The week is whizzing by, speeding towards the next weekend, and I haven’t even told you about the last one. Here’s the highlights reel:
K’s elegant new patio, complete with table, chairs, and umbrella. Also a Lazy Susan (besides the weekend’s Lazy Suzy), place mats, coasters, and all the right glasses and silver. It was the perfect place to barbecue super colossal shrimp and sip our favorite champagne, Veuve Clicquot (no widow will make you merrier). So civilized!
Nail art. We both got daisies on our toes and kept admiring them all weekend. And before you think we’re easily amused, we tried and failed to watch The Libertine. Even Johnny Depp’s hotness couldn’t save this meandering bore. After half an hour, we admitted we couldn’t take it anymore. On the other hand, the Devil Wears Prada was a delightful romp. I could tell Meryl Streep had fun playing a real bitch and not having to do an accent. She looked great, too.
I escaped the peril of the laundromat this time, proving once and for all that if you clearly demonstrate your inability to perform an unpleasant task, you won’t be asked to do it again. Instead, I did some landscaping, which consisted of shovelling dirt into a wheelbarrow and then dumping it on unsuspecting plants and flowers. Shovelling dirt with a pitchfork made a change from shovelling what I usually do, and I’ll be way ahead in my pitchfork skills when I finally get to Hell.
Did you know: dirt is measured in cubic yards, and only a couple of cubic yards of dirt look like a young mountain. Four or five wheelbarrow-fuls make very little difference in its girth.
I seem to be better at getting clothes dirty than getting them clean.
The Downright Frightening:
While waiting for the train home, a mother rebuked her son Basil (pronounced ? la Fawlty to rhyme with dazzle) for hitting her daughter Mary Celeste (why name your kid after one of the maritime world’s creepiest unsolved mysteries?) in the New Millennium style of, “Basil, you need a time out. There was no reason to hit your sister. You’re out of control and need to calm down.” Basil’s bone-chilling reply, hollered at the top of his four or five year old lungs: “I’m going to tear your skin off, mommy!”
I wasn’t the only one to edge nervously away.