Dead Dog Drinking

I don’t care if it’s raining again or if this is the coldest summer since 1881, I’m reading and answering letters from kind strangers and getting ready to watch four whole episodes of The Wire back to back while ironing. (I don’t mind the ironing: as Jesus said, the ironing you will have with you always.)  The breeze has freshened with the incoming rain and those big old wind chimes that cost my family 200 whole bucks to get me for Christmas are mooing away in their deep voices and I have so far had two breakfasts, two lunches, one supper and eight cups of coffee. Today I’ve been an engine of busy-ness but yesterday I lay like a dead dog on the deck and did not go to the dump, nor foodshopped nor even shaved my legs but instead wore my bathing suit all day and sat looking out at the lake; then calculated the calories for the stern taskmasters at Weight Watchers and opened some nice cheap Meridian which, you ask me, just never disappoints.