Various Odes to Summer

Ode #1:
Oh, weather that is hitting 100 degrees (all over the San Francisco Bay Area) and adding to the misery of the $4/a gallon gasoline: How self wishes you had come just a week later, for yesterday self spent hours digging planting holes for the following: passiflora and two five-gallon loropetalum. And now the plants’ leaves have shriveled as if they’d just been passed through an oven.

Ode #2:
Oh, Tony Shalhoub: How self loves to watch you as Adrian Monk, especially on a hot day like today when self is supine on couch because it is too hot to be anywhere else (though self did make an attempt to locate a book called Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs at the Redwood City Main Library, a few hours ago)

Ode #3:
Oh, T. C. Boyle (and self learned just yesterday that the “T” stood for “Tom”, which was a name self thinks is altogether too pedestrian for you), you and your black suit and your large stone pendant and your pouff-y hair and your piercing (but also somewhat vacant) gaze: How self’s heart beat in her chest when she accosted you after your reading at xxxx community college, while her two English 1B students could do nothing but stammer out their admiration, and you revealed that you wrote the story about Pakistan although you know very little about Pakistan and in fact have never been there, which only tripled self’s admiration

Ode # 4:
Oh Kokomo Colada yogurt smoothie from Yumi Yogurt on El Camino Real: How self adores your lambent blend of banana, pineapple, and coconut — the perfect antidote to this scorching weather. How self dreamed about you for hours and finally relented and stood at the end of a line that was 10-deep (the first eight like escapees from some techno-geek convention, Asian-Am males with short short hair and polo shirts and khaki pants. The only thing missing were the pens in the shirt pockets, dear blog readers)

Ode # 5:
Oh son who bothered self exceedingly yesterday with your last-minute decision to enroll in a college-level course in Spain that is delivered in Spanish (knowing very well your last Spanish was in eighth grade, with Mrs. Teresa C, who wasn’t a teacher, just a member of the Mother’s Club, and not even, herself, Spanish), and who had to get thrown out of the program by irate Mr. Martinez, who argued with self and then with hubby before finally stamping “Denied” on your application: How self wishes you would go somewhere else, Tel Aviv or Hong Kong, where one of self’s Dear Bros has that fab three-bedroom apartment and you wouldn’t have to pay a thing, no not a thing, only for your airfare, and wouldn’t that be preferable to spending four hours M-F sweltering in a classroom in the University of Valladolid?

Ode # 6:
Oh, Orhan Pamuk, who writes altogether too much of snow in the book of the same name (and not enough about the virgin suicides, pace Jeffrey Eugenides): How self wishes the blizzard would be over already, so self could discover who killed Ka.

Ode # 7:
Oh, man who loves Thom McGuane who excoriated self for her “feminist” reading of the great man’s work on How humbled self is by the knowledge that no one will ever defend self’s work the way you have McGuane’s.

Ode # 8:
Oh, students, you who chat about all and sundry after class, who offer to walk self to her car so that she will not be harassed by J & J: How self adores you, how self truly adores all of you.

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