As Expected

I'm not usually allergic, but the cat hair has gotten to me and I'm doing my best imitation of a 1950's TB ward. My nose is raw and I can't see clearly. Julia gave us both a hundred bucks, which makes up for a certain level of discomfort, we were expecting maybe lunch and a bottle of whiskey. And then when I get home, my State tax return is in the mail, so I have a few hundred dollars, extra, floating out there; I vow to make a trip to the Scioto Shoe Mart, attempt WalMart again, that fucking gift card will be the death of me, and treat myself to maybe a chocolate bar. I don't look for reciprocity so much as just a rut that allows me to achieve the ridge. Sneeze, sneeze, cough. I don't want to talk about my failures, which are numerous and across the board, I can screw-up almost anything, trust me. Rather you should hire an incompetent accountant than you should keep books yourself. I love when the moon moves behind a tree. It was spectacular last night. I needed to start stocking the house, so I went into town, had lunch with TR and D. Then helped D tile where the heater had been. Mostly I fetched things. Left early, stopped at Kroger, whiskey, drinking water (39 cents a gallon in my own green tea jugs), a juice supply. I just get the amount of stuff that I can carry in one trip, as I park on the other side of the frog puddles, maybe 50 yards away, and my feet, the last year are so, are always tired when I come home. I don't want to walk back to the Jeep. What I want is comfortable slippers and a drink. I do go back out, in my slippers, and collect enough morels for dinner. A small fritata, six-inch cast iron skillet, my omelet skillet, to which nothing sticks (walnut oil, and a great many heating and cooling cycles), with some halved grape tomatoes and the usual caramelized onions. It's very good. Several pieces of toast, smeared with the last corners of the jam jars. I had some very good jams this past year, people send them to me, and I love toast, so it's a match made in heaven. The kim-chee Michael left in the mailbox is wonderful, D allowed he was not a fan, but I love it, scrambled eggs with kim-chee is one of my favorite things in the world. And I like just eating it when I'm grazing through some cheese and crackers. The radio, playing softly in the background, I jump up and crank the volume, Patsy Cline, doing a Willie Nelson song, "Crazy". Laid back, almost out of touch, looking for Mom's cell phone number, which I find, so I can call her tomorrow, I also find the email address for Esquire, who was on that crew for the American Premier of Berlioz's great opera, " Les Troyens", the same year we did Beverly Sills' last "Traviata". I get the occasional note from a year-book site that has me in their database, I haven't made contact with any of these people ever, but I still get messages. In Apple, I have to open the message before I can delete, in my preferred medium, parsnips running to turnips, I can delete things without actually reading them. I delete everything, as a matter of course. Heaven forbid you had privy to my thought. Still, I have to ask, her last "Traviata"?