I had my eyebrows waxed (not scalped).

Reading: Doris Lessing, The Golden Notebook.

Moving: weights

Watching: sun

Listening: Sister Helen Prejean, Dead Man Walking (tape 1.5)

Garden: Lots

3 April 2001: Wax

I should have taken a Before photograph. They're smaller and better shaped, really.

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Staff meeting this morning. It started with my asking Egg if she'd liked "Memento." She had, despite--and I didn't block my ears before she finished--the lack of closure. She doesn't need everything tied up with a bow, but she needed a little more than that, like at the end of "Portrait of a Lady." Which led me to mention "The Golden Bowl," for which I saw a preview before my second time at "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" last Friday. Jeremy Northam, Kate Beckinsale, Uma Thurman, all of whom are very easy on my eyes, and Nick Nolte, for whom I have new respect after seeing "Affliction" last week. I will want to see "The Golden Bowl," and hence I will read that Henry James novel--which conveniently is on the list--even though I had exonerated myself from him. This led to Joaquim Phoenix, because Haitch told me yesterday he changed his name to Leaf as a child because he felt left out of the River-Liberty-Rainbow spectrum and as an adult reverted to Joaquim. (I cannot see the slightest trace of Gary Buckman from "Parenthood" in Commodus from "Gladiator.") Egg and I had been wondering about the name. I, ignorant as I am, keep y-ing the J, whereas Egg Frenchifies the entire name. Somehow we got to Sean Penn, and I asked who could have guessed that Jeff Spicoli would have turned out into such a fine actor, and from there we arrived at teen movies. TDT and I are in the minority who prefer "Pretty in Pink" to "Sixteen Candles," and as Egg abused us for this, Tex arrived. "Staff meeting," we told him, and began peppering him with questions, more for our own amusement than for his opinion.

Sunday in the check-out line at Wild Oats, the woman ahead of me read a magazine she'd laid on the conveyor belt while the checker dealt with her purchases. Wild Oats doesn't have long conveyor belts, and so I couldn't unpack my basket. She continued to read throughout the clerk's request for some form of payment and inquiry whether she would like paper or plastic. Apparently she disagreed with whatever she was reading about Denver's air quality, and held up everyone (i.e. my sacred self) to gripe at the cashier. Finally she left, and moments later we saw her sunglasses and keys on the checkwriting stand. All three of us called, "Ma'am!" and she didn't turn around, and again, louder, and she didn't turn around, and so I scooped them up and skedaddled after her, and called "ma'am!" to her again as she approached the doors, and finally touched her arm. She spun around and glared at me and saw my other arm, outstretched with her possessions on the palm, grasped her possessions saying "oh," and turned on her heel again. No word of thanks.

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A productive weekend, as befits the first anniversary of the first weekend we saw the house. Gutters cleaned, compost turned, brush pile cut up further, perennial bed cleared.