My new little Simpson’s avatar. Close, but not exactly. She’s my Twitter girl.
A chill blows into the living room through the window we left open for the cats, but the breeze feels nice. I’ll leave the window open. Blue sky, painfully blue and brighter than a Sunday morning should be. Jim putters in the kitchen. He’s making Dutch Babies, I think. It’s a popular Seattle breakfast. Think eggy pancakes baked in melted butter in an ancient iron skillet then sprinkled with powdered sugar and juice from a lemon wedge (I used two, sometimes three because lemons are in my acerbic blood).
Have I ever told you, dear diary, that I come from a lemon farming family? It took years, but I finally found a lemon crate label with the old (circa 1930) family logo. Serra. It’s beautiful and a Sunkist lemon is featured on the label, so it’s a rare and valuable label, but the monetary value doesn’t matter. I’d never sell it.
I’m babysitting a seven-week old Shih Tzu puppy named Jackson today. He’s a brave little soul, chasing my two dogs all over the house. They’re afraid of Jackson, or maybe they have an instinctual belief that if they lay a paw on the pup, Jackson’s mother will appear and hurt them with a vengeance. Works for Jackson.
On Politics: I liked Obama during the debate and was glad he agreed with John McCain whenever he honestly agreed. That is called “civil discourse” boys and girls and I hope we will see more of it. McCain was rude and seemed small, washed up and petty. He reminded me of a grouchy grandpa that insists on telling his “when I was a young man” stories during Thanksgiving dinner effectively holding the extended family hostage to his viewpoint. Grandpa needs to get on “the Google” and learn a little more about the 21st century. I’d rather hear about his vision for the future than his oft-repeated 20th century accomplishments, but that’s just me. He repeated his “I wasn’t Miss Congeniality” line twice during the debate. Ha. Grandpa, you already said that. Pay attention.
I’m sick with worry about the $700 billion dollar Fat Cat and Corporate/Wall Street Criminal Bailout. It might not work, and what then? We are like my neighbor Larry who holds (last time we talked about it, anyway) four mortgages, each one intended to bail him out of the credit mess his “fun” purchases got him into. Four times he’s used his equity to rescue him from his own over-spending self. Trouble is, Larry’s house has devalued by at least 20% in the last two years and the value is still dropping. There are no more bail outs for Larry.
What if that happens to our nation? What if fearful and angry countries call their loans back? What if the banks and the insurance companies run out of money? What if Boeing gets sick of the striking union and fires everyone? What if my husband breaks his arm in October?
We stand on the edge of a cliff, the wind is blowing hard against our backs. The protective fence rotted away and there is nothing to keep us from falling anymore. I am in a constant state of worry. Anxiety with enough oomph to effect every aspect of my life.
I’d hide my head in the sand, but we sold it on CraigsList for some extra cash.
Today: More laundry: the bain of my domestic existence. Put summer clothes away. Sweep the messy wood floors. Trim more of the sleepy perennials. Cut an armful of roses for the house. Start the dishwasher. Put the quilt in the guestroom. Take a long and luxurious lavender-scented bath and try to breathe through the “our nation’s in serious trouble” blues. Wash my ever-graying hair.
Post this blog and get on with it.
