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Seagull of Zenith
Jul. 15th, 2019 10:14 pmWe cooked the peas and the squash and ate them for a late dinner after the Sparrowhawk came home from the gym. The squash was tasty, but the peas were too starchy. I must have let them get too mature? I don't really know. Sigh. The Sparrowhawk says gardening is an experiment. It was very much too hot today. I went for a walk anyway. There was a breeze, and it was pleasant, but it couldn't eliminate the feeling that the air was a damp rag draped across one's face. There were no frogs by the pond. I think they had gone deeper into the water where it was cool. But deeper into the woods, by the footbridge, I scared a few off the shady bank.
I succeeded in getting an appointment, on Friday, with a bank official who can put a medallion stamp on the document my brother says he needs to be able to disburse funds from my mother's account. The official did not seem to know what I was talking about, and had to call the broker Mr. Science dealt with in another city to find out if it was okay for her to do this. Everything is very complicated. I texted Queenie to see how she was doing, and ended up having a phone call with her. We're not over it. We're not over a lot of things. And yet, we both feel we need to have a plan and move on into the future. It's a bit of a quandary. Meanwhile, the Sparrowhawk and I are going to the Lake for a couple of days--at last! we've been wanting to for months!--and I'm not packed. I'm looking at all my pants and thinking they are too hot, and the ones that are the most comfortable have holes in them. Naturally. The thought of going away for a couple of days makes me extremely anxious, even though it is the most low-key thing imaginable. Anxiety begins when it starts to get dark. I hate the idea of the 7 or 8 hour drive to Illinois in a couple of weeks. (The Sparrowhawk originally said he thought it was 6 hours, and I was like "In what universe?" Now he says he isn't sure why he thought that! I only wish he'd been right.)
I feel I am not really getting anything done. I'm supposed to be writing notes to relevant people from my parents' lives to let them know my mother is dead. Although I bought some decorous stationery for that very purpose, I'm not doing it. Now the Duchess would like me to assist her in writing thank-you notes to all the old ladies who attended my mother's memorial service. I frankly think they should be thanking US for creating such an amusing (and edifying!) entertainment for their sometimes dull days. Of course, Mr. Science was pretty much inaudible to those in the back rows. I knew I should have made him tap dance. When I die, it better not be in a Methodist home like my mother, because there will for sure be whisky.
I succeeded in getting an appointment, on Friday, with a bank official who can put a medallion stamp on the document my brother says he needs to be able to disburse funds from my mother's account. The official did not seem to know what I was talking about, and had to call the broker Mr. Science dealt with in another city to find out if it was okay for her to do this. Everything is very complicated. I texted Queenie to see how she was doing, and ended up having a phone call with her. We're not over it. We're not over a lot of things. And yet, we both feel we need to have a plan and move on into the future. It's a bit of a quandary. Meanwhile, the Sparrowhawk and I are going to the Lake for a couple of days--at last! we've been wanting to for months!--and I'm not packed. I'm looking at all my pants and thinking they are too hot, and the ones that are the most comfortable have holes in them. Naturally. The thought of going away for a couple of days makes me extremely anxious, even though it is the most low-key thing imaginable. Anxiety begins when it starts to get dark. I hate the idea of the 7 or 8 hour drive to Illinois in a couple of weeks. (The Sparrowhawk originally said he thought it was 6 hours, and I was like "In what universe?" Now he says he isn't sure why he thought that! I only wish he'd been right.)
I feel I am not really getting anything done. I'm supposed to be writing notes to relevant people from my parents' lives to let them know my mother is dead. Although I bought some decorous stationery for that very purpose, I'm not doing it. Now the Duchess would like me to assist her in writing thank-you notes to all the old ladies who attended my mother's memorial service. I frankly think they should be thanking US for creating such an amusing (and edifying!) entertainment for their sometimes dull days. Of course, Mr. Science was pretty much inaudible to those in the back rows. I knew I should have made him tap dance. When I die, it better not be in a Methodist home like my mother, because there will for sure be whisky.
