Well, I imagine at this point that Jen and family are in transit. Open questions of marriage, the confines and riches of the country life, the allure of some new career or pursuit all folded neatly for the briefest of travel time and stowed in an overhead bin. Sometimes this blog is like a conversation with Jen (and you the secret other reader who shows up only in the counter to the left despite the readily available comments section) – or rather it’s a correspondence. Letter writing is often called a lost art. I think of Jeffersonian letters home from Paris, of Civil War letters of love and loss read as voiceovers in the docudramas of Bill Moyers, the post modern post cards of Griffin and Sabine (Cole, was it a broken heart that inspired this post Oxford fantasy?). Jen’s the only one who I know reads this everyday, gets upset with me if I don’t blog, taught me the basics of how to set one up in the first place. Angela teased me today about calling her my sugar mama; I may make more than you, but as my financial advisor Deby aptly points out – with my debt load I am living way bellow the poverty line, so your help is much appreciated – fully half my monthly income goes to debt payments (and less than half of that hits principle), the mortgage on my whit from ten plus years as a student, student teacher and teacher.
I made a Venison roast last night from a deer my father shot on our property in Wisconsin. I slow roasted it at 200 degrees with carrots, potatoes & onions. Fabulous. Liz and Mary came over. Angela was too tired and not a huge fan of venison. Mary was entertained to be eating the deer that my father was so excited about shooting on the last day in the last hour of the season. She’d been here for the enthusiastic call last fall, but did not expect her play by play to result in participation through consumption. Perhaps my best venison roast to date. The invites are out for a Saint Patrick’s party tomorrow. Perhaps the end result will be the gaining of a roommate as the end result of St. Valentine was a departure. Thad is still in the running, but Nada is out, cheaper to live with dad. Jo perhaps as well, I would love to live with Jo. I talked with my neighbor Brandy for some time tonight, I think I’ve misjudged her & I’ve invited her over tomorrow for the party, I hope she comes, she seems lonely. (What? You’re having another party? It seems like all you do is have parties. How long have you been doing this? Since I had an address to call my own. The Bill Mahr argument is the best one. Do you want 100 Pat Boone years or 75 Sammy Davis ones? No contest, Sammy loves ya baby.