::it seemed important at the time::

5.27.05
I'm afraid I have nothing coherent to report, but here are some bits and pieces floating through my head right now. (Please always feel free to leave me your bits and pieces here on the tag-board. I do so love hearing bits and pieces.)

I'm feeling tickled because I resisted the impulse to buy a little wicker Martha Stewart loveseat at K-Mart last week, and now it's on sale for $76. (It was $99 last week.) I think it will nicely round out the Ikea chair seating area, don't you? More about the Outside Beautification Project later, when it's done and I can post photos.

I spent a nice morning with my sister and her kids, drinking coffee and discussing life. That's what we do. Hands down best present my parents ever gave me was my sister. :)

It's so exciting to look forward to a three-day weekend. Bob actually doesn't have to work. We're just renting a video and having dinner tonight. Tomorrow we'll do some house projects during the day, and at night we're going to the Pasadena Playhouse to see Private Lives by Noel Coward. I'm so excited about this, because I'm surprising Bob. He only knows we're going on a date, but doesn't know where. It should be fabu. I am insane for entertainment from the 20s and 30s. Are you? Sunday we're having people over for a little barbecue, and then going to a birthday party after that. Monday is still gloriously empty, stretched out like some wonderful beacon of laziness ahead of us. Hooray!

My mom can never remember the name of the actress Agnes Moorehead. (You know. Bewitched's mom.) She was telling my dad this, and he said "And I can never remember that one actor." And my mom said "Which actor?" And my dad said, "You know, the guy who did The Passion and Braveheart." And my mom said "Mel Gibson!" And my dad said "That's him!" So they decided to make them a couple: Agnes Moorehead and Mel Gibson. So now they can say, "You know, that couple," and my mom will remember Mel Gibson for my dad, and my dad will remember Agnes Moorehead for my mom. I love their marriage. (I mean my mom's and dad's marriage. Not Agnes's and Mel's.)(Although I love that, too, actually.)

I had to drop Claire off at my sister's yesterday and go over to Urgent Care to get my eye checked out. My actual doctor never has appointments available immediately. You always have to wait at least three weeks, and by then you're either better or dead. I try to have a good attitude about going to Urgent Care. It's quiet time to read while I wait. Still, I'd rather be having quiet reading time in my own house, rather than in a place that recommends you use their waterless hand sanitizer liberally upon entering and leaving. I have another chalazion on my eye, but this one is stubborn and has been bothering me all week, and shows no signs of going away. I get them fairly often because I have rosacea (which can affect your eyes, alas), and had surgery about three years ago to have one removed. They look like styes but are somewhat different. I've been leaving my sunglasses on when I go into stores this week, which is a funny thing to do around here this close to L.A. proper, because people always assume you're famous and trying to hide. (Who is that overweight middle-aged woman over in the produce section wearing sunglasses? I think I'll be nice to her, in case she's someone famous.) I feel somewhat rude talking to people while wearing sunglasses. This morning at Starbucks I could tell it threw the cashier off because she couldn't tell if I was looking at her. But there was a long line behind me and I didn't think she'd appreciate a big explanation of my eye and skin medical history. Ha.

I'm reading Madame Bovary for bookclub. I first read it twenty years ago. What a difference twenty years makes! I can remember when I first read it thinking she was so exotic, and being so caught up in the atmosphere. I was studying in Paris then, and I read it for a French literature course, and of course wandered around the streets of Paris thinking romantic thoughts about Emma and her life. Now I just keep making little disgusted sighs every few pages, so that Bob keeps saying "What is it now?" and I keep saying "Emma Bovary just keeps making stupid choices and is such a ninny."

I hope you all have lovely long weekends, and tell me what happens. :)