Monday, January 11, 2016
A Perfectly Normal Boy
I was a lazy, normal boy yesterday. And in truth, it was kind of fun. After a long walk and a bunch of steps at the baseball stadium, it was quiet time. Ili said she had a craving for pasta for brunch, so after a trip to the grocery store, I made a version of Carbonara. I'd never made it before, but I certainly will again. And then. . . I kind of settled in. I turned on the Minnesota/Seattle game just to see how cold it was. It was cold there, and my couch was comfortable. Just before halftime, though, we made a foray into the world looking for products of this kind and that, and when we got home in the middle of the third quarter, the score had not changed. I settled in again and remembered all the time I had spent doing this as a boy. Then the missed field goal--what fun.
It was time to make dinner for mom, so I switched the channel to the second game and began with the preparations. Chicken tortilla soup. Lots of chopping, but Ili did most of it, so I settled back on the couch to watch more football. When my mother came, I opened the wine and invited her to sit with me while the soup finished cooking. Then dinner. I'd never (helped) make chicken tortilla soup, either, but I certainly will again. Yum.
And then, of course. . . football. But wait! I was missing the red carpet at the Golden Globes, so I quickly switched over just as my mother said goodbye. Whiskey and Ricky Gervais and a room full of stars.
And that was it for the day. Normalized, I am. A perfectly normal fellow.
The morning is cold. The afternoon will not be warmer. It is the thing that all southerners yearn for, a chance to wear layered clothing. I used to be that way, too, but now, not so much. I do not like putting on clothes. I want my feet unbound, my arms and legs unfettered. Flip-flops, t-shirts, and shorts. I am confused about dressing today. I think I have an appropriate sweater somewhere. I have mountain clothes, of course, but they are not apropos for the factory gang.
And so. . . the oatmeal cooks and the heater hums and the factory whistle blows. There is no doubt about it--I'm a perfectly normal boy.
Posted by cafe selavy at 8:19 AM