Adam’s been pounding on me about posting pictures of fruit. If patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel I guess he considers macros of limes the last refuge of a blogmeister gone barren. I tend to agree. To get him off my back, I’m posting old photos of which I know he can never get enough, even though a similar one of the happy group has already appeared on the blog. That one, and old matte finish,  I converted to black and white to get rid of its pink cast, which is a shame because you lose some of the impact of Dan’s snazy pants.

My father, Diane and brother Peter.

Dan’s second wife, Bonnie, Bill Connet, Mrs rakkity, rakkity, Diane, Dan and Peter.

 

Those tulips BirdBrain gave us finally lost their petals, but has that stopped me from taking more pictures? Oh, hell no.

I thought I’d add more color to my nifty vase of flowers. Freshly juiced carrots.

If Diane didn’t change our sheets we’d never have clean ones. It’s not that I don’t like the feel of freshly laundered linen, or that I enjoy sleeping on miscellaneous specks of dried blood, it’s just not something I “see.” I see peeling paint on my house, and I can sense when the oil needs to be changed in my truck, but when it comes to my bed if I count three pillows and two quilts I’m happy.

Lately, I’ve been helping Diane make our bed. As we tossed the crusty sheets onto the floor (”Don’t throw the dirty ones on the clean ones,” she yelps.) I ask her about her day. She’d been gone for hours with Ginger, first to do their pool walking at the Thoreau Club, then a long lunch at the 99, and finally a stop at Diane’s favorite store, T.J.’s.

“What did you eat for lunch?” I asked.

“I had steak tips and Ginger had a hankering for Scrod.”

“And, what did you talk about?”

“You.”

“Me? What about me?”

“We didn’t really. No, we did, but not that much.”

“But what about me?”

I don’t normally fish so, but I’d spent the last month working at Ginger and Mark’s house and felt like I’d been doing a lot of blabbing during our long, Ginger-provided lunches.

“We talked about that dopamine study.”

I must say that it doesn’t matter that I hadn’t read the article. I know just enough about dopamine (more makes you happy, less makes you depressed) to play along.

“What about it?” I asked.

“A dopamine usually chooses another dopamine. You’re a … .”

“Dope?”

“Yes, and I’m not. Dopamines have lots of creative energy and are constantly trying new things. That’s not me.”

“Then why are we together?”

“I think it’s an estrogen testosterone match. Estrogens are matchmakers and connectors.”

“And me”?

“You’re a pig headed jackass.”

This doubled us both over. It always does. It’s obvious why Diane laughs. She wanted to shorten the fishing trip. I laugh, in part, because she blushes so crimson.

I’m talking on the phone to Dan and I hear what sounds like a train coming though the middle of the house.

I said, “Hey, Diane, there’s a train in our house.”

“Yeah, that’s what they said would happen.”

“Who said what would happen?”

“The weather guy (Now that’s she watching TV she’s become this know-it-all). He said we’d get snow squalls.”

“Snow squalls? What about trains? And where did the outside go?  It’s gone.”

The squall lasted all of about five minutes before the moon reappeared.

BirdBrain dropped by around noon with an armful of goodies which included a spinach quiche, many mango mousses and this flower vase which she handed to me as my award for her favorite line of stories, The K-Mart Chronicles. The vase design reminded her of (and, quite frankly if the flowers were cars… .) the Hawaiian shirt I’d missed out on.