a different view

I wake up remembering a dream about hors d'oeuvres. There was something deadly serious going on, but I don't remember what. I figure I should get up, get my workout done and go get a haircut before my lunch date. But I'm tired. So then I figure I'll just get up and get showered up and go get a haircut before lunch and work out later. I figure I'll get there when the barber shop (or A Barber Shop as Jane calls it) opens. I don't succeed but I do get there by 9:30 and only have to wait a short time (surfing the WEB while I wait) to get my 'usual' cut.

Someone is waiting to take my place when I leave. Jane is in her usual form. She has decided to move out of her rental apartment and, maybe, buy a manufactured home. She has decided that God isn't going to allow her to have a husband. ("I told him that he needed to start acting like a husband," she says.)

I don't have the heart to ask what happened to the guy that I thought she might leave Austin for. My barber is staying here and that's good. The building where she rents her space is for sale, though. A buyer might squeeze her out or just charge so much more that she moves. But the price for the building sounds ridiculous so maybe it won't sell. Having a place to get a haircut you trust is important.

The cut feels great, too. I had let my hair get too long.

I go home and mess around for an hour or so and then Gayle (who is working on our books today) and I go to Star of India and meet SuRu. The buffet is OK although I'm not into it much today. I don't seem to have much appetite actually. [No, this has not reduced my feedings. Go figure.]

Home again, I figure I'll go work out when 'my lunch settles.' I don't know where the two hours go. I work on the editing thing for my friend, have to boot my computer because something goes awry. My how time flies.

At 2:30 I go work out. I do the usual. Forty-five plus minutes on the bike. I finish reading a book I started ages ago...some memoirs of Vanessa Bell who was Virginia Woolf's sister and mostly an artist not a writer. I do my lower body weight machines. I feel strong and capable.

Home again I do a few things, picking things up, putting away clean dishes and voilà it's five. I answer some email and have a phone conversation and it's almost six.

I smell cooking. FFP is making chili. We drink this great, cheap Rivola from Spain that's been sitting in the frig with a VacuVin for a week or more and open another. (God, that's great cheap wine. Grape Vine Market. Shop there.)

We make fun of the college boys on Millionaire but we know in our heart of hearts that we would falter on some stupid teenage movie question or a rap music query. The difference is that if we were on there, we wouldn't walk away. Nope. We'd be fearless about guessing. I mean, what difference would any of the prizes short of a million really make? Oh, OK I might walk on $500,000 or something. But these people walk with $800 or $32,000. Hey...do they give you a free trip to New York to be on the show?