Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Back to Winter Means Back to Long Pants

The temperature is supposed to rocket up into the high teens today or maybe the low twenties, with a sharp and gusty wind thrown in for good measure, so I'm thinking I'll be wearing 2 shirts, long pants, and warm wooly socks today. I won't look as smart and businesslike as I did yesterday but I don't think the customers really pay that much attention to what I'm wearing anyway. Durwood and I went downstairs last night and draped drop cloths all over, clothespinning them to the rafters and random pipes, to try to keep some of the cement dust off our stuff. I just realized that when Mrs. Boss asked me yesterday (at the eleventh hour) if I'd work for her today and I said yes, now I don't get to try out a jackhammer. Dang it. I was going to see if I couldn't wheedle a turn when the guy is breaking out the floor so he can put the magic sticky stuff all the way down to the footing. Now I can because I have to go to work around 9:30 and he's supposed to come at 8:30. Ah well, maybe I'll get to jackhammer another time. I read something so frustrating in Reader's Digest last night that I had trouble sleeping. For the last 2 years or so I've been berating myself for not losing weight. I've been eating right, exercising regularly, and only cheating a little and my weight has stayed pretty stable. I figured that I was doing something wrong. Turns out that the antidepressant I take, Paxil, is one of a few medicines that either make you gain weight or make it nearly impossible to lose weight. GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!! I can not believe it. You'd better bet I'm calling my doc today to ask her about switching meds. I can't believe that when I finally change my life habits for the better and take a "happy" pill that fights my depression without making me a zombie, that pill totally crosses out all my "fit & healthy" efforts. Damndamndamnshit.

February 6--Claude Monet, Garden at Sainte-Adresse. I love a hot summer day by the
sea. Red flowers bloom like flames in pots and boats bob in the harbor like the gulls, riding the little chop that never goes still. I love my spot near Karel's under the dirty white Cinzano umbrella. I drink the dark local coffee and share a croissant with the sugar birds. They are such fearless little scroungers, those yellow and black birds no bigger than a goldfinch. They perch on the edge of my saucer and demand their sugar. One even berates me for not putting sugar in my coffee. He plucks at a packet, a white one not one of those pastel packets of artificial sweetener, as if to say "this one, put this one in and spill a bit for me." I laugh and open one tipping the tiny white granules across the bright tiles of the table top

That's it for me, kids. Gotta go do morning stuff. Be good, stay warm.

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