This morning Sophia, who walks our dogs, tripped over something on the sidewalk and flailed around for a minute or two, which our dogs naturally took to be party time. According to Sophia, they jumped and rolled and play-attacked each other in the several minutes it took for her to collect herself and the house she carries on her back. Sophia is young and beautiful, so I’m sure it looked like a ballet to human eyes, but to the dogs it was irregular and antic and walker flailing and therefore whoopee!
Two days ago my husband had a small automobile accident. It was sort of his fault, although he only got a $20 ticket and the police were entirely sympathetic. The other guy has no collision insurance and delivers pizzas. I’m sure he will sue our insurance company. My husband’s shoulder hurts a bit still but he’s fine and confident in what happened.
I do not take this as time to party and cavort. It’s irregular, it’s a slip-up, and I sit here moaning about what’s going to happen to us, and if he should drive at night any more. (Which always reminds me of a group of “older” ladies, one of whom mentioned she had a new male companion. In unison, the rest of the women said “Can he drive at night?”)
I’m thinking life is over and it’s foamy-water time again. Slip away. John Mayer (where the hell is he? not here) isn’t helping, Bill Evans is making me sob and I’m trying not to impose on the dogs because they get sad when I cry, especially Franklin. (Actually Tommy the Shiba couldn’t give a shit which is kind of refreshing).
Trump and his rag-tag gang of fourth-rate Russian gangsters and his demented and possibly inbred relatives might be lightening my load a little bit. Trump in France (even those words are embarrassing), putting his Trumpian never-fail moves on the First Lady thereof, and slouching along the regal path to review the troops as if he were carrying a knapsack and was headed over some Slovakian border, jacket open, too-long tie flopping in the Parisian breeze, Trump in France is amusing the way watching a hawk pull every feather out of a mourning dove is amusing. Like, why the fuck would you want to look at that. At least he didn’t grab her pussy which, when I think about it, is not out of the realm of possibility.
But back to old age and pink water. I want to have fun. I can’t even think of what would be fun. Maybe driving along some long lonesome road, mountains on either side, infertile soil and houses made of logs. (Which reminds me, I recently learned that carex species are great massed under big trees where the roots render the soil hard and dry! That’s a hopeful thought.) John Mayer’s driveway! I turn in. He comes out, looking…ah well.
But we are old. I feel like I literally can’t stand it, like I will sob myself to foam, will crumble and never smile again ever in the few remaining years I have. Woah. Linda. Grandma. Get hold of yourself.
So I knit and try to figure out the meditative, life-enhancing qualities of the brioche eyelet “pattern”, a jungle of pain, a maze of unachievable brk’s and yarn-overs and take your odd number of stitches and go to hell with them. I saw another reference to yet another study that knitting can lengthen your life. If I vow to stay alive until I understand the freaking brioche eyelet pattern, yes, I will live forever, miserable and confused and having to reprint and reprint the pattern because I’ve crumpled it and spit on it and stomped on it and got so many of those knitters’ tape things on it and sometimes I forget to move them so I have to ask myself every time if I’m on the right row.
For some reason this reminds me of the lede piece I wrote for the Food section of the Post a long time ago, and had a lot of trouble with. I turned it in hoping for guidance from the editor. Glass offices. I watched her spend ten minutes reading it, then she walked out of the office for lunch and I simultaneously got a message as follows: “boring, redo.”
Ah, the key to life now that I think of it.