You know that last entry? Me going on about summery stuff, warm-weather bliss, all that?
Next day: clouds moved in, rain fell, temperature tumbled into the 40s. Same thing on Tuesday, that afternoon found me lowering storm windows to retain heat.
Remained nasty all week. And did I mention rain, humidity, general dampness? Where just a week ago dandelions thrived, mushrooms (generally an October phenomenon) have appeared, appearing obnoxiously content. If the rain continues into the weekend, it would not surprise me to wake up and find some 'shrooms sprouting from my neck.
Overheard at the gym on Tuesday (a day of extreme humidity, the only difference between times of rainfall and rainless pauses being actual movement of moisture or not), when someone on an exercise machine began losing money from a sweatpants pocket: Staff member 1: You tossing money away again, Bob? Staff member 2: He's donating to the general staff slush fund. (Bob ignores them, begins picking up coins.) Staff member 1 (leaning down to grab a coin or two): Finders keepers, right? Staff member 2: With this humidity, it might qualify as marine salvage.
Late this afternoon, the temperature actually slid past the 50 mark, weaving its way upward to briefly tickle the 60 on the thermometer outside the dining room window before slouching back down toward 50. The liars in the weather biz claim local life will turn sunnier, warmer, kinder, more joyful during the next day or two. Sure hope so, 'cause my little bod not been real happy these last few days. A shot of sunny skies and warm air would feel right fine. The gray, cold, etc. gets me turning inward, staying inside the house, keeping to myself. I'm ready for a change, even if it means blackflies, lawn mowing.
This morning: on the way into town, stopped in to see my downhill neighbor, Mo. The first time since I've been back (for which there is no excuse except me being all wrapped up in my little life). He's 83 and is beginning to look it, though that hasn't stopped him from messing around with the big boat he's got sitting up on a trailer in the ramshackle space that passes for his garage. He mentioned that, I looked over at Barb, Mo's zoftig, 70-something, live-in sweetie. "Is he," I ask, eyebrows arched, "doing that all by himself?"
"He tries to," she answered, then called him a big dummy, the two of them laughing.
Ah, young love.
One of the stranger search requests that have led unsuspecting surfers to this page materialized yesterday, from someone in Saudi Arabia:
photos penelope cruz was hairy in captain corelli's mandolin