It must have been, Cox, it’s Wednesday and you’re just coming up for air…?!!
Not just that Barrymore, the dog, contracted Old Dog Vestibular Disease, that had him retching, unable to stand or walk, rapidly dehydrating, his eyes rolling wildly and has left him recovering, but listing hard to starboard, stumbling around like a sailor on his first shore leave.
No, not just that. We took the time to visit my grandmother on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. She’s 96 and a bit concerned about her thinning hair, the ruptured disc in her upper spine is a minor nuisance. My uncle visited to see me and the kids. It may be the last time that I see him as his cancer has metastasized and the prognosis is not good. He is an interesting guy — a self-made prep — who always looks as if he were about to sail off to Bermuda, which he might be. His summer uniform of flat front khaki shorts, double soled Bean moccasins and B² button down with his round wire framed glasses indicates that he is working in the office instead. The clue is the shoe — Topsiders would mean that he was ready to sail. I also visited my cousin and saw his house and his .50 calibre sniper rifle. He’s in a bit of a land dispute with the neighbours. They have a bulldozer. He has 20/20 vision and no internet — something about the government, or the cost, I couldn’t figure out which.
It wasn’t the gentle let-down of stepping into a parking lot off Eisenhower Ave. after seeing what Woody Allen can do with Paris in the delightful “Midnight in Paris.”
Nope, the really surprising thing about the visit was our stroll through Old Town Alexandria, which has changed much since it was part of my stomping grounds. Really, it was more about the number of times I was stopped because of my shirt. It is a pink gingham number like the one from Ben Silver above. I wore it with a Kelly green knit tie and light grey Incotex trousers cinched with a ribbon belt and white bucks. (It was so warm that I left the blue linen blazer in the car.)
Between the car park and the ice cream store, I received three compliments on the shirt, all were along the lines of:
That’s a wonderful shirt. I’d have to hit my husband/boyfriend over the head with a lead pipe and put it on him while he was unconscious to get him to wear a pink shirt….
Did I reply that it was the Victorians who overturned the notion that pink was too strong a colour for women to wear as it is related to red and red is the colour of Mars, the planet associated with the God of War? Or, more flippantly, that during summer I drink pink, wear pink and think pink? Or that I was secure enough in my masculinity to wear whatever the heck I please?
No, I ignored the dead eyes of their significant others who did their best to disengage from my presence as quickly as possible, and murmured a thanks.
Because I have an awful lot to be thankful for.