Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Ah, the veil grows thin! Can't you feel it? Thinking of lost loved ones? They're thinking of you too. They're making their reservations for dinner with you in two weeks. I'll bet you already have them penciled in on your calendar. Am I right?
Every now and then, we at "The Gods Are Bored" do a little navel-gazing here. It's a diary that everyone can read! (I edit out the dirty parts.) Today is one of those days, so if you're looking for wisdom ... hey, wait. There's never any wisdom here! You might as well stay.
Today was one of those breezy and crisp autumn Saturdays when you just want to kiss the sky, like Hendricks without the haze. And let me tell you, I was feeling the love!
At breakfast time, Spare, Mr. J and I went to the farmer's market in the neighboring borough of Not Snobville. The sun was out, but it was breezy and cold. Spare kept asking for hugs! Do I care if it was because she was cold? A hug is a hug.
No sooner did we get there than we saw the Monkey Man with his monkey! It was the first time I had seen him to talk to him in a long time -- not since well before his Fringe Festival show. He thanked me for the part I played in getting him publicity in the high and mighty Philadelphia Inquirer. Spare and I told him how much we enjoyed the show. Then he talked a little Phillies baseball with Mr. J. We all went off to shop together. (Even the monkey, who was wearing little bells on his paws.)
Somehow Spare and I found ourselves standing in front of a table brimming with a half dozen varieties of apple. I couldn't pry her arms from around my waist (not that I was trying). Talk about the veil: I could feel my great-grandfather standing there with us, scrutinizing the apples. Apples were his cash crop. So I told Spare that, and I told her how my grandfather would ride the farm wagon into Cumberland with the autumn apples, and once the apples were all sold, the family would have money to buy shoes and sugar and coffee and fabric. Spare is very interested in these stories. I'm glad.
As for my great-grandfather, I think he was confounded by the variety of apples, their worm-free perfection -- and the El, rumbling right over our heads.
Once we had bought cider and apples and broccoli, it was time for me to go to Recovery, Inc. Here is my incredible lucky autumn Saturday ... Heir was home, and when she's home, she goes to Recovery with me! (I'll talk more about Recovery some other time. Basically it's a free behavior mod program for nervous people.) Heir and I went to Recovery, and then ... and then ...
Heir, Spare, and I bought some plastic jack-o-lanterns and went to Woodstock Trading Company to help them decorate their front lawn for Halloween! If you click on my sidebar and go to their blog, you'll read all about it.
I love going to Woodstock. It's been a haven ever since I first walked into the door. All of my faeries followed me home from there. Nowadays it's more fun than ever, since I fostered a kitten for them and he now lives in the store. Whenever I go there, he gets all batty over me. Pinky swear that cat knows I saved his life when he was just a gerbil-sized sick kitten.
Woodstock looks awesome. Who would ever have thought of using a Maypole as the center pole for a gigantic spider web? There are some creative people down there, readers. We tied our jack-o-lanterns in the trees, petted the pussy cat, admired the huge spider that we didn't make, and then bid our farewells.
When we got home from Woodstock, I took some sun on the back porch with my cat, Alpha, on my lap. Then I baked a pie and made a pot of stew in the kitchen. Decibel the parrot kept me company, but he got a little nervous when I started humming "Sing a Song of Sixpence."
Oh yes, and we decorated the house for Samhain. My favorite holy day, and always has been.
Just now Heir, Spare, and I are back from the debut performance of a new local band that contains some friends of the Spare. The band is named Big Folkin Deal. It was such a gorgeous autumn evening that even Snobville seemed friendly, at least for an hour or so. (I will reserve judgment on Big Folkin Deal for now.)
Now it's evening. There's a cheery fire and hot stew. Decibel is clucking contentedly in his cage, Alpha is snug on my lap, and my two wonderful daughters, Heir and Spare, are upstairs looking at "College Humor" videos. The Monkey Man is studying Chinese at his rowhouse in Camden, and Monstro the cat is sleeping in his cat bed at Woodstock.
Great-granddad is out in the kitchen, staring at the apples. I won't burst his ghost bubble by telling him that they look better than they taste.