Home in Redwood City (This One’s for Kathleen)

Hubby took the two fat beagles for a walk, while self went to the Main Post Office, which is the only one in Redwood City open on Saturdays. There was a line. Also, a homeless vet in a wheelchair begging by the entrance. Also, all the computers were down so only one clerk at a time was servicing customers. Also, the lady just ahead of self kept thinking of more and more transactions she needed to do. Giving self ample time to commiserate with the other customers, one of whom said she worked for the circus (which has been occupying Redwood City Main Library parking lot for the last couple of days).

The phone coughed to life occasionally, but every time it did, self was in the middle of doing something, and the caller never left a message. Hubby kept insisting that self should either answer the phone or give Dearest Mum a call, to which self’s only response was, What for? When Dearest Mum needs something from self, she always leaves a message. So it’s either Dearest Mum who-doesn’t-need-anything-that-badly, in which case self doesn’t need to call; or it’s a solicitor.

Later, self went to the Farmers Market (since it was such a bee-yoo-ti-ful day!) and bought a 10-lb. bag of oranges (only $6, compared to $8 at the Mountain View Farmers Market); two long skinny eggplants; a lb. of brussels sprouts; a pound and a half of tomatoes; and a half pound of smoked ham.

Then, hubby and self proceeded to the Courthouse Coffeeshop, where self had very fattening cheese blintzes smothered in strawberry jam, along with two eggs (over easy) and two huge sausages.

Tonight, hubby is taking self to our first San Francisco Symphony concert of the new season:  Tonight’s artist is Joshua Bell.  Self is so excited.  She hasn’t thought about anything other than this since last night.  She happened to spill the beans to Dearest Mum during one of their random conversations, also hastily adding that she did attempt to get an extra ticket to the concert, but “they were all sold out” (Self!  You will be damned for all time!  See what will happen if Dearest Mum ever discovers just how trippingly the lies roll off your tongue!), but Dearest Mum said she could easily get a ticket for herself from one of those scalpers who stand around on the sidewalk just before a concert.  To which self protested that scalpers charged exorbitant prices.  To which Dearest Mum declared that she would be willing to pay up to $150 for a ticket.  To which self replied that she and hubby planned to leave early, unconscionably early, something like 4 p.m., because hubby is anal about traffic, and also because we might want to have dinner at some place near Davies, like “Citizen Cake,” to which Dearest Mum replied that she herself had eaten in Citizen Cake, many times (which started self thinking:  And why have you, Dearest Mum, never offered to take Dear Broke Daughter-who-is-only-a-miserable writer to one of these many forays to Citizen Cake?) and knew it well and would love to eat there, and self very miserably said that she would check in with Dearest Mum just before she and hubby left for the city.

Today, however, it looks like self has been rescued by niece G, who called Dearest Mum this morning, which caused Dearest Mum to forget completely about Joshua Bell, since now all she wants to do is rescue niece G from the arms of niece’s African American boyfriend, and has made many plans to bribe niece, which include taking her shopping at Neiman Marcus.

So self and hubby are home, feeling mighty happy about being ignored by the whole world, and the dogs are happy, too, and are rolling around in the grass of the backyard, and it is such an excellent hot day, and not even the thought of facing student-who-keeps-wanting-to-direct-self’s-attention-to-the-fact-that-a-short-story-is-like-a-grain-of-sand, which the rest of the class at xxxx community college happens to think is an “absolutely brilliant” statement (Barf!  Barf!  Barf!  Barf!) on Tuesday can faze self.  Not, at any rate, when self has two huge cheese blintzes residing at the bottom of her tummy.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

First Lines of Stories I Will Never Write (Or, We Shall See)

Her mother said forget it, forget it, forget it.

The first time I met my mother-in-law, a month before the wedding, I was struck by her mannish ways.

Just a minute, the reporter said.

She stepped in the front door of her house.

Deep breath.

Every day my husband drives his 1995 Corolla to his job in San Jose.

You were there so long, hija.

In the middle of the night, I hear them arguing again.

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