I Bet It's Gonna Rain On Me Again

I'm meeting my friend, Lala, at Maribel Caves County Park about a half hour south of here to do a little exploring and then she's coming up to spend the night.  It looks like rain.  The weather guy is saying we're getting rain.  Well, 50% of us are and I'm betting I'll be standing smack dab in the middle of that 50% at around 1:30 this afternoon when we're supposed to meet.  I got out my rain jacket but it's too damn hot to even think about wearing the rain pants, so it's probably wet socks for Barbara again today.  But I am not wearing my nice tennis shoes today, I'm wearing the walked out ones I should have been wearing yesterday when I got soaked.  I might even resurrect my old, solid plastic orthotics so that my newer, very expensive ones don't get soaked again.  What's a little neverending backache compared to wet feet?  I think I'm cursed.


I made the Three-Citrus Lemonade yesterday but it took twice as many fruits as the recipe said for it to taste like something other than citrus-y sugar water.  That was okay, I had enough fruit but it was a good thing I was only making half a recipe because I didn't have enough fruit to make a full one. (maybe I had substandard citrus fruits)  I did get momentarily smart though.  I bought a pair of medium-sized water bottles with pop tops at walmart and filled them halfway with the lemonade.  Then I propped them in the icebox of the freezer so they'd freeze on a slant.  When I'm ready to leave later I'll top them up with the chilled lemonade so they'll stay cold but not get watered down.  See?  Smart.  Lala's bringing some gorp or granola so we'll be just fine if we get marooned.

D'you ever wish you had a flamethrower when you're faced with clearing out the accumulated crap in your house?  I do.  Craftsman should be making a home model, then you could just use your leaf blower to blow the ashes out the door or suck them into your shop vac and use them as mulch.  I am damn sick of dust and cobwebs and clutter but when I get right down to throwing my sh*t away I back down.  What if I need it? I think, knowing in my heart of hearts that I won't ever need it, didn't need it in the first place in most cases, but still I can't get rid of it.  I despair of ever leading an uncluttered and civilized existence.  I'm doomed to being crap-rich and style-poor.  I'm not even considering "elegance" as a lifestyle possibility.

June 22--Paul Gauguin, Two Tahitian Women.  Nia and Ola were tired of everyone treating them like little girls.  They were thirteen, no longer children to be sent out of the room while the adults talked or made to eat supper with the babies at a separate table.  "We need people to treat us like grownups," said Nia as they washed clothes behind the house.  Ola agreed.  "Maybe we can get jobs, maybe work for that painter up the road."

Gah!  I just can't write looking at Gauguin's paintings.  Those aren't women, they're girls and he's a dirty old man, or maybe a dirty young man but I can see what he was looking at and he just wasn't nice.  Not nice at all.  Perv.  Well, it's puckering up darker and darker and my barometer knees are really complaining about it.  I'd better go swamp out the bathroom one last time and find some breakfast, oh and change the sheets.  Gotta do that.  Gotta scoot.
--Barbara