Last Friday I gave you the Beatles’ “I’m Looking Through You” because it had been buzzing around my head all week.
A friend of mine, the Viking Maiden, said that “Blackbird” had been doing the same for
her, and I’ve been singing it ever since. A totally different vibe, and a
reminder of how extraordinarily talented they were individually and
collectively.
So, Fairfax County Public Library has a thing going now. When I checked out the latest Donna Leon (for which I waited months), the screen informed me of this:
But now that I am thinking about it, imagine—what a bargain it is to have a tax-supported institution that gives me free (except—unlike certain elected officials—I do pay taxes) access to an entire world of knowledge, entertainment and some degree of crap.
(The downside is that I really wish they'd zero out what I've checked out once it's returned. This running total means they're keeping a record of what I read, and I'm sure I checked off the box on my library card application that said "don't do that". I may need to have a word with them.)
What would your annual savings look like?
I’ve been steering clear of the Senate Judiciary Committee’s confirmation hearing of the woman the Right Wing Nut Jobs are trying to cram through the process, primarily because my tolerance level for both hypocrisy and fools has dropped through the ground lately. But I find one thing interesting from the bits and bobs I’ve picked up over the past few days.
Amy Coney Barrett may be a RWNJ’s wet dream—primed to strike down Roe v Wade, Obamacare and Obergefell in an orgy of evangelical righteousness. Watching her call something enshrined in the USC “hypothetical” and therefore declaring her inability to comment upon it.
But she clearly understands the concept of perjury, and—unlike Brett Kavanagh—she is reluctant to commit it. She’d rather encase herself in a bubble of babble and be thought unbelievably stupid and ignorant than lie under oath.
She’s still a crime against democracy, but it’s interesting that
she seems to have some personal ethical standards.
I tend to think of azaleas as pretty pedestrian. I mean, they’re nice things to flesh out your landscape plan, but it’s not like you can pick them and bring the flowers inside for a dining table centerpiece. You can only enjoy them in place.
(Although, if you’ve ever been to Norfolk or Virginia Beach in the spring, there is something enchanting about the absolute clouds of azaleas in the entire spectrum of whites through pinks to intense reds.)
However, the other day I noticed one of the HOA-planted (and badly pruned) shrubs in my front yard, just soaking up the rain, so I had to go out and take some shots. Not clouds, but still beautiful.
Friday evening I was eating dinner and I heard a knock at the door. I ignored it because it was 2045 and I was eating dinner. (Pro tip: if I’m not expecting anyone, when someone knocks on my door I ignore it. Just because someone’s there doesn’t mean I have to answer it. Same with phone calls.)
But Saturday morning I found a package on the walk, and I was a little confused. I’d already received the 15lbs of bird seed I’d ordered, and I wasn’t expecting anything else. But when I opened it, here’s what I found:
Well—quite the nice acknowledgement from our EVP for launching a brand new platform, a project that has chewed up countless hours over the past six months, in addition to keeping the old platform on life support.
But this other thing arrived on Friday as well:
Not only am I locked and loaded to vote before 3 November, I think this should satisfy the Commonwealth DMV’s requirement for “proof of address” so I can get my bloody driver’s license.
So treble gratitude today: civic responsibility and privilege
ready and some bubbly to wash it down with.
