Today was a monster. I mean 'monster' in the sense of 'Monstro the Whale,' in Pinocchio, as in 'huge and no doubt scary to small children.' I'm not really frightened, I'm more like prepared to surrender. In anticipation of today--and believe me, I anticipated it, I planned for it, I had it mapped out five different ways on all kinds of documents--the historian and I had a chat, a chat about dinner, whilst walking the dog. A dinner which I knew, having anticipated the day, I would not be in a position to make.
'What about pizza?' I said.
'I'm on it,' said the historian, or words to that effect.
When I got home, the historian had preceded me by a mere three minutes, with you, dear pizza, ready and perfect in your perfect-sized box.
So I got out two plates and two napkins and poured myself a glass of limeade, and I roared my terrible roar and gnashed my terrible teeth and rolled my terrible eyes and showed my terrible claws.
And you were still hot,
Dear fall weather,
Yesterday, it was so beautiful, sunny and warm. And the night before, after the eclipse, the moon shone so brightly. Still: shouldn't you be arriving, fall weather? Or maybe even here already? It's not that I'm impatient, but I have sweaters all lined up.
Also, not that anyone's counting, but it's almost October,
Dear nightly dog walk,
Tonight, while watching the next to the next to the next to the next to the last episode of Mad Men ever, I said to the historian, 'I'm soooo tired.' In a super tired voice, which I had totally earned, having just done eight online consultations in a row. At night. After dinner (aka pizza). At night, it bears repeating.
'Maybe you should just stay here,' he said, consolingly, meaning the nightly dog walk.
'NO,' I said, invigorated by this kind but outrageous proposition. 'No, no, that's not happening.'
Nightly dog walk, I feel rather strongly about you. As does Bruiser, the dog in question. He knew when Mad Men was over, and began his excitable breathing and bed-prancing (he was watching with us). In all but words, he said, Let's get on with this. It's time it's time it's time.
Exactly, Bruiser. Without the walk, the night is not, as the French say, fini, and is, instead, incomplet.
(How is it that the French get away with just leaving the final letter off of words? Is this any way to run a language?)
Well, anyway: the dog walk is a little bit meditation, a little bit coaxing the dog to keep moving along, a little bit too much talk about work, a little bit admiring the moon, and a little bit circumambulating the neighborhood. A little bit like a ritual, in other words, and it's necessary.
Nightly dog walk, I need you even when I am sooooo tired, and it's good to remember that.
Dear long day again tomorrow,
I know I can survive you. You're basically the same day I had today, except repeated. So, you know, doppelgänger. Or, as I secretly think, evil twin.
No, no, that's absurd. You're just a long day. At the end of you, I'm going to feel quite a bit better.
But I have to say it: I hate having a day that reads like an endurance trial. Also, I hate the sad truth, which is that there's no one to blame but myself for that.
Boo, long day. I said: booooooooooo,