Not good for much today. Anxiety attack — I hate those — drove me to a well marinated dinner. Well. Two dilute bourbons and waters wouldn’t marinate most folks, but it seems to have a) stopped the fibrillateous heartbeat and b) stopped all attempts at working or thinking.
Young Dr. Kildare reminded me that he’d referred me to a cardiologist for the same neurotic symptoms four months ago. He underestimates the ability of old bats to blow off scary recommendations. Armed with a new phone number, I made an appointment for later this week. Possibly I will find a way to forget it between now and then?
Our first dust storm of the year blew in today. Naturally, on floor-vacuuming day. Every time we get one of these windstorms, the floors collect a gritty layer of dust, annoyingly palpable by the bare foot. Dutifully following the one (or two)-chore-a-day schedule, first crack out of the box this morning I ran the machine over 1860 square feet of tile floors. Decided to wait until tomorrow to dust-mop, by way of wasting less energy.
But more wind & dust are expected for the foreseeable future, so dust-mopping it up seems like an exercise in futility.
It’s spitting rain out there right now: just enough to add a skiff of mud to the piles of parched leaves and debris that have blown in to cover the yard I paid Gerardo $75 to clean up just a few days ago. And, picturesquely, to fill the pool that has been so pristine all winter.
What IS the point, anyway?
I remember dust storms from my years of living in the desert. The sky gets yellow, and a layer of dust coats about every surface. Who knows, maybe drought and more and more grassland plowed under for ethanol may bring about another dust bowl. Not that we’re looking forward to it.