What A Glorious Day!

I awoke dreaming of a lush fruit salad and now it's chilling in my fridge. My hands smell faintly of fresh pineapple and the coals are heating up out on the patio so we can grill our first steak of the year. I'm glad I'm me today.

You know, Jennifer, you might be right about Vera's frustration. We'll have to see if any more art leads us to peek into their lives. Poor Jessica and poor Dad. It's very hard to punish a kid for defending herself and I love the cookie-dunking stall and how hard Dad works to parent right, all the while remembering his late wife. *sniff* It's a bit of a tearjerker.

March 14 & 15--Egon Schiele, Portrait of Hans Massmann. The man sat in one of the gold lobby chairs that were scattered over the antique Aubusson carpet of the Hotel Buckman in London. He wasn't old or young, instead he was at that wonderful in-between age when you feel like your life will go on forever. Likewise, his formal attire looked neither new nor old, and it fitted him like each sheep had grown the fleece for his wool suit only for him. That his dress shirt was of the finest Egyptian cotton was obvious even to the most casual observer. He was well barbered and shaved, and his hands were graceful and manicured. Every woman who passed, young or old, sighed, wishing for a moment that he waited for her. Unless they managed to catch his eye. The light in his eyes was cold and hard, not generous, not admiring. The women who met his eyes felt a chill and spent the rest of the day being grateful for their unexciting mates.

Eh. It's not great, but now I'm caught up and that's what's important.
--Barbara