PickledCherub

I felt like, at one point this afternoon, that I would barely survive the day. I honestly felt like collapsing, crumpling up. Perhaps I was overstimulated; perhaps it was the heat. The matter of fact is that I was simply overwhelmed by work, by responsibility, and by the prospect of the next week of my life.

But, then, all at once, I walked out the front door, Chimay Red in hand, and made it over to Greg's house, Ethan fed me a bit of artichoke, Chris was on the couch, and I was about to settle down on the porch, beer and cigarette (I know, I know), and my newest Margaret Atwood novel (Oryx and Crake), in the shade, in the rocker. I read, I relaxed. I'd forgotten the effect that reading has on me, how it relaxes me, revs up part of my mind, involves me. I've not been much of a reader lately, but I grew up, literally, reading The Handmaid's Tale (also by Margaret Atwood). I read it, and read it, maybe eight or nine times when I was ten or so. My sister had read it for a college class, and passed it on to me. I read it so many times because I barely understood it, and then I sought out her other novels, and barely understood them. Probably, mainly, because I knew nothing of marriage, of lust. Not then, anyway. I was a compulsive re-reader then. I read and read everything in the house, and didn't get out much. Where was there to go, anyway?

The cats have been out while we were at Bewitched. But they're back now, purring on my outstretched legs. Chris and I saw Bewitched tonight because we wanted to see it. I like to see movies that get bad reviews. I liked it about as much as I thought I would; it ceratinly wasn't bad. There was a montage that I hated, but other than that, it was cute and sweet. It was basically on the same level as the series, intellectually, except that Will is a better Darren than either of the first two Darrens, and Nicole Kidman was good in this (except when I started paying attention to her accent, it made me sad).