My cell phone rings. I can hear it in the other room. I know it's only a solicitor because anyone who actually knows me would never call me at this un-Godly hour. I let it go to voice mail but am awake enough to remember I baked rhubarb tarts for breakfast last night. Hummm. What to do?
Someone has to go to work (and it isn't me). The question in my sleep-adled mind is, 'Will he eat all of the tarts?' I decide to risk it.
All alone and dreaming of President Calvin Coolidge's wife, Grace, in her official White House portrait. I have always loved that painting. I am transposing my face onto the painting but have added a slice of cake to her left hand. Nice.
Where are they? Oh yes- there you are. Let's reheat with a dash of maple syrup, shall we?
Bed made. Lipitor taken. Tea sipped. Cat play.
Check email. Turn on Cable News. Who's Putin bitch-slapping today? How did the markets open? What idiot Media firm wants me to write a glowing review but will not supply me with product? Should we have chicken or fish for supper? Should I get a massage today? Each equally important.
fa-u fa-u fa-u
Have received daily morning call from both kid's. Have listened to them go on-and-on-and-on....
"Yes. You don't say? Of course! That sounds right. You know best. Give it some time. You're kidding?............ What?Of course I'm listening."
...all the while scouring dog-eared cookbooks, making a list, and thinking the color RED might be in my day.
lick-turn lick-turn lick-turn
Hungry again. Must eat. Probably shop. Off to Magazine Street.
Well, hello my lovely.
And, I'm in!
And they serve artesian pizza!
And it has red tomatoes on it!
That count's doesn't it?
4600 Magazine Street
I'll find that red dress after lunch and then Skype with Putin.
He likes Red.