The Saturday night blogging trend continues! Ha. Don’t worry, I have been getting out a little more. I had classes on Monday and Tuesday evening (it’s quite nice because it fills the long, dark, cold hours, and I can spend all the bright sunshiny morning and afternoon doing whatever I want). Wednesday, I had a doctor’s appointment; Thursday I made enchiladas (mmm) and then went out with three of the people I met at the Fulbright thingy last Sunday…Craig (Australia, 30, accountant), Stesha (San Francisco, 22, medical student), and Michelle (Baltimore, 20-something, law student).
We hit up a posh wine bar, Ash St Cellar, in the City. Michelle and I each ordered a Flight, to try a few different wines, and all four of us were surprised when the waitress brought out Three Full Glasses of wine for both of us. Oops! Craig left after an hour, to go to class; two hours later, we ladies were still enjoying our goat cheese and pine nuts in honey (mmm) when he returned. We bar hopped, briefly; ran for a few blocks to get Michelle on the last ferry home; and got me (just in time) on the last bus back to Clovelly. I had a brief chat with a German student riding the bus; he was traveling around the world, he said, before starting university in Hawaii; in the meantime he was trying to get to some address in the next suburb but he had no idea which bus he was supposed to be on, so I directed the bus driver where to let him off and then hopped off the bus myself, proudly, at the right stop for once; just like a local.
Friday was another study day; today, I hit up a “car boot sale” at a nearby elementary school, followed by the “mega book sale” at the library. Returned home with four new books, having successfully resisted such acquisitions as a tablecloth, a whatnot (how would I have carried it home?), and a TV (sheer stubbornness). I did, however, pick up another plant. This is Molly the snakeplant, and she will live in my sunny bathroom.
Did my laundry in the tub today, and hung it out to dry on the line. Ugh. What a miserable chore. With the miracles of modern plumbing and concentrated detergent, I cannot even imagine Washing Day for poor Laura Ingalls Wilder. If Almanzo had handed me his socks, I would have smacked him with my red, raw, soapy hand; hiked up my petticoats and, aching back and all, fled to live with the Indians, who (I hear) didn’t hold with such nonsense as clean clothes.
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Hi Lou, Thanks for the posts. I'm thinking of you and missing you right now. There's a baby sparrow on the deck begging food from it's mamma and following her from deck to tree trying to get her to feed him. Prob your great-grandchild!! Love you always, Mamma
ReplyDeleteIt's a miracle to me that more washing women didn't smack their Almanzos over the millenia.
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