Both of us had some sort of relapse and I could face neither my bike nor contacts on Friday morning. I have to find my bus route's new, less frequent times. But I drove. I should have remembered to call Peaberry's for a big bag of grounds, but I didn't; instead I went to the post office with my presents.
Also I had to carry something home which wouldn't've been convenient on a bike.
We had three lay-offs last week. So today when I saw UberBoss quietly walking up to my cube, slowly, eyes down, my breath caught. It resumed a moment later when I realized that everyone else in my department was also converging on me. After we all laughed at me for that confusion, pour mon anniversaire, they gave me a card and a wee potted rose.
Much better than being laid off.
Much better than The Sun Also Rises. His writing life in Paris and elsewhere, not so much with the racist slurs, and a little kid called Mr. Bumby. Gertrude Stein, and how he fell out of love with her (hearing her plead with her nameless companion); Ezra Pound, and how disappointed he was that Pound had never read the Russians; Tolstoy (who appears only through his books), whom Hemingway loved even though he wrote so badly (according to Hemingway, who maybe didn't see more than one way to write well); Ford Madox Ford, "as he called himself then" and what a twit he was; skiing in Austria and having the legs for it because lifts didn't exist and you couldn't ski what you couldn't climb.