I am almost too tired to write anything tonight. It is not quite nine o-clock here and it is almost completely dark out. End of summer. I galumphed downtown to the Old Town Barrrrrroooommmm tonight for dinner and cocktails with the GG. We are meeting with a kitchen-type person tomorrow morning and the GG had a whole bunch of texty kind of stuff for me to read. I don’t mean phone text. I mean documents with a lot of text. Since I had spent my whole day editing a couple hundred pages of texty stuff of my own and playing Vanna for a co-worker who was presenting her own bunch of texty stuff to the world, I had already about had enough of text. Pictures? Okay, maybe, if they didn’t feature Mariel Hemingway because I’m not sure what some celebrity has to do with *my* chitchen. Anyway, we had the usual style of KW-GG arguments about the Landfill Chitchen and about all I have to say about that is that the *requirements* come before the *design*. And maybe that’s been half my problem all along.

We were getting to be on the verge of leaving when, what to our wondering eyes should appear but our very own Mousket daughter. She had just gotten off work and was meeting up with theatre friends who congregate at the Old Town Barrrrroooommmm on Friday evenings. We declined their gracious offers to join them because, you know, yer favo-rite blahgger turns into a pumpkin at about eight o’clock or thereabouts. And so we slogged home through the heat and humidity and I took a nice cool shower once we got here but I am still hot and a little slodgy and somebody is sitting outside the sliding door here playing with That Device (aka, the iPad) and blowing ceeegar smoke in at me and SPITTING!!! Fer kee-reist! Don’t spit!!! He spat every 15 seconds all the way home tonight too, all the while bugging me because I wouldn’t walk exactly parallel to him on the sidewalk, marching band style. What is it with men, anyway? Once when Lizard Breath was small, she was riding her tricycle with Grandroobly walking along with her. He spat. Lizard immediately ordered him, “Don’t spit!” He backed up so he was 15-20 feet behind her and tried to spit again, thinking he was being discreet this time. “DON’T SPIT!” said the little rapscallion. Indeed.

And so, tomorrow, I will be up early beating a path down to the farmer’s market. Chitchen-type person in the late morning and guests for dinner. If you can call Pooh and the Marquis guests. And I’ll let y’all know how the chitchen thing goes as soon as I have processed it, which may not be tomorrow.

Incoherently yours,
KW

This entry was posted on Friday, August 20th, 2010 at 8:16 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.