Nobody wants to get up. The dogs, they lay here even after I’d made the move to get coffee. They’re watching the neighborhood through our bedroom window. Squirrel show, random traffic.
I was looking through an old issue of The New Yorker from July by my bedside, I’m working my way through my ever accumulating stack, and came upon an article on how we dress now (or then, but still now), during the pandemic, focused on pajamas in particular, the history of (Coco Chanel is involved) and then some current standouts the writer mentions which led me to google a few. I did not save any to cart, I only searched and searched. And I wondered how much longer wearing comfortable clothes will be a thing. If someone would make a dress made from sweatsuit material I would wear it. Like a midi length caftan sweat dress? Now I know that does not sound sexy but with sweat socks and some clogs. Come on. Come and get it.
I gather from a one-eye-opened-scroll through Twitter that our democracy is now in Mike Pence’s hands? Fuck those guys. With apologies to fucking.
It’s my grandmother’s birthday today. (I’m working on my segues.) Or would have been if she were still here. On earth. Thinking about her now, I wish I’d been more cognizant of this while she was alive but, you know, everyone has their own, lone, individual winding road. Not everyone is loved by everyone. Not everyone comes through their life experience having been self-realized and happy or knowing their purpose. Some people just get through and get by. And depending on when you meet them you have a different experience with them. My grandmother, when she was young, or at least in her mothering years, was by all accounts more difficult to appreciate. But by the time I came into the picture, she really hit her zenith because she was a shining light for me. So happy birthday, Grandma Jeanette. And thank you. I wish you were still here to share some love with. But I carry you with me on my ring finger, so I suppose I always do.