Kinwork:
Lisa:
Stuff I keep putting off
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Exercise
Which is how I prefer to be. I raced (relatively speaking) home, swapped work stuff for swim stuff, pedaled slowly to the pool, swam 1.7K, came home to dinner on the patio, picked a quart of cherries and a handful of raspberries, fed me and RDC the latter and pitted and froze the former, folded and put away laundry that I took from the dryer only this morning, and here I am.
At the pool swam a man in my lane, the slower of the two medium lanes. He more thrashed than swam and he could not keep to the right. Also he was too slow for the medium lanes. A length and a half after I noticed him, he ran into me several yards (meters, whatever) from the shallow end. He stood up. I faced oncoming swimmers and told him, quite kindly I thought, that he needed to wear goggles so that he could see to keep to the right. Although he did not physically speak like a stupid person, his content was stupid: he didn't know the word for goggles (he sounded like a native Usan though), he hadn't noticed you should keep to the right, his eyes hurt but he hadn't connected that to his lack of goggles. I gestured for him to move on, out of other swimmers' way; he either didn't see or didn't comprehend. I gave up and walked to the end and that he followed. He said he wasn't used to the pool's being roped off and I told him about general swim and lap swim. I referred him to Gart Bros. for goggles and pushed off, pleased with how frustrated I hadn't been at his numskullery.
Swimming, I tried to figure out his deal. He could have been just not as bright as average, on the left side of the bell curve, without being left enough to be mentally disabled. Had he just had a shock? A concussion? Could anyone be that blasé?
Some time later when I took a water break, I heard him in the next lane over saying to another swimmer, "I was too slow for that lane and they kicked me out." I had said nothing about his speed at all. And if he thought he was too slow for the slower medium lane, why would he move into the faster medium lane instead of into the slow ones? And I didn't ask him to leave the lane.
I somewhat wanted to say, at least to the other swimmer, that I didn't kick him out, that he could swim neither straight enough for lap nor fast enough for four of the six lanes. I didn't, because she probably had noticed and I have that much self-respect. I don't have so much that I could just gloss over it, thus this.
Two 3.8-mile city rides and a 1.7K swim (and another twoish miles to the pool and back).
When we first moved here, everything was migratory. We had about as much crap as any two average English grad students and the Best Value U-Haul and I packed extremely efficiently, thus with room for nonperishable foods. In our first months in Denver, we finished off a lot of migratory pasta. I don't know how we came to have a badger in the oven (I think it might have chewed through the wires one time when we were going to feed ABW and KRW baked chicken; instead we fed them delivered pizza), but it came along too.
And so it's gone, over these past eight years, finding migratory items, with decreasing frequency. I guess we don't have a lot of use for isoprophyl alcohol, because last weekend when I took it from the cupboard I recognized the old-style Stop & Shop price sticker on the top. That it was Stop & Shop brand to begin with probably clued me into its being migratory. I commented to RDC that this was probably the last of the migratory stuff.
Saturday I polished a silver barrette I seldom wore with my hair really long: too much hair to make a ponytail with the barrette and my occasional attempts to draw the front hair back into a barrette and leave the rest loose seldom lasted. I wore it to the baby shower, since it was cool enough to wear my hair down. This morning as I brushed my teeth I noticed the little jar still on the sink instead of put away down in the laundry room, with Stop & Shop sticker on its lid.
That's a lifetime supply of silver polish, unless I acquire actually silver silverware. Or maybe it would work on the floor lamp, whose hood is getting fingerprinted. Yes, knowing that I'll always have something migratory in the house is comforting to me.
Blake is so happy that his daddy is home. Unfortunately RDC's day began with a 7:30 conference call, remotely accessing others' computers, meaning he was stuck at his desk. He preemptively covered Blake in the bathroom, because besides Blake protesting whenever he doesn't his own way, he also is compelled to respond and compete with the whiny baby mapgies infesting the neighborhood. RDC called me when he was free again. Instead of napping or moping or breaking his heart or whatever he usually does when covered up, Blake sang and chattered, showing what a sweet and wonderful buddy he is. He kept asking, "You're a good boy buddy?"
As soon as I joined them in the living room tonight, Blake wanted me. "Oho," said RDC. "He's done with me." But between work and swim and cherries, Blake hadn't seen me all day either. He is now making his beloved nails-on-a-chalkboard sound, grooming his beak as he gets sleepy on my shoulder. The very picture of a contented cockatiel.