Wild Strawberries

Inspired by Proust? There must be a term paper somewhere on the parallels to Recherche du Temps Perdu. This will not be it. I paged through a graphic novel version of Au Cote du Chez Swann this afternoon at a used bookstore. I never seem to go by there when it's open, so when I spied a Tin Tin book and the open sign in the window, I had to go in! Neither book followed me home. Even as a bande dessine, Proust doesn't rock my world. In this case, it probably had more to do with the dull layouts and art. Alas.

The wild strawberries of the title are growing in my back yard, with no signs of elderly Swedes trying to collect them. After a few too many jokes about needing a scythe to attack the lawn and declaring the back yarn a prairie reclamation district, I figured it was time to do something. The front yarn was a snap, in spite of all of the divots and garbage strewn upon it by the neighbors. I'm going to pretend that it was the neighbors who moved away until proven otherwise. The back yard was another matter. It is large and overgrown. I seriously wondered if a scythe would be necessary. It wasn't, but it was slow moving. As I am fair skinned and miserable when overheated, I decided to wait until magic hour. An hour was not enough. Soon, I noticed the strong, woodsy scents of the lawn and its flowers and the sun sinking in the sky. But it was when I felt my first mosquito bite that I decided to call it quits. Even after a long, cool shower with calamine soap, my face is still strawberry red.

I didn't get any work done on the birthday socks today, but I don't feel guilty. I've already turned the heel of the first sock and learned the lace pattern. I should be careful about saying that, because it just begs for a big tear-out. Well, I had to tear one row out three times the other night. Maybe that was because it was four in the morning. Hard to say.

I saw a girl punch her mother today while crossing the street, but in a playful manner. I couldn't hear what she said, but I'm pretty sure it was "slugbug". I drive a car that makes people hit each other. I didn't know that people still did slugbug (or punchbuggy, depending where you grew up), since there are so many new Beetles on the road now. A trip through Andersonville or Lincoln Park could leave you black and blue! I doubt that Ferdinand Porsche could have foreseen this, but it seems a testament to his design. No one hits their siblings when they see Fords driving down the street.