Today is “Switch Sunday” down at the local house of worship. The proprietors like to dedicate one 11 a.m. hour a month to a full-blown High Church service, complete with incense, bells, and the professional Chamber Choir pulling out the stops. We amateur singers, then, are asked to accompany the more avant-garde (relatively) 8 a.m. service.
Though I think this is a neat thing to do and, of course, since I volunteered to sing with this choir will naturally show up…erkl! In the Pore Pore Pitiful Me Department, I could do without having to arise at the crack of dawn and start banging around.
Which is silly, because I’m usually awake by 5:30 a.m.
Awake. But not banging.
The hours between 7 and about 9 or 10 a.m. are my most productive, and so I could justify my whinginess by pointing out that work goes on seven days a week and another 30,000 words are sitting on my computer waiting to be edited.
But really. You can’t knock off ONE morning?
Just now I’m waiting for this coconut oil stuff I got from Costco to soak into my hair. We’re told you can use the stuff much as you would use olive oil: as a magical-mystery poultice to revive your dried-out split ends.
We shall see.
If I must go around smelling like a culinary product, I guess I’d rather smell like coconut than olive oil. Both are pretty distinctive. Coconut at least smells kinda sweet.
Which would you rather be: a walking salad bowl or a walking Mounds bar?
The neighbors across the street, speaking of working on Sunday, have hired a backhoe and are out there stripping off the decrepit desert landscaping they inherited. That house has always been a bit on the sad side; at least its exterior has.
It was run down when I moved in, but discreetly so. Then a jerk bought it, turned it into a rental, and moved to New York. That’s when we got Queer John and his roommate. I always enjoyed QJ: crazy as a loon, but sweetly crazy.
QJ got pursued to ground by the cops, who somehow convinced themselves that it took the occupants of three squad cars, a paddy wagon, and two motorcycles to bring the little fellow down. Cops scare easily, apparently…
After QJ disappeared, the house was occupied, probably as a rental, by some very weird people. Eventually they moved out and the Bug Guy and his woman moved in. They were a very nice couple: quiet and harmless and apparently not given to behavior that attracted the attention of the policia.
None of these occupants did anything to improve the landscaping. Somebody, presumably the landlord, hired a lawn service to beat back the weeds, but that was it.
Now at last the house is owned by a family — an actual family, with kids and all! — and they’re starting to fix the place up, a little at a time.
It looks like they’re about to do the yard! Hallelujah, brothers and sisters!
Some of the young people are putting in lawns. I can’t afford a lawn — apparently most of the old guard can’t, either, because the ’hood looks like Sun City with all the gravel on the ground.
But wait’ll they see the bills! I took out the lawns when my water bill got to be higher than the summer electric bill…and that didn’t even count the cost of having somebody come and mow it.
With a young man in the house, though, I suppose you don’t have to hire a lawn dude (not until he gets sick of mowing, I suppose, or until the boy children get past their teenage years…). And no doubt when you have two salaries coming in, you can afford to dump treated city water on the ground. Me, I have a moral objection to both issues: treating groundwater and surface water until an infant can drink it, only to pour it onto the dirt; and paying a stupid amount of cash every month for the privilege.
Well, the hair has been soaking for the past half hour or so. Supposedly I can now wash the gunk out (assuming it will wash out…it has the consistency of candle wax), and we shall see if it indeed leaves you with fine, flowing, unfrizzy locks.
And so, away…