Richard's going to be designing the season brochure & posters for Walterdale Playhouse for next year, possibly the show posters as well, so he's jazzed. He's been a little down since painting his last set, wondering what to tackle next. He loves to keep busy and gets a bit mopy whenever life slows down. A few days ago it was all, "I'm old. I can hear myself aging." Now he's zinging around like a little kid saying, "Ha ha, you can't keep up with me." Bugger.
I'm beginning to suspect that Butters is a cat. She rolls over on her back and play-bites, rubs her ears against me, and uses her wooden log as a scratching-post instead of chewing on it like any other rodent. Hmm. Once again, the pet store saw me coming. I always suspected Sammy was a small Tasmanian devil and Cliff was a muskrat. Or a wad of dryer lint.
I'm so enjoying spring this year. Can't wait to hike ice-free trails, can't wait to pitch our teeny-tiny tent and sip tea from plastic cups by the fire (or by the solar radio, if it's dry). Can't wait to see the mountains and the dandelions and the leaves on the elms and the fat obnoxious magpies and the fresh produce! Okay, calm down. This is Canada, after all. May be in for a few blizzards yet.
I really dug The Crying of Lot 49 with all its historical could-be-conspiracies and insane characters, so I'm soon to embark on Gravity's Rainbow. I've been warned it's more bewildering than Twin Peaks and Foucault's Pendulum and Dr. Who all smushed together, but I'm willing to try! [sound of muted trumpets].
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