It was an interesting literary weekend. I had dinner Friday night with an Emmy-award-winning writer and watched TV tonight with an Oscar winner. It made my head spin in a good, happy way. More on both, later.
Sandwiched between the two was a Saturday night spent making homemade dog food by myself at home. I, a vegetarian spinster in her late forties, was hand-mincing poached chicken breasts when I thought "Oh crap. Now I've done it. I have become the crazy lady who lives by herself and cooks special meals for her dog."
Next up: crocheted house slippers.
The wind has been blowing so hard and for so long that it feels apocalyptic. If this were a movie, the wind would stand for some important concept the screenwriter was trying to drive home...lost hopes! the end of innocence! the march of history!
But this is real life and there is no important concept. There is just this damned wind.
The damned part comes in because I live in this odd little old house that has the water heater outside up against the east wall in a galvanized zinc box about the size of a fat man's coffin. When the wind blows hard enough, the box flexes and slams against the house, making a sound not unlike the typani drum in a symphony.
This is annoying to me and certainly enough to interrupt my sleep a bit, but it makes Goldie lose her mind. It freaks the poor dog out so bad that she can't eat, can't rest, paces around relentlessly, licking her chops and velcroing herself to my legs. She tried to climb in the shower with me this morning and to frantically bury one of her squeaky hedgehog toys this afternoon.
To relieve her stress, she is having a slumber party at the grandparents' house tonight. (The grandparents who had their 63rd wedding anniversary today!)
*Cat Stevens, Jonniker.