Today should have been cause for celebration. March 14 is Pi Day. Get it? 3.14? If I’d really been on the ball I would have cracked open the champagne at 1:59, but I don’t actually have any champagne, and keeping track of time today has been a chore. The time change is the reason I can’t really bring myself to celebrate: in addition to my losing precious sleep, I had to suffer an extra hour of daylight.
Other people like sunshine. I am pleased for them. I happen to prefer nighttime or, for variety, a nice gloomy twilight that sticks around just long enough to say hi before ceding back to nighttime.
Tomorrow is another under-celebrated holiday, the Ides of March. It’s a bummer if it’s your fate to be assassinated that day, but for the rest of us it’s a good excuse to re-read Julius Ceasar. (“Ceasar? I don’t even know her!”)
Hmm. Ceasar and c-zar. Betcha there’s a link there.
Mom came out for a few days this last week, leaving poor Dad at home to mind the cats. The day after she left he developed a kidney stone, which just goes to show that you shouldn’t leave Dad unattended.
I myself developed an ailment, also as a result of Mom’s actions, though all things considered I think I got the better end of the deal: Dad had a kidney stone, which I’ve heard is very painful, whereas I merely developed a blister, which is only mildly irritating. The reason I developed a blister is because Mom has lately become an exercise freak, and so she insisted on walking everywhere. I like to take a nap following a seven-hour drive; Mom likes to walk for seven miles, towing her innocent daughter with her. As a passing aside, I might mention that it rained a lot these past few days. Oh well, it wasn’t unexpected: any time two or more Zellers gather for a vacation, it will rain. It’s one of those immutable laws of nature, like how you’ll definitely spill spaghetti sauce on yourself if you’re wearing white.
Because Mom has a pedometer, we were able to determine the exact distance between my apartment and the downtown library, 2.1 miles. Occasionally I walk this 4.2-mile round trip to and from work, if the weather isn’t too bad and if I can drag myself out of bed in time and if it’s not going to be dark for the journey home. (I prefer the dark, yes, but not for the purpose of walking alone in a city with sporadic lighting and intermittent sidewalks. I’m rather lax about personal safety, but that’s just begging for trouble.)
My route to work has suffered a slight modification this year, because during the past winter somebody decided to put a house smack dab in the middle of my path, complete with a big imposing fence. I’ve adjusted to this insult by sneaking through the backyard of a neighboring house. I figure if it bothers the owner I can claim to be a tourist, though it seems doubtful that I’d be able to use that excuse more than once. If necessary I will come up with a disguise. (“Pardon me for trespassing on your property, but I am a tourist!… No, no, not the same tourist from yesterday, don’t you see this convincing fake mustache?”)
…Because I’ve been starting at the screen now for fifteen minutes, I think we can reliably assume that I’ve run out of things to say. Well—that’s not true, I can always prattle on about something, but I’ve run out of things to say that might conceivably be of interest to anyone. Besides, I need to go stuff my nose in a book: I’ve got to come up with five reviews for the library’s book blog, and unfortunately nothing I’ve read recently lends itself to good reviewing. I’m enjoying Ellen Ruppel Shell’s Cheap: The High Cost of Discount Culture, but I’m not sure I could describe it well. (“Say! This book is worth reading!” is probably inadequate.)
Nor do I want to write about the two books that I recently finished. Making Rounds with Oscar, David Dosa’s account of this cat who can sense when death is imminent, was not actually very good, though it was just interesting enough that I read the whole thing. And Elif Batuman’s book The Possessed: Adventures with Russian Books and the People Who Read Them sounds like it was written specifically to make me the happiest reader on earth, but it was on the whole disappointing; the only reason I made it all the way through was because I kept hoping the next chapter would get better. It’s not that it was a bad book, if you’re into memoirs written by scholars of literary criticism and linguistics, but it wasn’t at all what I was expecting. Also, the author confessed that she comes down on the Tolstoy side of the Tolstoy/Dostoevsky divide. There’s just no accounting for taste.