1Recently, I feel a great disturbance in the Blogger universe. As if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror, and were suddenly silenced. I.e. Blogger was down. Everyone’s last post was removed, and although I got mine back, the comments remain lost in space.
Someone out there has to answer for this. Also- who do I contact to receive what I lost in AdSense revenue as a result of this debacle? Someone out there owes me at least 3 cents.
2Yesterday, I had my annual singing gig. Joe (the saxophonist) and I are completely perplexed as to why, after last year’s significant press coverage, neither one of us have received one invitation to perform at any other event. This year, I really nailed “Orange Color Sky,” which contains music’s most memorable lyrics: Flash! Bam! Alakazam! I’d be happy to sing this at your graduation party.
I also sing the Star Spangled Banner at sporting events. I do Little League Games.
3This week in Albany, two new bills introduced to the Senate seek to delegate an official New York State vegetable. The contenders? Sweet corn and onions.
This is bad news. New York, particularly upstate New York, has enough problems without being associated with a state vegetable that a) is not a vegetable or b) makes people cry. Don’t get me wrong, I love an ear of sweet corn and a good Vidalia onion; however, when I think corn, I think “Nebraska,” and when I think onion, I think “Texas.” (This association comes from the YA book, “Holes,” by Louis Sacchar.) When I think New York, I think “apple,” which apparently is the state fruit. I’m nominating it as state vegetable, as well, because apples are as much of a vegetable as starchy, unhealthy corn is.
4This week, I said something cruel that I will never, ever be able to take back. In a moment of stress, I said these words:
“I don’t love you. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever loved you.”
I realize this admission guarantees I will be receiving some much-deserved hate mail.
Thankfully, Kiah is a dog and doesn’t understand most English. She understands SOME English, words like like “walk,” and “treat,” and “be really, really cute!” So, I didn’t crush her spirit with my false admission. She has not been moping around, nor will she require therapy in the coming days.
Of course, I didn’t mean it, but I was reeling over the sudden disappearance of my English muffin topped with homemade strawberry-rhubarb jam. It was the last English muffin in the house, hence my passionate response.
I wish my dog would stop eating my English muffins.
52 ½ years ago, we said goodbye to our village house and our porch swing, which the new owners demanded we leave. They were unmoved when I told them the swing was a father’s day present for John. I drive by the house, occasionally, and see them swinging, and I am filled with a melancholy nostalgia. (I have to do this surreptitiously, now- something about “stalking” and “making them feel uncomfortable.")
There are a lot of things I could complain about this past week like: the white fuzz in the air that makes me sneeze, the humidity that increases the overall size of my hair ten-fold, and the sugar ants that will have completely taken over the kitchen, effective Monday. But these are such small, petty, insignificant complaints when compared to the expanse of the robin’s egg blue sky, the vibrant green of the trees’ infant leaves, and sun that swathes the house in warm light. (The sun also exposes every one of my house’s many blemishes; but again- insignificant in comparison!)
We can buy another porch swing for our smaller, slightly less charming porch. This time I’ll carve our initials right on the front, so no one else can claim it as their own. And I will swing, peacefully, and drink in spring.
Until one of my boys inevitably sprays me with the hose. (He was just trying to give the flowers in my hanging baskets a drink. This may have happened to me this week. Again- insignificant.)
A little madness in the Spring
Is wholesome even for the King,
But God be with the Clown —
Who ponders this tremendous scene —
This whole Experiment of Green —
As if it were his own! Emily Dickinson