Today's Exercise in Lame Style included not leaving the house until eight in the evening (even though it was a scrumptious day): I had a good reason, au moins. I was waiting for Mr. Bring the Internet and Phones to bring the internet and phones. He was supposed to be there between nine and noon, so I even heaved me out of bed at a reasonable hour. And waited, all day, not even taking a shower lest he ring the doorbell when I was all deaf and covered in water. He didn't show up until three and he wasn't even cute. Ugh. When I eventually left the house, it was to folk dance in H*rv*rd Sq*r*, and the doors were already locked when I got there. So I stood there, all decked out in pathetic, hoping somebody'd let me in, until I realized they weren't going to open the doors until it was over so I went home.
Current track: Quasi, Mammon. Although The only gay Eskimo in my tribe seems to be squatting somewhere in my head. They make uneasy neighbors.
Current tactic: Escapism.
Current trick: Not enough tricks, in point of fact. Kissing proverbial foreign fishes. Well, the scales are falling from my eyes. I will be dating half a dozen people before the summer's out. I must make up for time lost. Recapture! Recapture, children, is all I can talk about.
The cat M has just decided that he would like to nest on the keyboard and there is nothing I can do about it. [Domenico Scarlatti wrote a sonata in g minor, the Cat's Fugue (K 30), said to be inspired by his cat flitting across the harpsichord. Some cat, I say, that go three bars without modulating.]