Finally home and done for a Friday and the weekend. Got a beach chair out and I’m sittin’ back under a UV lamp in silly little goggles with my toes in the sand (improvising with Kitty Litter – hey, it’s clean and I own a broom – so shut it) and I’ve got my Lysol Martini simply poured in a chilled glass, not shaken or stirred (don’t want to disturb any possible medicinal properties). Time to completely distance again.
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Earlier in the week I had decided or maybe resigned myself to going shopping again this weekend even, throughout the week, asking my phone to add to my shopping list (No, I don’t say “hey google” first by the way … it’s just a “hey” … my phone and I are on an intimate though no names basis. Makes it much easier to leave, clothes in hand, in the mornings).
What do you want to add?
Soap
Ok, I added soap, anything else?
Toothpaste
Ok, I added toothpaste, anything else?
Deodorant
Sure, I added deodorant, anything else?
New underwear
Ok … wait … is there something I should know?
But then I realized that I didn’t really need to go out again for the shopping. I was good. I had enough of the make Steve not stinky/bad breathy stuff for now (though for just who I couldn’t really tell ya. Maybe just a personal thing, I haven’t devolved completely just yet). I also had enough of the feed the girls and feed the Steve stuff (and enough of the what eventually follows stuff, human and fur alike) to make it through another weekend.
A couple of weeks ago some really good friends, knowing my anxieties (I just may overthink that I’m in a worrisome category but I ain’t playin’) helped me stay out of the store by picking me up a few things on their own trips to the market, one of which was a frozen bag of something, which, after defrosting turned out to be some nice seasoned taco meat another of which was just simple caring.
So what do I do with this I thought? I could just do the defrost and throw it on a plate. But wait …
My sister and brother had bought me, for Christmas, a really nice Farberware counter top, two burner hot plate that I hadn’t used yet (my place has my convection oven and my microwave but no stove). So now I could break out a pan, yes I do have pots and pans, but wait …
Some of what my friends had picked up for me included pasta, something I haven’t cooked in years, but with my unused Farberware I could now boil up some of it and maybe even fry up that taco meat and just throw in on top, but wait …
One of these friends had surprised me with some groceries after I got out of my hospital stay three years ago. It included a jar of Marinara sauce. Three years, I know, but it’s in a jar right? Now we’re gettin’ somewhere, but wait …
Celie, here, another good friend, picked me up a loaf of bread for my tuna sandwiches and I already had some butter. The perfect side.
Now that was a meal. Apparently it takes a village to feed a Frankenberry.
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The roads have, obviously, been quiet for so long. I clock now how long it takes me to get to Route 9 from the top of this driveway’s long hill. It’s a game. No speeding of course, that would be cheating, but just what the latest days time out to be. Latest record? 8 minutes. On the normal, in a normal, when the world went about it’s normal the best I ever did was 15 minutes. Only 7 minutes difference you say? That’s kinda huge, at least for a guy who is still trying to figure out what all this means while keeping his head down and clocking driving games.
There’s a new small plot of construction on my way in, after a right where I hop off Route 9, escaping the numb of that road and it’s never ending traffic lights, just instead getting to the quiet of my welcome back road way and that small spot passed that has just recently been razed. Maybe ya just might find some art. Thanks guy with that eye.
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Came home earlier, after a stop at Stewarts, cursing those that had the same idea as me as I sat with BB in the parking lot for the longest time waiting for them to leave. I just wanted ice cream, and some cheese but they were enough for me to wait. When I did go in my face was covered, my hands were gloved, I shallow breathed and ran out of that place as quickly as possible after my get. (Meet BB by the way)
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Been forcing myself to take a walkaround, however easy/lazy it may to not. But once I start the down the driveway and go up and around the back way an easy/lazy doesn’t happen and I’m so glad for it. Breath. I’ve got some some friends waiting. Well, friends with a few handfuls of pellets. I’m Ok with buying friendship.
The cover art for the debut album from Suburban Bovines “Cows And The Horses They Rode In On” (below). The aloof one on the right is the bass player.
Toons. I don’t check in with him as I should, which is a my bad, but I can’t help but connect him with SWEETS as they started together and that hurts. Sorry Toons, it’s not you. Sigh.
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I have a thing for seltzer water, an incessant need to be stocked up, even more than beer, but not wanting to go to store, I remembered that Park Beverage in my old digs of Hyde Park carried them, the other couple of distributors I hit don’t, it would be an easier in and out than a grocery I thought. So I went my old route, a couple of exits past my last two year’s new normal, three years of such before then, eventually past the Culinary Institute but past now some newly, somewhat cleared hills, just after Marist.
Wow.
I’ve always been fascinated by what may seem to be an armageddon’s leavings seeing what was a once surely vibrant compound of buildings and purpose and thinking of the peoples that inhabited them
But now, in stark ghosted relief as I drive by? Where did you all go? Mister mister in the big house, who were you? Who were they?
I know this is silliness. They’re just old buildings that need to be torn down, but there are still echoes reaching.
After my latest walk, around the round of the homes, up top here, with no real history other than the current, which is still good by the way, a beginning, I get stuck in my head. I look down at my spot and then come across a pretty with a bit of a quizzical look who decides to follow me for a moment.
Days
frankenberrysattic.com 