So around six a.m. I commenced to making waffles, and around seven we moseyed on down to the Stuporstore. Our departure was delayed by an accumulation on the car of glutinous snow. The snow adhered to a depth of two inches (5 cm) all over the roof surface and covered the bottom half of the front windscreen. Trying to sweep it off was like trying to move concrete. Pounding it with your fist was pointless – this was a job for tools. I went back into the house and procured one sturdy kitchen spoon and two plastic spatulas to chip the dense and crispy ice off the windscreen. Bash, Bash. Very satisfying. I took some of the rime off with a credit card. The car had been warming up for a number of minutes while Jeff adjusted the level of the snow so he could actually get out of the parking space. After enough shoveling for Jeff to have gotten quite warm, we were ready to go. Jeff rolled down his window about halfway, and about two seconds after he started heaving the car out of that abbreviated snowbank, his side of the car filled with footlong chunks of dense and abrasive snow, which had all merrily slid off the now-warm roof – and then continued to slide in, although not in quite so much quantity. It was like being on a movie set; the sun shone through the ice while it was happening. I began to suspect Jeff of setting it up for my entertainment, but on the other hand I didn’t think it wise to laugh. After a brief and agonizing pause (all streets are one way now, since they are only one lane, so you’re constantly butting heads with people trying to go the other way, and Jesus God! Mary, St. Patrick and St. Jude! what IS IT with Vancouver drivers and their signally failing to signal habit? Must I even call them drivers, before the bones of all the saints?) Jeff had hucked as much of the snow overboard as possible and again we were on our way.
Earlier that day, in a rare show of weakness, I admitted to my brother that I had been running away with his plastic containers and eating them. He owned that this was indeed a possible explanation for their continuing disappearances. I, blushing furiously, stated that I thought eating them would somehow be less shameful than losing them, which was, indeed, what I had been doing with them. He had had his suspicions. The leftovers departed the house, and neither they nor their containers ever returned. The world’s oldest, and saddest, story, don’t you think?
Eddie sleeps on my bed a good portion of every day.
Somewhere in there we watched Keira Knightley in Domino. It’s an interesting movie that bites off much more than it can chew, but gets by on lightly done comic book charm. It is a movie, in my opinion, of forgivable faults. When did Christopher Walken get the “I must appear in every Hollywood movie in a substantial bit part?” contract? Damn!
I know I am a traitor to my kindred, but I prefer Keira Knightley as Lizzie Bennett to any others I have seen. As Domino she’s all haircut and bravado, not her best role.
I have an appointment with some pork chops. I intend to ingest broccoli, with a smidge of dressing. I see a salad, embellished with those new grape tomatoes that taste so good. But all these things will not be unless I arise and make them to happen, and I should chop almonds for biscotti. That is if anybody wants some.