Melancholy baby.
7:51 p.m.
It’s my brother’s birthday today, the brother who has cut me out of his life. He is 54 years old. I sent him a card on Friday, and it should have arrived by now. He won’t respond. He never does. My husband and I invited him and his wife to our 25th wedding anniversary party this summer. They didn’t RSVP. My brother-in-law, the one who has managed to alienate himself from his (i.e. my husband’s) family did RSVP at the last possible moment, but at least we received a response. From my brother, nada. Not only is he proving that he is immature and vindictive, but he has demonstrated his own rudeness (and he had the gall to call me rude). *sigh* Life goes on. Right?
The package containing a souvenir from essaywriter’s recent trip to upstate NY arrived today, a potholder from the famous M00sew00d Restaurant. I own the original and revised cookbooks from that series, plus a couple of the new ones. The original is by far in the worst shape as it has had food lovingly spilled on it repeatedly. In fact, you can tell which are my favourite recipes since they are the ones with the most stains on them (that would be the lasagne, the pasta al cavolfiore and the spinach-ricotta pie). Thank you, dear!
Yesterday’s glorious summer weather is now a thing of the past. It has been raining all day, and right now the wind is trying to work its way through the narrow opening of the window (I couldn’t get it closed tight without standing on something) and moaning and making much more noise than necessary. Winter is icumen in, lhude sing goddamn.
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