We had a lovely and far too short visit with dear, dear Diane von Austinburg last week. Because my thrilling lifestyle consists mostly of sleeping, I would stumble downstairs and we would go out to dinner, come back and I would stumble upstairs to go back to sleep. I know some people would have problems with livin’ on that particular edge, but I do not.
Diane shoved off on Thursday (I should mention Saki, the cat, does not like visitors. Any visitors. Every visit, Diane spends all her efforts at convincing him that he does not suspect her of low habits and misdeeds. Diane reports gleefully every time Saki deigns to allow her to pet him without bloodshed. I’m not impressed, because this almost inevitably occurs when I’m holding him, most often in a headlock. So Saki spent all day Thursday stalking around the house to make sure Diane (whom he refers to as “That Guy”) is actually gone.
I spent Friday crushing a giant nap. I would wake up when Saki yelled in my ear about how he was starving, feed him, take my meds, and go back to dreaming about living in some grim institutional building that I was decorating. One of those things where I couldn’t decide if it was a nightmare or not.
And then, just now, I got out of bed during the daytime (it happens) and thought how very much I would like coffee from Peet’s and some of their delectable little pastry items. And so I rolled downhill into the Castro.
I found an empty parking space (the only one in all of the Castro Neighborhood,) tried to pay the meter, cause the meter maids apparently have a special bounty system set up for my poor old car, and the meter gaily announced “FREE PARKING.” Really? I wasn’t going to look a no cost parking space in the mouth, so I wafted on towards Peet’s when I suddenly wondered “Could today be Sunday?” Hmmmmm.
One of the things I like about my phone is a special feature it has for the forgetful and easily confused (that would be me) where it announces the day and date every time you kick it into gear. Sure enough, it confirmed my suspicion that today is, indeed, the Lord’s Day.
I’m perfectly happy with Sunday, bringing with it free parking, as I mentioned, and a great many young muscular mens wandering around without much in the way of clothing to hinder one’s ogling. But this brings to mind the question “What happened to Saturday?” It’s not a Lost Weekend, more like a temporarily mislaid day.
Trying to recreate some idea of how I had spent June 10, I turned to my computer, cause I’m all modern and hip and stuff. The history there informs us that for some equally mislaid reason I looked up Marguerite Albert. Mlle. Albert turns out to have been an early 20th century Parisian red hot mama. Sued the Prince of Wales, lived across the street from the Ritz in Paris, murdered her husband and got away with it. A role model for us all.
Aside from that and a few visits to the dwindling number of blogger friends I still maintain, there was nothing informative on the computer; the car is where it’s supposed to be and all its pieces are still where they started out. There are no inexplicable stains, or no new ones anyway. Turning to Saki as a source of information, ugh. He just leaves the room and either plays with his catnip sausage rope or pees in one of the many places he shouldn’t. Sadly, there are no unfamiliar young men snoring away in the guest room.
Let us be clear. If anything even vaguely resembling this turned up, I would immediately start composing some lie about how we had gotten married after a whirlwind romance; some Lucy-and-Ethel kind of shenanigan. He doesn’t look very suspicious minded or like he has the mental high capacity to catch me out. Tragically, it’s just me and Saki as far as I can tell.
Oh well, as I mentioned once in a long ago post: I say if the police aren’t asking uncomfortable questions, it’s probably best not to worry too much about those lost weeks. Or day, for that matter.