“Oh come on, we can take ’em.”
“It’s a long way.”
“I cannot jump the distance, you’ll have to toss me…don’t tell the elf.”
I spent some time with the front step pansies this afternoon.
I can never decide which are more beautiful. The purple …
or the yellow …
Regardless, I’ve always loved pansies. Partly because they seem old-fashioned: they remind me of an old velvet chair or ball gown. And partly because of Hamlet. You know that part when Ophelia doles out flowers? “And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.”
Somehow my yogurt ended up amongst the pansies.
And my book. I love Wuthering Heights almost as much as I love pansies. I have a soft spot for tragic, deeply romantic books and movies, and this is it:
“I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff’s miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.”
Although, let’s talk about Cathy some time. Does anyone feel sympathy for her? Let me know.
Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of moping around the house. A fair amount of job hunting. A decent amount of neatening the large amount of stuff which is the culmination of 22 years of residing in the same room in the same house. A satisfying amount of going out to enjoy summer.
Since I don’t really want to talk about the moping (more of a private journal topic), and I shouldn’t talk about the job hunting (in case potential employers find me here and wonder why I’m bragging about my prospects online), and I would be wise to leave the home organization talk to those who know what they’re doing (the fine folks on HGTV and TLC), I’m going to talk summer enjoyment. Enjoy:
1. Buy your mother some flowers.
You may consider the Easter lilies at Cub, but after finding them pale and somber, it’s probably best to choose bright orange begonias instead.
2. Make dinner. Salmon with balsamic cherry sauce, roasted brussels sprouts, and fruit salad is good for a warm day when the snow is dripping off the eaves of the garage. Do not panic if you don’t remember how to cut a mango. Have your sister help you, and sneak a few pineapple chunks in the meantime.
3. Suggest a game of Mexican Train post-meal, and don’t complain when Mom plays a James Taylor album in the background. Tease Dad for changing his mind on the placement of a domino, using the old family mantra: “A tile laid is a tile played.”
Today I awoke, burritoed in a mass of winter blankets, to Spring. Not just the vacation, but to the season itself. It was mid 50s and sunny, and when I opened my window, two bluebirds dropped a crown of daisies onto my head.
Putting the daisies in water, I proceeded to have a quiet, albeit wonderful Saturday afternoon.
I’m taking care of the neighbor’s Beagle while they’re on vacation. He’s fat and grey and quite deaf. But he’s a solid little fellow who wags while you’re getting his lunch, and barks good-naturedly when he wants to come back in from outside. He seemed confused, at first, that the tall neighbor girl was refilling his water bowl, but after I spent the better part of a half hour petting him and throwing his tennis ball, he put his nose on his paws and went to sleep.
At one, Mom and I went to pick up my shiny, glorious Christmas iPhone. I love the thing already, although I’m not used to having a nice phone; it’s terrifying to think that if I drop it, the whole screen will shatter. Additionally, though I’ve always found my fingers rather average-sized, they feel enormous when I try to type out texts and emails. I’m hope I’ll get used to these things soon.
Now that it’s gotten dark and cold again, I’ve retreated to my bed, where I’m pretending to do Statistics and waiting for SNL to come on.