I was excited. I asked my mother if she thought she could do a ride to the beach and she said yes, so yesterday I looked around for condo rentals at the nearest seashore. On the average about $1,500 for the week. Yesterday, back at her house, I told her what I found. She looked stunned.
"Oh. . . I couldn't spend a week there."
Deflation.
"I could spend a month or more," I retorted. "I'll start making dinner."
Feeling all summery, I'd bought a bottle of Vouvray. It seems the perfect summer wine, light, sweet, crisp, and a little fruity. It goes well with the salad life. So I made a big salad for the two of us and used up the half pound of ground beef I'd gotten on Memorial Day, cooking it up with ground garlic and ginger, cumin and chilis, tomato sauce and a can of garbanzo beans. Since I found this recipe, it has become a favorite.
I have to succor myself with good foods and Vouvray and forget about travel. Except for this morning. My mother needs to go to the bank to renew more CDs.
Maybe I'll get another French soda this afternoon.
T called just a bit ago. Drive time call. He was on his way to the gym, but nothing is close to his property.
"I got to get you up here," he said.
"Sure. I'll bring mom."
"Yea. . . bring her! We'll set her up on a porch. . . . "
Nobody gets it. I guess you'd have to live through it to really understand.
Red texted me some video. She missed her flight out of Detroit, so she booked herself into the Detroit Club. Living the Dream. Tomorrow's her birthday. I only know that because she recently told me, and even then, I had to go back in the text stream to look it up. I am HORRIBLE about birthdays.
"When is my birthday?" I asked. Of course she didn't know. And of course I wouldn't tell her. Birthdays are a burden, I think. But she is hitting one of those landmark ages, one of the ones you dread in your heart of hearts. I knew her when she was a kid, so I sent her the very first photo I took of her when we met.
And the second.
That was a long time ago, 2013. I'll send her a birthday card tomorrow. I should have made a postcard to send to her, but truly, I forgot her birthday was coming up.
I did send some out, though. T got one yesterday.
Looks like it got a little beaten up in delivery. I sent two. The second one hasn't arrived, he said. I told him that it is probably tacked to the post office wall in some Tennessee hick town. I wish I could send the Lonesomeville series. Oh, boy. . . that would get me some trouble.
I made some images and videos of me in my thirties and other people who are now older. It was funny to me. Red loved hers. Of course she did. Others didn't enjoy them as much. Selavy. Some people only enjoy me in deprecation, self or other.
I think I do enough of that just by posting every day, but also. . . .
You have to have a sense of humor, I think. Here I am, an old pinhead. Tell me A.I. ain't grand.
Or maybe it isn't A.I. at all!
I am getting a late start. I can't sleep. My right knee keeps waking me in the night. I called the ortho's office and am scheduling another injection hoping it helps. If not--they say you know you need a new knee when you can't sleep. And then the drive time call with T. Now I need to care for my mother. I'm a pinhead, but I'm a good son. So they say.
Heard this at The Fresh Market. Was nice with my salad.
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