve been meaning to ask, are you still taking Ritalin?
No. It gave me migraines. What doesn’t? Hey, is that something glittery?
That reminds me. I have a stone I got from someone’s funeral. The person collected stones and rocks, and at his funeral they had a basket of them, and you could take one as a memento of this person. I have it at my desk at work–it’s sort of pink with gray lacing through it.
At my funeral, I want everyone to get a little bag of glitter, and you can all toss glitter at my casket as I pass by. Or keep it forever.
Anyway, summer. Edsel and I heard our first cicada the other night, and what’s really cool is I think we heard its first-ever song or buzz or whatever it is, as it gave this sort of introductory throat-clearing and did this weird instruments-tuning-up hum, then
ZZZZ!!ZZZ!!ZZZZ!!zzzzzzzzzzz…. of the cicada.
We also have been seeing lightning bugs this week, and the magnolias are bloomed, plus also the mimosa trees, a tree I would dearly like in my own yard. I have never understood the joyless people who don’t like a flowering tree because it leaves a “mess.” Good gravy. Rip off the foil lid and enjoy yourself. Flowers are never a mess.
In case you don’t get mimosa trees in your region, here is what they look like. And apparently it is very important to James Brotherton, sisterton, that we know he took this shot, as he has BRANDED it into the corner.
Anyway, they also smell really good, mimosas do, and if I had scratch and my chair would get recovered, then I’d have Alf plant a mimosa in place of the poor tree that’s on its last limbs out in the front of my yard. I’d make him plant one that big.
Don’t you wish you could do that? Plant giant trees? And also get your hair cut long?
Waiting for things to happen is the worst.
Just ask my Chaucer spice.