Saturday. It's just one of those day, ya know? The most randomly sociable day of the week. The day when you run into friends and talk with a laissez faire that differs from your usual week-day urgent tones. The squids and I took a trip to the first Farmers' Market of the season. We were packing heat in the form of the Beav.
The women at the rummage sale said its original price was $200.00. I bought it for $15.00. It had sat in the Methodist Church foyer for days--an orphaned pop-art eagerly awaiting someone with an eye to adopt his disgruntled little face.
Not a minute after I bought him, a woman tried to snag him. One of the rummage sale workers shouted, "You can always out bid her!"
"I'm poor!" I wailed. I left the church the uncontested owner of a big, sad Beaver Cleaver.
At the Farmers' Market I was asked about writing. I grumbled. A gal friend of mine went on to talk about her friend in an MFA program and how "some people have a natural gift for writing."
I told her that at the moment all I had was a natural gift for appreciating gin.
"I love gin!" A dear artist friend chimed into the conversation.
And so we met for gin. In my newly cleansed and exorcized home. I introduced her to the Beav. We attempted and failed to play Mahjong. Mahjong is complicated when it's played with tiles. Instead we played gin. We both won.
All the while I stared at my Beaver. He's sad, and yet he's mischieviously so. We stared at eachother a while in the quiet (it's what one does when they do not have a television--they stare at walls. Fortunately, my wall is now occupied by a television icon, so there. Make sense of that. I dare you). That bloody Beaver Cleaver and I have a lot more in common than I thought we would. We're both big. We're both a little sad and a lot mischievious than. We share a thing, and sometimes that's all you need.
He's in the dining room. The kids are creeped out. I added more money ($1.17 to be exact) to their therapy jar.