My aunt fixed a scrumptious dinner tonight. My mom brought delectable wine. I did my part by thoroughly enjoying everyone's efforts. I was even late. Aunt said, "So, you wanted to feel like a princess, did you?" And, I kind of did... in an under cover way.
When we discussed my gig, we talked for over five minutes about hands and cuticles. My mom gave me some hand lotion out of her pocket book and my aunt told me to massage my cuticles with the cream and sleep in cotton gloves. Paper and filing are apparently the Anti-Christ of a good manicure. This is how I know I'm Southern. And, they approved of my smart outfit (chocolate brown merino turtleneck, brown tweed skirt that I made, my "riding" boots, and pearl earrings).
As for the job, it's eminently doable. The people are from a different tribe, but they are nice. My tribe/clan has suffered from diaspora-- come back, tribe, come back to me. Me lonely. Vancouver, Kingston, Boston, Seattle, DC, Austin, Iowa, seriously, when you could live in the QC with me? I am here roughing it with bad cuticles.
I really want to join a community garden that's convenient. The one I've found is a thirty minute drive one-way. Yowsers. And, you don't eat the food-- you give it away. Double yowsers. I'd want to at least sample the yumminess. Mark my words, I may not get married or have children, but I will have a goat before I die. Dream big, right?
I really want to have an urban farm. Maybe underneath my tweed, there's an unkempt hippy protesting the injustice of materialism and my misguided life. Give me goats or give Wal-Mart! And, I want a chicken coop, blueberries and tomatoes. That would be the beginning. What a fantastic beginning. I'd invite you over for breakfast, and while we ate organic oatmeal and sipped piping hot coffee, the goat would wake us up with her delightful, goatish antics.
1. fixed for cooked
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