Sundays really were not meant for doing anything. Especially when church is cancelled (or rather relocated) and you can sleep in and it’s sunny but not hot for the first time in a week. And your husband toasts you a bagel and you got new yarn in the mail and you washed your hair last night so you feel all tidy. And you found a new band you like and you got new jeans and the kitchen is clean. But you have to go to work in the afternoon anyway.
Back in May I started doing the New York Times crossword puzzle every day. We get a copy of the Times (and four other papers) at the library so it seemed like a nice way to wake up each morning. Get to work (still a little asleep), log into computer, glance at to do list, find newly delivered papers, make copy of puzzle, sharpen pencil, pour coffee, commence wake up process. I copy every puzzle so that I have a backlog. I only work five of the six days that they publish puzzles, and sometimes the deliveries are delayed over the weekends, so I’ve got a nice little stack built up. And for some reason I haven’t thrown any of them out once I finish them. I’ve got half a ream’s worth of paper in completed NYT crosswords. What does one do with something like that? Wallpaper a room? They’re getting too big for the binder clip holding them together. Something’s gotta give soon…
I’ve stolen this idea from Wil Wheaton, you should know… He posts blogs filled with random unrelated updates and thoughts, and I love reading them. He’s a good writer – no crap, just to the point but still using his unique voice.
Molding beeswax over sharp wires in your mouth is like riding a bike. The permanent retainer the orthodontist left me with as a parting gift after six years of braces is finally giving up the ghost. A slice of dried mango is what did it in. One bite into that leather sweetness and I felt something give. Now maybe a month later the wire has worked itself all the way out of the cement and I can no longer run my tongue over it without a snag and a wince. So I cannibalized the base of one of the hipster hexagonal candles I got at the farmers market, rolled the tiny shavings between my fingers until they molded, and thumbed the lump right over the offending poke. Only after shaving the base off my trendy centerpiece did I remember my stint with bookbinding and how I was told to strengthen my binding string with wax. I had gone out right away to buy PVA glue, cotton string, and a handy little brick of beeswax made expressly for running string through. That brick still lived somewhere in my apartment, I was sure of it. My husband helped me ransack a few drawers and shelves and there it was. Dusty, discolored, and bearing many wounds from slicing string, but still legibly labeled for what it was.
So anyway, I have to go to the dentist. My nostalgic wax is only a stopgap.