After a long and friendly conversation with my insurance (who seem to believe that just paying for a refill is the same thing as getting it, although to my knowledge money has not yet proven to be effective birth control, and the last thing this poor world needs right now is miniature samanthas running about, quoting poems and demanding dance-offs and losing at thumb wrestling) I tottered off to the corner store. My neighborhood homeless guy was there, a man who on his better--or, arguably, worse--days tends to remember me. Today was one of those days, and he greeted me with a wave and asked if he could tell me a story. I said sure, because memory doesn't care where it lives and even old homeless guys should be able to tell their stories. I missed most of what he had to say, something about troubles getting his medication, because I found myself hypnotized by the ridges and cakes of dirt on his hands.
I'm pretty sure I didn't need to listen, because those hands told me all I needed to know. I smiled and he smiled and we understood each other anyway. We usually do.
I have recently become possessed of a desire to learn how to make meatloaf. I haven't actually eaten meatloaf since I was eight and my mother, who is an awful chef, decided that uncooked rice would be a great thing to add to the mix. None of our teeth broke but our appetite for meatloaf did, and I can only believe that this desire means that my domestic habits are spiraling rapidly out of control. Soon I'll be doing things like making reindeer out of clothespins and macrame and coming home before midnight.
Today, in case y'all missed it, is the perihelion, which means that it's time for gossiping with the sun. You only get to do this once a year, so make it good.
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