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it's 20-fucking-18
Sunday, February 11 2018
Gretchen took Neville with her to the bookstore this morning with the understanding that I would pick him up late in the afternoon so she could go out to dinner and movie with one of her more obscure friends.
[REDACTED]
When I finally set out with Ramona on the errand that would eventually take me to Woodstock to pick up Neville, I first drove out the to the Hudson Valley Mall, mostly to get "add-a-shelf" plastic shelves at Target. But that place is full of opportunities for impulse buys, so I also got a $10 set of Black & Decker rotary-tool bits, some double-sided tape, another set of alphabetic letter magnets (it takes more than one alphabet to spell some words), and some toasted sesame oil (because Gretchen had said she needed it a few days ago). I did not buy tomato paste, since Target does not carry Contadina, Gretchen's favorite brand. For that, I had to go down the hill to Hannaford, where I also got things like antacid, diphenhydramine, and yet another pizza crust (so I can make another pizza like I made for myself last night). From there, I drove out towards Woodstock, stopping at the Tibetan Center thrift store. It wasn't a good day to shop there, because the woman who overprices unpriced things was running the place. Still, I bought a makeup station (only for its parabolic mirror), a nice steel-mesh utensil rack, and a cable pivot attachment.
Neville was delighted to see me at the bookstore, where overnight a leak had developed in the roof, ruining a number of poetry collections. It's been above freezing and raining fairly steadily, and there had been no place for all that water to quickly drain from the flat roof overhead.
For various reasons, I had difficulty motivating myself to do much after I got home. I spent some time with the dogs in the recuperation fort installing new apps on my smartphone. Because it's 20-fucking-18.
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