Note to future self: 7-11 does not carry groceries
I drove up to Squaw Valley last night with Jean Luc curled in the passenger seat and, after listening to NPR for two hours, realized that I'm literally becoming my mother. When I was a kid I would beg her not to turn the news on, and I remember this ritual wherein the moment we got in the car I'd start babbling nonstop so that she wouldn't be able to turn on the radio. It's not that I hated the news, I just hated that it was so much more interesting than I was.
Squaw Valley is perfect and beautiful, as it usually is; I have an unobstructed view of the entire valley and a refrigerator full of spoiled food. I have to go down tomorrow afternoon, but I'm happy to have a break from home and all the animals. It's such a bizarre relief to only have to take care of one, even if he's getting to the point where he can't really go up stairs without help. Jean Luc's 14 years old and has lived with me for 12 of them, and part of me is happy that I don't start school until Spring because that makes it more likely that I'll be able to be with him when he dies.
I'm reading a book called Kon-Tiki, sent to me out of the blue by a woman I had dinner with two months ago who wants me to properly appreciate the accomplishments of my Norwegian forefathers. I'm currently appreciating that, in 1946, six crazy Scandinavians decided they were going to float a raft from Peru to the South Sea Islands. These are my illustrious forebears, tremble.
Squaw Valley is perfect and beautiful, as it usually is; I have an unobstructed view of the entire valley and a refrigerator full of spoiled food. I have to go down tomorrow afternoon, but I'm happy to have a break from home and all the animals. It's such a bizarre relief to only have to take care of one, even if he's getting to the point where he can't really go up stairs without help. Jean Luc's 14 years old and has lived with me for 12 of them, and part of me is happy that I don't start school until Spring because that makes it more likely that I'll be able to be with him when he dies.
I'm reading a book called Kon-Tiki, sent to me out of the blue by a woman I had dinner with two months ago who wants me to properly appreciate the accomplishments of my Norwegian forefathers. I'm currently appreciating that, in 1946, six crazy Scandinavians decided they were going to float a raft from Peru to the South Sea Islands. These are my illustrious forebears, tremble.