Oh, Wait, The Sun Was Just Out--But Now It's Gone

I wouldn't say that yesterday was rainy but we got nearly 1.5" for the day, and that's on top of the .75" we got on Sunday. Soggy, much? I stepped out onto the patio this morning to right the chairs blown over in yesterday's winds and the mat went "squish" when I stepped on it. Ugh. Good thing I had my slippers on. The leaves on the very ends of the branches of the tree in the front yard are turning red and the rest of them have lost the vivid green of summer. They're still green but a darker, less-translucent green than even a week ago. Durwood complains and complains about the shortening of the days and the drop in temps but then he's thrilled that football season has started. I told him I thought that football season is what causes the light to shrink and the air to chill but he isn't buying it. Perhaps if they abolished football we'd have year-round summer? I'm getting darned tired of having my mind skittering around from thought to thought like a cow on ice. I can't seem to get it to light these days. I'd need a 72 hour day to come anywhere near doing what I'd like to do in a day. I try to multi-task but that just leads to disaster on all fronts. Is there a cure for mental-pause? And how come they discontinued the pens that I like best? Pentel used to make one called Rock 'n Write (lame, I know) in black, red, and blue and I loved the way they wrote. I bought a few, bought a few more, and then couldn't find them. I asked at Office Depot and was told they were discontinued. I thought perhaps that they'd reissue them with a different case and name, but no. They're kind of like a gel pen but with a ballpoint nib. No one else makes anything that feels the same in my hand and, believe me, I've tried. My pen jar is full of rejects. Stuff like that just pisses me off. I'm like the angel of death, whatever I like no one else does and it's discontinued. What's the deal? I'm cool, aren't I? (don't all answer at once)

September 26--Claude Monet, The Parc Monceau. Every day the clutch of nannies cluster in the park like a flock of drab hens with their colorful chicks. The sturdy country girls in their much-laundered uniforms are a stark contrast to their tiny charges dressed in the best. The low burble of their voices soothes the ear. They brag and compare as if the children are their own. "Marie-Terese can say her numbers." "Gaston climbs the stairs." There's a hierarchy among them that has little to do with the nannies themselves. It's the status of their employers that determines their place in the group. Le Turk sidles up to the one at the top, compliments her, and gains access to her master's life by flattery. He's in the market for his next acquisition and he thinks a rich man's child might be exactly what he's looking for.

Beware. Flattery can be dangerous. Keep your chicks close and your ears open. Especially in parcs in Paris a hundred years ago. Off to work.
--Barbara