Friday, February 4, 2011

February and The Muse

It’s raining again but Mother Nature isn’t serious right now. It’s February, and the weather has been cold, warm, damp, wet, cold, dark, sunny, and more or less acting as if this was some sort of rehearsal for Spring, all in one week. The rain hasn’t fallen hard or for long, the cold is gone for a few days, the warm weather was a teaser this time, and it’s more or less been kinda weird. Anything, even the worst weather, but could we get a little consistency? The answer is we will get what we will get and we will live with it, no matter what it is. Ever it has been, ever it shall be. There are blizzards everywhere, ice storms in Atlanta, Cyclones in Oz, and California is being washed into the sea. The weather here is mild in comparison and we know it, and we are grateful for it, or at least I am.
            Bert is aging quickly, disappearing before my eyes, and I am glad it is not too cold when I leave home to go to work. Once he would run out of the backdoor, across the deck, and down into the yard to watch me drive away, ears up, tail wagging, eyes bright and a smile on his face as if he were telling me he would wait for me, and he would guard the house until I came home again.  Now he heads for the old mattress on the porch and stays there until it warms up. He limps around slowly, head down, and snuffing the ground as if he’s lost something and hopes to find it. The four steps to the ground from the deck he takes one at a time, rather than leaping down them as he once did. When I first moved out here I would sneak out of the back door on the other side of the house and run like hell towards the woods, and Bert would always catch me before I could make it. Now it’s Lucas who catches me, easily, and Bert watches from the deck, interested, but not playing along anymore. He hasn’t chased a ball in a while, a function of Sam’s speed but he’s given up trying to take the ball away from Sam, or Lucas. Mostly he snuffles and growls now, unhappy that age excludes him from our play, and bitchy about it all. This isn’t February for Bert. This is November, or October at the best.
            The rain falls for a few minutes, hesitates, and then begins again, and a one and a two and a… No, that isn’t it, one more time, with feeling, but no, the rain stops and the first try is dripping off the roof as the rain stops and it’s an odd sensation of not raining but was just raining and now yes, it is beginning again, I think, no. It was in the low forties this morning, and cold as the wind was blowing, and now it’s nearly fifty, and it’s not raining quite yet. In between there was two or three hours of sunny skies bracketed by clouds and wind. Remember the request for consistent weather? Unheeded!
            I was having lunch with a coworker today and he is one of the world’s greatest cooks, but he also has a tendency to go into more detail than he should when talking about cooking. I zone out during his explanation as to how the most perfect Zucchini is fried, and I get deep into the interaction between a couple across the room. They are sitting next to one another, he gets up and sits across from her, and all the while they’re keeping their voices down. It’s like watching an argument with a mute button. Twice he gets up and tries to sit beside her again, and she pushes him away. He gets up to get some food from the buffet and she glares at him. She flips her phone open and texts away while he is gone. He gets back and takes the phone out of her hand and she curses at him, loud. He flips through the phone while she sits there and glowers at him. He finds the text, reads it, and looks abashed as he hands it back to her, and she verbally tees off on him. He accepts this, and eats in silence while she chews on him. She starts to say something and he almost stand up and whatever else the woman is saying I hear over the rest of the room’s noise…” ONE MORE DAMN TIME” and then she settles down to a low growl.  He isn’t saying much at all. Taking her cell to look through the texts was a mistakes and he’s paying  for it. The woman looks past him and sees me. Damn. That is one hot woman and I am not talking looks, I am talking temper. She glares at me long enough for me to lose an eyebrow and I look away with the smell of burned hair wafting through the air.
            I totally missed the Zucchini thing, really, but I did pick up bits and pieces in regard to frying with olive oil. Master Chef hasn’t noticed I was gone but he rocks on. This man needs a cooking show, really, but I don’t do cooking shows, really. I ease over in front of him to hide from the woman, but I sneak out a bit to keep an eye on her. I move back and forth, and try to act as if I have a leg cramp so I have to move around, but I’m spying on the couple and she knows it. She storms out when I lean out as she’s trying to catch me, and the man follows her, trying to keep up. As she passes in front of our table she extends her right arm and raises a finger.
            “What the hell…” The chef asks and looks around.
            “I broke up with her in 1987.”
            “Really?”


I love having a Muse on call.

Take Care,
Mike

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