There’s a cartoon in one of the June issues of the New Yorker that shows two people sitting in lounge chairs on the beach. The woman is talking to the man, and the caption reads: “Just tell me when you’ve had too much sun and you’d like to get back to our intense sexual psychodrama.”
This is distressingly like some vacations I have had.
For those keeping score at home, I am not driving to Sacramento today, as previously planned. Indeed, I don’t know when I’m driving down, since now the car has this thing where it goes “chunk chunk chunk” in kind of a rhythmic but not at all soothing way when one brakes. It sounds like maybe part of something came loose and is rattling around in there, or else a cv joint or a wheel weight or a missing brake part or god knows what. At any rate, I didn’t want to pull 1500 miles with brakes that go “chunk chunk chunk,” so now my beloved (but irritating!) silver Honda is in the shop again. I should know what’s wrong by this afternoon.
I smell lemons.
So instead today I am doing laundry, packing for the eventual trip down, going to the library, running errands, and sorting through my boxes of stuff for future moving. Normal day stuff. Whee.