I'm very excited about lunch today. Chili made by Sam using Daddy's recipe. It's the most comforting of all comfort food. In the past, I've eaten this chili three days in a row and been very happy about it. I think I could eat it every day, but it's always gone after two or three.
I decided to read and Ian Fleming book, because I found one very cheap, and because I tend to like British authors, and because I was curious if the books were better or worse than the movies. Everyone should know, Ian Fleming is one of the most irritating authors of all times. He almost provokes me to become very involved in the feminist movement. He is not a very good writer, and his plot-crafting could use some work, and I despise every one of his characters, including James Bond. Fleming has a horribly warped view of women. After the first few pages I skimmed the rest, and it continues to be worthless the whole way through. Never read one of his books.
I feel better for getting that out of my system.
Sometimes, when I want my own puppy or kitten, I wish I had my own house. But I'm torn because I really like renting. It's very low maintenance. I don't have to get things fixed when they need it, and even when our air is down, the other apartments cool ours. We can use free wi-fi from the nearby Starbucks. Recently, a couple of un-tame kittens found their way into a cement window well outside our apartment building. One of them had trouble getting back out, and so Sam went to the rescue, armed with a towel, some thick rubber gloves and a piece of lunch meat. The kitten didn't seem to realize that we were trying to help, because neither Sam or I speak kitten. Pippa (the kitten) bit through the rubber gloves and also through Sam's thumbnail, before making her escape. The kitten is now free (and happy we hope), and Sam is healing nicely although his guitar and piano playing may not be at it's usual high standard. All of this has caused me to conclude that houses and pets are too high maintenance for this point in my life. Maybe in a couple years.
On my bedside bookshelf is a small black frame. There is no picture in it, only a sand dollar. It is a creamy color, having been bleached by the southern sun for a while before it ended up in my room in Kentucky. In the center is a design like a star that reminds me a bit of the center of an apple. It is difficult to believe that this round white disc is the skeleton of a sea creature that burrowed in the shores of the Carribbean Ocean. As I look at it, I briefly try to imagine a world where human skeletons are displayed as a keep-sakes from a pleasant vacation. Horrific. Sand dollars, when they are alive, are not very nice to look at. They appear slimy and are often the brown and black color of a leech. But when they die, the part that lasts is so lovely that even the dumb tourists take notice and desire them as souvenirs.
