More on Paint; Plus the Prodigal Daughter etc.

This week, my family will be reunited in Massachusetts. I have one sister living in the elbow of Brooklyn (which is much better than the arm pit), and one who escaped to the peach pits of Georgia. My brother and I are both here, with everything and nothing in common; several mailing addresses and opposing philosophies fraying like split hairs between us.

On Monday, little sis took the amtrak due north. She brought to my new apartment the most Martha of homemade gifts: granola made from scratch in one of those cute ball jars with the recipe for it tied to the lid and a note that said "Hive Sweet Home." Why is that so cute? Well, just look at it.

Gigi, my mom, and I were exiled to the sun room for coffee time with library books. Lots of design books, before and after redesigns, how-to paint furniture, and how-to crochet little pinwheel patterns books aplenty. It was a crazy windy day, and the heavy-duty blinds that remind me of being in a rec hall at camp were rattling all around us. We discovered that the wooden walls in the sunroom used to be painted teal. Later our coffee adventures brought us down to the basement (where we found an old old frigidaire the color of the seventies, unplugged) we realized that those nether-regions were ex-painted in the same teal. Curiouser and curiouser! Or, just a regular old paint and re-paint situation.

Why dwell on walls when things like this are happening though?


I think I've finally lived here long enough to lament the passing of one institution to another decidely more corporate quasi-sex positive exploitative/kiddie porn/working wage/in the end just bad T-shirts corporation. Harvard Square now has about ten banks, several over-priced wanna-be Euro shoe stores (I'm looking at you, Tannery and Adidas), one up-and-coming uber restaurant, and a T-shirt factory where art students who couldn't get a job at Urban Outfitters will smirk at, well, probably everyone for, you guessed it, anything.

F-ing commas. Sorry about that.