Scone Jones

After years of getting coffee at the donut place, we switched to The Market Street Cafe, much better coffee, and cheaper, as we can use our own to-go cups (think smaller coffee footprint) AND they make these killer blueberry scones for which we've all developed a deep and abiding fondness. I gave the Deputy part of mine one day and now she has to have one every day too. I was an hour late on Tuesday, heavy overnight rains had drooped huge blackberry canes and sumac bushes down into the driveway, D had gotten his coffee and scone but didn't buy the Deputy one (I always do that, she keeps track, we settle up on payday) and she gave him shit all week about it. Very funny. He mostly ignored the barbs. So, as is the nature of things, there was much discussion of bathroom behavior today, the ladies apologizing for calling me in, I waved them off, -hey, it's my job- but they know who it was and both Pegi and the Deputy mentioned that there was a plunger right there and that they would have been embarrassed because there was this heroic piece of fecal matter, evidence that this had been a blockage, and was followed by a flood of considerably looser material, which had required half-a-roll of toilet paper to clean up. I don't like indoor plumbing, shitting into water just seems wrong to me, but toilets are good at what they do, and they have limits. If you're ever at someone else's house and find yourself using a lot of toilet paper, do not flush it, wad it up and cover it with several layers of paper towel or whatever, and find the nearest trash can. Toilet paper is always the reason for clogs, except for really large pieces of fecal matter (often also prolate sheroids, had never really thought about that) and kid's toys. Beany Babies drove us wild for a time. D needed to work on the calendar and newsletter today, and another meeting with one of his abstract artists for the show he's getting together, so I, finally, unrolled the drop-cloth and taped all the edges for both walls, which needed to become Catnip, Pittsburg 404-4, which is a nice soft green, the equivalent green to the blue that it is replacing, Rain. There's a Raindrop in there somewhere, but I don't remember the color, also blue. Stella Blue, a great Grateful Dead song. I have to get up and listen to it. Excellent thing about living alone, I can dance, which I would never do in public, never learned, I was always doing the sound, key grip, or stage managing. I don't perform at all anymore: when I read in public, I sit, and read without any histrionics. And I paint the walls, the paint seems perfect, the coverage, I'm hoping for one coat, but when I go back to the first wall, after painting the second, this phenomenon has happened: either the surface is too smooth (30 layers of semi-gloss) or the roller is wrong, because at the end of some strokes the paint was picked back up, off the surface, and both walls will require a second coat. Goddamnit. What I think I'll start doing is to lightly sand the walls (with the random orbit sander, not ten minutes work) and buy a better grade of rollers (additional cost: $2 a show) which will cost less than my time even though I work cheap. Not no histrionics, I move my hands a little, by way of emphasis, hard to talk without my hands. And I'm not above rolling my eyes or somehow indicating what I think. Look at your own glass house. We're all transparent, because everyone needs and needs are transparent. I talk to my Mom, she's worried about my Dad, I tell my brother to put foam rubber everywhere, what I'd do, if I was there. Broken hips are the end. I consider myself, and Lily's offer. A place to die. Right now I'd probably go with Kim, his daughter's room where he stored the 2x4's, would be fine, I could utter a last line, something about attachment.