Needs To Stop
A Friday in June. High today, 79, humidity 70%, which is high for an old Seattlite who grew up in a soup of rain and 30% humidity with ancestors from Iceland and Denmark (and Ireland and England and Germany, I'm told) with fair skins, unhappy under a humid sun. I say I'm OK with the sun, here in Oakland. I once had a pale blond born in Seattle girlfriend who would point to a picture on her wall of a Laplander lost and blind in a Finnish snowstorm and she'd say she saw that scene in her dreams: dreams of cold and snow, and then, one day, long after we'd parted, she moved to Alaska. San Francisco, it seems, at least for one lone lost Finnish blond, was not the end of the rainbow.
Odd. I've had six or more calls in the last seven days from "research" firms wanting to ask questions. One or two other calls as well, credit cards mostly, all in the early evening, people wanting to give me credit and exotic junkets to gambling establishments in Nevada. Could there be a connection? My routine is "no thank you very much" and hang up, but I wonder at the number of calls. Is there some "list", some web cookie breach I missed that fed me into this mill? Providian has called allowing me to refine my "slime ball motherfucker!" response. Much excitement.
Saturday. Walked over to the cafe near the lake for breakfast and the paper,
walked by a for sale sign on a building set back from the main street. Kinda nice. Thoughts of visiting the realtor later on in the day when they're open across the street. Pick up three cases of cat food for Wuss, make an appointment to take him in next Saturday for a checkup. He's eating, he's using the new kitty litter stuff, but he's still peeing and I've started keeping the bedroom door closed so he can't get up on the bed. He works me over in the mornings to get me up and out into the kitchen for his breakfast and in all of this excitement he pees. He got me up this morning lickety split, all the bedding into the washer doused with laundry detergent and Nature's Miracle, a cat owner's secret. This is not good. He's looking healthy, like a cat who may live forever and pee forever on an unending succession of rugs. And bed spreads. And me. Mumble.
Ah, well. Another week done. A good week, for all of that. Got the walking back in order, got
comfortably into a shirt Friday morning that has been too tight to wear these last few years, shot some pictures, printed some pictures, had my annual physical. All of it just swell here on this Saturday afternoon, the weekend arrived, three on the clock, Wuss sleeping out on the balcony in the sun, my mind wandering, thinking this is one of those entries that needs to stop.