My friend Carolyn, of West Palm Beach, Fla. is a saint among women. In the comments below — the post where I whined about my spotty broadband service — she points out that she’s still waiting for plain old electricity, and likely won’t get it until Saturday. “I’m at peace with it,” she remarks. It’s this kind of patience that makes her a friend to young reporters everywhere, and cranky old columnists, too.
But let’s all hold hands and send her some good karma, eh? A girl needs electricity.
My hours may be punishing, but I have to confess I’m growing very fond of my brief, 8-minute commute in these last days of summer, especially in the morning. I open the sunroof, turn on the jazz station and roll through the deserted streets of south Fort Wayne, groovin’ on the Islamic moon (last week — it’s gone now) off in the east, and Venus and Orion and the Big Dipper, all visible through the hole in the top of the car. Last week at the doughnut shop I asked the proprietor if he had to deal with a lot of drunks; he said no, he opened at 4 and they were pretty much all gone by then.
“I’ll have a couple of those crullers there,” I said.
“Huh? Oh, you mean the croissants,” he said.
The amazing world of 4 a.m. doughnuts.
And the first 90 minutes or so at work, that’s my favorite time. It’s quiet, no phones ring, you get a lot of work done, and best of all: You get to listen to the police scanner.
“These people have been watching ‘CSI,’ they want a fingerprint technician,” a weary cop voice told the dispatcher the other morning. I hear about drunks who won’t go home, welfare checks on grandmas who haven’t answered their phone in a while and my personal favorite, domestic disputes — “CP reports yelling and screaming from the downstairs apartment.” “Where do people find the energy to fight at 5:30 in the morning?” I asked no one in particular the other day. Five-thirty has earned the right to be peaceful — the drunks should be abed, the chronically angry not up yet. The only people who should be stirring are copy editors on p.m. newspapers and raccoons. No wonder police get all bitter and become Republicans. I would too.
Lovely weather continues, although the clouds are starting to press down — I’m sure a front is headed this way that will make things more September-like. The tomatoes are taking the opportunity to ripen and all the kids are wearing shorts and T-shirts to school. I bought a chicken Saturday for September’s First Roast Chicken — a tradition in my kitchen — but it’s just sitting there, waiting for the A/C to be turned off and roast chicken weather to arrive. I think it’s going to have to be cleavered into a fryer if a front doesn’t move through soon.
My in-laws eat the same food 52 weeks a year. It mystifies me.
Good bloggage today: Alex took a month off, and comes back with a nice entry about his parents’ 50th anniversary, which they celebrated this past weekend. It’s not so much about the anniverary as about his parents, until it starts being about Shelley Long’s mother. Just go check it out.
(Alex and I decided to go to the AIDS Task Force dinner dance next month, the social event of the season for the GLBT community. I plan to go as a soccer mom. Fully report later.)
And longtime NN.C commenter Lance Mannion is setting up his own blog, which I hope won’t take him away from NN.C’s comments section. He has it up, but there’s nothing much there yet, so I’ll wait until later in the week to give you the URL. I’ve only been telling him to do this for years; I’m glad he finally decided to do so.
Planning a vasectomy? Don’t read this. OK, go ahead, if only to get to such pungent passages as this: Thirteen hours later I was in an NHS bed having my bloody and swollen scrotum stitched.
I love Brits. Such pungent language: I had heard only good things about the snip: a friend was on the footy pitch after five days; my dad – admittedly a Liverpool docker, rather than a keyboard-tapping softie like me – went straight to the pub and used Guinness for pain relief. What is “the footy pitch,” anyway? From Googling, I think it might be “soccer field,” but who knows? It could be “the marital bed.”
OK, then. “About Schmidt” is on digital cable, which means I’m outta here.