random_words

This week has been very interesting.


First.  The weather...  I believe it's forgotten to take its mood medicine.  Expectant March storms dampen a parade: weeping coldly for a man and his family, displayed in front of a schitzophrenic city.  The sun parts the clouds, and brings warmth.  A promise of life, unstopped by bullet-like-rain.  And now...   Snow.  Ancient Seers would cower.  Repent, you all.  Easter is coming.

Would this psychotic weather have had something to do with the first meeting of a man I've already met?  I'd sometimes like to think so, when fate sounds like a promising concept.  Fortune smiles when we are not... and I would like to see him smile more often.

And finally, the weather brings to me something in the mail, as unexpected as my waking to thunder the other morning.   A letter from an estate lawyer. 



[Private]

Sarah Brennan.  Your presence is required at the reading of one Anthony Riddell's Last Will and Testament.

[/Private]



Curious.  The name sounds vaguely familiar, but certainly not enough to warrant my involvement with the man's will.  The meeting is in Brookfield, which would make the familiarity seem plausible.  I grew up there.

Mamo' just told me simply: "Sarah... go to the meeting."


Am I as vague as the woman who raised me?  I certainly hope not.  And wouldn't you know, I put all my winter clothes away.

The new Wifi works in the Perk.

I believe I have found my new pass time at work.



The parade was lovely, save for the rain.  Wandering honorary Irish, drenched in pride and slimey March drizzle, aimlessly search the streets for a bar that isn't standing room only.   Today I nearly stepped on what looked like a Twizzler smashed into a Tootsie Roll, merged with the excrement of a very large horse.  

You'd think those diapers were big enough to catch everything.  Though I do hope the horse got to enjoy a Twizzler.

Everything is gray.  I think 'damp' should be added as the new Crayola color.  

Early Spring in Chicago: the Purgatory of Seasons.   



I have the strangest urge to pour myself a rootbeer and add to it a half cup of cream.  Rootbeer float, without the fizz.  Without the crippling cold that comes with sensitive teeth.  The young hipster I suggested this to did not seem quite as receptive.  My guess is indigestion problems: how can someone process things properly with such tight jeans?

The bag lady across the street has found a new water heater box.  She's currently hanging curtains.   Good for her.