So this is middle age

As much as I want to overcome my homebody tendencies, sometimes the lure of domestic bliss is just too strong. I did manage to get myself out to accompany monshu on his Andersonville errands Saturday morning, but only because I didn't trust him to find more morning tea for me without help. (I've been drinking the same brand every day for as long as we've lived together, I wrote down the brand name and told him the colour of the box, and he still came back empty-handed last week. That, my friends, is how you perform creative incompetence.) Probably best that I don't make a habit of this, since I also brought back three containers of cookies and some quince-linden tea that I may never drink more than one pot of.

Alanis-Morrisette-ironically, within minutes I ran into several people I knew: first spookyfruit on his way to tai chi. He was decked out in full motorcycle leathers and helmet, so I had no idea which of my Rogers Park bear friends he was until he identified himself. Then leaving Pars we completely unexpectedly ran into Umm ʻAṭā'ullāh and her young son while another bear friend cycled past. I guess the street was in the throes of some kind of sidewalk sale, since there was far more than the usual amount of merchandise piled up on the curb and people were out in force.

Vincent was an island of calm, however. I hadn't expected it to be open, but I spotted people sitting out front and some of the gallantly moved aside to free up one of the few shaded tables. I was all set to order the smoked trout hash until I found out it had capers, but a pork belly sandwich was a fine alternative. The jury is still out, however, on the sparkling wine and ice tea "manmosa" I washed it down with. Cute and skilled (straight) bear waiter, but by the end of meal I really wanted to sneak up from behind and forcibly hike up his saggy jeans.

After we got home, I had notions of trying out my new pair of sandals from the sale at Alamo with a visit to the street festival going on further north on Clark. But for once, we could sit outside on the deck on a weekend without being thrown in the middle of a reality tv show. I told myself that after dinner I'd at least go out for a paleta, but in the end I just sat and read a history of Salonika[*] instead.

It was the same the next day, except that I put in an hour or so of gardening work after we got clearance to trim the smoketree. This summer has been good to it and the GWO and I were tired of getting smacked in the face by wet branches after every thunderstorm. I was minimal in my efforts, taking out just what I needed to to clear the path without making it look unbalanced. And once I had the clippers, there was no holding me back from the gargantuan fennel which had taken over our garden plot or the monster clematis which now stretches from one end of the fence to the other--and up onto the roof of the neighbour's garage.

I also discarded the withered remnants of begonia from one of the hanging pots and replaced them with fresh caladiums from Gethsemane. We were worried they'd be too small to match the thriving specimens in the other pot, but I guess they've been growing along with them out on the trestle tables. If anything, they're the ones that are too big. I meant to regard them for a moment with the sun shining through their leaves as I left the house this morning, but I had a completely unanticipated attack of that devil reflux around one a.m. and stumbled out in a haze.


[*] The city, alas, not the eponymous Hyde Park diner.