Woke up feeling a bit grouchy, though I don't know why. I slept well, nothing's really wrong, but . . . grouchy. So I worked on that, and successfully I think, and after my swim I felt better. In preparation for the start of the remodel on Monday, we went to Lowes to check out light fixtures, a ceiling fan, doors, and cabinets. Oh my god, so much money! Thank goodness some of these things can be installed later, after our finances have had time to recover.
We're supposed to get together with the contractor on Sunday to go over the actual contract and timeline he has drawn up. I've googled sample contracts and gotchas, in the hope we won't sound too innocent. Well, what the hell.
Then I put Mother's ring into her safety deposit box. Without telling her. After I had it worked on the by jeweler, I just kept it at home and, to my surprise, she never mentioned it. She is wearing her other ring, the one she calls her birthstone and can no longer remember where it came from, so I think that helps. And of course if she asks, I'll tell her where it is. I can't bear to lie to Mother. But for now, it's safely in the bank and I hope it can live there for many years.
I had just gotten home when I got a call from an elderly friend: her partner was being released from the hospital and could I give them a ride home? Of course I could, but I didn't know she had been hospitalized! Again, by the way. Something about fluid in the pericardium that had to be drained. She's been in the hospital at least twice in the last couple of months. So I jumped back in the car and fetched them home. I need to check up on them more often, obviously.
Now I'm in bed and pooped. I'm re-listening to Kim Stanley Robinson's New York 2140
, his most recent, and as I almost always do, I love it. If you love Stan's work you'll love this, but if not, well, it's not the best book to start with. Now that I've finished the book I'm reading the reviews; the best and most thoughtful that I've found so far is Utopia in the Time of Trump
, by Gerry Canavan in the LA Review of Books. From the review: I've taken the highly unusual and possibly ill-advised step of quoting from very late in the book here because of something that I feel must be said: written before Trump's election and released just after his inauguration, New York 2140 stands as the first major science fictional artifact of the Trump era, anticipating even in its articulation of the conditions of victory the fragility of progress and the likelihood of reversal.
That really resonated for me. So: good book.
Hey, did you see Paul Ryan's Freudian slip
about Trumpcare? Popped up on my Tumblr feed. That ratfaced asshole. (I have since read that that's actually a "Kinsley gaffe," so new term for me.)
You all know I'm a Californian through and through: born in LA, though I lived most of my life in northern California. Now that I live in Arizona, I feel more Californian than ever -- even Webster has commented how Californian he feels here, and he's from Maryland! Anyway, here's an essay I enjoyed from, of all places, the Washington Post: This is California in the Era of Trump
: California is not weird, because it is too many things to be just one thing. California has the country's best cabernet and maybe its worst public schools. It is the America of the near future, which means it has always been a bit dystopian — in a way that taking a luxury Facebook shuttle through the Tenderloin to Palo Alto is a bit dystopian.
But it's home, you know?