Ben in his usual scalawag way had sub-rented one of the rooms and was lying about it, attempting to convince me it was AirBnB that had doublebooked. He almost had me going, too, except that one of the AirBnB-ers told me, No, we rented it from him.
Either he had rented that one room to a lot of other people, or the people to whom he’d rented that one room had invited all their friends because there were people spilling into every room of the flat, and I was furious. The people were all hideous slobs and had their un-housebroken pets running around. What a mess!
One room had been flooded. And it had been flooded in a very peculiar way because the water in the room defied the laws of Newtonian mechanics: It ran uphill. I can see it in my mind as I write this, but I have no better way to describe it. Anyway, peculiar.
I wanted to get myself and my daughter out of there pronto, but I was also feeling horny, and I wondered, Can I do Ben without any of that sticky emotional stuff that would (inevitably) lead me to buy in and (ultimately) overlook his lies, or should I just leave?
On the horns (ha, ha, ha) of this dilemma, I awoke.
I did my customary Vanderbilt tromp. My hips ached a bit, lending credence to my Lyme Disease hypochondriacal theory. But I persevered.
I will say that this has been an exceptionally brilliant and colorful autumn in these parts:
And it hasn’t quite peaked yet.
Then I got my hair cut!
Getting rid of all that stringy, weedy hair made me feel 1,000% more human!
Though I really should start wearing eye makeup on a regular basis. Those Mona Lisa eyebrows (shudder)!
Then I crossed the road and trotted over to Neighbor Ed’s where I spent a very companionable afternoon chattering away about shoes and ships and sealing wax, and drinking beer.
Neighbor Ed reports that he and Pat have also been feeling very down this past week, so I don’t know—maybe it’s something in the air?
Then I went home and watched The Trial of the Chicago Seven. The Chicago Seven trial was a Very Big Thing when I was an undergraduate. (I was a sophomore in 1969 because I skipped all those grades and so, started college when I was only 16.) The Black Panthers were Oakland locals (and indeed, a decade later, I dated Bobby Seale’s pal Huey Newton for a few months) and Abbie Hoffman’s Yippies were very big in San Francisco.
The movie got a few things wrong, I thought. Notably around Bobby Seale. But as light entertainment, it was just fine.
Today, I am supposed to go to the Blessing of the Garden, which is the day they turn off the water for the season. The garden is operated under the auspices of the Saint James Episcopal Church where back in the day, FDR himself was a deacon.
I don’t much like Jesus magic, which may be a character failing on my part. I mean—if you’re gonna like magic, why be partisan?
But there’s supposed to be a barbecue afterwards, and that might be fun.
Afterwards, I really must buckle down and do some paying work. Crossposted from Dreamwidth.