LFG is still asleep. I’m almost giddy amidst the phenomenon of having her here with me for three nights in this, my incrementally devolving Casa Minimus Man Cave. She was exhausted last night after two dance classes yesterday and her second week of seventh grade homework. I fed her dinner…comfort food…like the old days when she was five or six years old…baked chicken and French style green beans. She was postprandially comatose on the sofa within minutes of finishing her dinner.
I’ll gladly engage in my finance and transportation duties today as I shuttle LFG to back to back dance classes and a couple of other appointments as well. Here’s what I mentioned in an email to a friend earlier this morning… “L___is still asleep. I gave her a small dose of adult NyQuil last night before bed. She’s got an adult sounding rattle in her chest. It’s been so long since I’ve had her here, in Old Town, for three consecutive days…I’m reveling in it…even though I’m essentially doing the transport to dance classes thing for the most part. I’m just a completely different and frankly, better person when I’m with my child. I think you know what I’m saying. Only parents can understand that phenomenon.” I don’t give marital or child rearing advice as a general rule. But I’ve come to the following so take it for what it’s worth—Either have zero kids or more than one.
I’m still smarting from having to miss the F.I.T. Ivy Style opening reception last night. I gladly accepted the invitation to join all of the Trad-Prep-Ivy devotees when the reception was originally scheduled for last Tuesday night. I’d already booked my train to Gotham when I got an email informing everyone that at the last minute they were moving it to last night. I don’t subordinate my LFG opportunities to anything, including what I’m sure woulda been a fun get together at F.I.T. It pained me to do so but a few years ago, I had to decline the opportunity to spend an evening with Tom Wolfe and my friend Alan Flusser at the Rhode Island School of Design’s evening gala honoring the late, great Richard Merkin. I don’t subordinate my LFG opportunities to anything.
Words. Read this…“Blackberry jam is my Proust's madeleine - one lick of the knife and I am eight years old again, devouring slightly burnt toast with a slab of cold butter and a seed-flecked puddle of complete heaven.” Go over to MonAvis, Mes Amis and read more of it. I mean shit…if I could write anything without profanity and sans photos and actually have people read it, then I’d call myself a writer. Shut up.
Words…Randomanalia and Butcept long ago became two of my faves here in blogland…to the point that when I announced my blogging cessation, Yankee Whiskey Papa and Giuseppe declared that they wanted the rights to them. But for some reason, they eschewed any interest in Shut up. Now that I think of it, I believe that I stole Randomanalia from Lime Green Girl. But this morning my keyboard flicks contrived one that I think’s gonna be a keeper for me. Irreleventia. Kinda sums it all up for me.
Onward. Awaiting a Shell Cordovan experience on Monday that’s gonna be big. One way or the other. There will be no middle ground on this one. I’ll either be preening or hiding.