Flarfing along.
I managed to crush in a cheap manicure between a marathon of meetings and therapy. It’s my favorite kind, which I am renaming the Lizbeth Salandar: short, square, black. And already a bit dinged. That’d be the great thing about black polish: the more dinged up it gets the more one can embrace the ruined aspect. Like good heavy, black boots. Unaccountably down these last few days. I expect it has been because I seem to be not nearly having as much fun as Michael M. No matter: in two months I’ll be at the ocean in my favorite tub with a big stack of books. The tomatoes have started producing, although none large enough to fry. If I was Miss Olive, I’d be pickling them with huge bouquets of dill and my descendants would want to write epic poems about them. Or at least dirty limericks. We had sautéed peaches for dessert, unctuous and rosy and moan-ably good. Tomorrow? Clafoutis! If my therapist can’t get her Ipod Touch up and going, we are going to meet up at her house and I am setting h