Okay, by now you’ve noticed that with regards to my promise to return to regularly-scheduled programming with Scent Diary, I have backslid (backslidden? backslided?) into apathy once again.
My life is just not all that interesting these days, even to me. Maybe especially to me.
I am working on a review (Vagabond Prince Enchanted Forest) and a Throwdown (Jacomo Silences vs Silences edp Sublime), and Part III of the enormous Carnation Extravaganza. Really. Really, I am.
But I will share with you here some random meandering thoughts, in no particular order and of no particular logic:
I consider myself a pretty decent basic cook. I’m not the Barefoot Contessa, of course. But I make a mean cheesecake; my grilled trout is to die for; I’ve made delicious pizza from scratch. I make homemade cinnamon buns for Christmas morning. But when I ran across this “37 People Who Are Worse at Cooking than You” thing on a friend’s Facebook page, I had to check it out. Bookworm was with me. We laughed until our stomachs hurt.
I had a college friend who was famous for making toast using her desk lamp, and also for being ten minutes late whatever the occasion, always. She wore this horrible oriental perfume I hated hated hated – I think it was Estee Lauder Cinnabar – but I loved her. Still do. She is currently married to an Orthodox priest, who we also went to college with, and who possesses the talent of juggling, and mothering four terrific kids. Miss you, Suzanne, you total awesome wack job.
(Admit it, the image of a 6’4” bearded Orthodox priest named Father Mark juggling colored balls amuses you.)
My long-haired kitteh, Silvia, is not quite 20 years old. She doesn’t see well. She doesn’t hear well. I suspect that her feline brain isn’t quite firing on all cylinders anymore, because she will howl for food when there’s still some in her dish (what, it doesn’t COUNT if I put it in your bowl ten minutes ago?) and she has ceased to walk to the door when she wants out. She’ll stand over her dish and yowl instead, even when said dish is freshly anointed with canned food, and it’s only by trial and error that I figure out that outside is her real wish. Also, she’s never liked to be brushed, and she’s got mats in her longish fur that cannot be comfortable. Ideally she should be clipped at the vet’s, but the vet said that they’d have to give her anesthesia to do that, and they didn’t want to put her to sleep because of her age. So she’s matted and uncomfortable and I can’t fix it. Also, both Taz and Bookworm are allergic to her.
We’re getting new carpet. We did the lower stairs and the basement family room last year, and now we need to recarpet the master bedroom, the upper stairs, the hall and all the second floor bedrooms. It’ll be expensive, but I suppose 11 years is about all the wear you could reasonably get out of the cheaper stuff the builders put in originally.
I dig the Kindle I got for Christmas – a lot. However, it is a pain trying to find stuff in the Bible via Kindle. You know how you’re sitting in church and the pastor is working off, say, 1st Chronicles, and then he says, “Flip over to 1st Samuel-chapter-whatever for just a minute with me”? By the time I find 1st-Samuel-chapter-whatever on the Kindle, he’s on to somewhere else and I’m completely lost. It’s unwieldy. I have taken to lugging my pink-and-brown NIV Bible (no, really, it’s cute) with me and just wearing my prescription reading glasses instead. I can’t wear the drugstore readers, because when I switch from looking at the Bible on my lap to looking at the minister thirty feet away, I get nauseated. So, bifocals instead.
We’ve had what the meteorologists call “wintry mix” (snow, sleet, freezing rain) three times over the past three weeks, plus some miserable cold rain that nearly washed out our gravel road, but not enough snow to go sledding in. The kids are bummed. So am I.
I am not longing for spring. I am still longing for serious winter, and snow, and afternoons spent in front of a roaring fire. A roaring fire does not count if it is above freezing outside. The CEO thinks I’m crazy. In this way, and in this way alone, I miss the 1970s.
Apparently it is now, and has been for some time, the basic rule to use only one space between sentences. This was not the case when I learned to type – yes, on an ACTUAL TYPEWRITER, back in the dark ages when I took a touch typing class at the community college one summer between my junior and senior years of high school. I am gradually retraining myself. It is not easy. Old dog. New trick.
Sometimes I forget stuff. Sometimes I forget lots of really important stuff. Like I forgot to check with the state corporation commission when we didn’t get a bill for the renewal for the farm LLC, and our LLC got canceled. (It can be renewed and we’re in the process of doing that, but this is a pain in the hind parts.) And too often I forget how much God loves me. I forget to be nice, I forget to love people, I forget especially to love the people who love me.
Another college friend of mine, someone I sang with in University Singers at UVa, has written a book about driving race cars. She’s got at least two art history books under her belt, and now this one, about challenging herself and learning new things, and how much fun it is to go really really fast around a racetrack. I think driving really fast as a pastime is certifiably insane, but I also think as a metaphor it’s something I need to learn. Think I’ll download Fast Girl: Don’t Brake Until You See the Face of God to my Kindle. Congrats, Ingrid.
I have been wearing lots of samples recently, particularly carnations. (Duh.) Have also been wearing Silences Sublime and various iterations of Chanel No. 19. Have also also been wearing comforting things like Mariella Burani, Iris Poudre, Shalimar Light, and Black Cashmere. As for Scent Diary, we’ll see what happens. If I feel like writing it, I will. If not? I’ll write something else. Things just unfold.