The day began with blood: I sliced my finger open with a knife. It's one of those things you try not to do, but obviously you don't try hard enough, because OUCH you did it again. It had been a while since you'd done it, so you'd gotten a bit accustomed to using a knife and not cutting yourself open. And now you have cut yourself open. How deep? Hard to tell at the moment, what with all the crimson. Stanch, disinfect, bandage, return to breakfast. The omelette is now a bit leathery, but at least you didn't get any blood in the pan and burn it up, because that probably summons demons and you don't need that today. On the other hand, they are known to show up in comely forms, and the company would be nice.

The rest of the morning was the usual work, and felt particularly unsatisfactory. Three walks to get the dog to unburden himself, and not one was successful. From which you may infer that he did not need to lighten the load, but when doesn't a dog need to poop? At one point were were trudging through the deep tractor furrows in the ripped-up turf near the Slough of Despond, Birch jerking me this way and that, mty arm socket loosening with every pull, and he found an enormous crook of wood and sat down to gnaw, and would not be dissuaded. I nearly wept from frustration. My entire life is spent tethered to an idiot and everything is hard and nothing is happy and the day stretches out as another interval of isolation. Except no, no, there's something to look forward to!

It's a Jerry's Grocery Day!

Remember last Thursday? I was going to Jerry's! I had a coupon! Well, I have another! Five dollars off a purchase of $25! And so, after Zork Storage (looking good) and the gym, and the yanky-yank walk on the Edina Promenade, we went to Aldi for that coffee, the Bustelo Pretender, and then to Jerry's. It was a long drive.

I had time.

Mind you, there's nothing at Jerry's I can't find elsewhere. The prices aren't better, except they have some things on sale that aren't on sale elsewhere, and you find yourself asking: what's the horseradish situation? I'm sure I have some. I don't want to double-up on it. Sure would go well with tonight's meal, but there's no way I don't have any. (Note: I did not.) I drove home on highway 100, and while speeding back to Fred Base ONe there was A SUDDEN SCREECHING SOUND THE LIKES OF WHICH MY CAR OR ANY CAR I HAS NEVER MADE AND I KNEW AT ONCE SOMETHING WAS TERRIBLY AND EXPENSIVELY WRONG

That will be the column for the Friday Substack, but you'll get the rest of the story, the conclusion, here on Monday.

A taste of the sound:

Temporary tableau at Fred Base One:

The bottle was found in a box filled from the top shelf in the kitchen. It's the Campari you must have in case someone wants a continental cocktail. In fact it’s probably the main ingredient in a cocktail called the Continental.

I should check that.

Yes, there is such a thing, but it's whiskey based. I should make more cocktails, I think. Make that a Friday tradition to add to the others. Campari’s good for warm weather, right? Right.

Never liked it.

Soon-to-be-ex, as soon as the paperwork clears, drank it on occasion. Now it reminds me of something else, its sweeter and nicer cousin, Aperol. The girls were all drinking Aperol Spritzes in Italy last summer, to utter a phrase from another life I’ll never say again. They all agreed that this was the drink of the trip, and so whenever we paused for a late-afternoon refreshment or something at the end of the night, it was an Aperol Spritz. I thought they were clever little drinks, and when in Rome, etc. Perhaps I’ll make one this summer. Maybe if Natalie comes to visit, we can have Aperol Spritzii on the balcony and toast the new life.

Or, I could make a Paper Plane: “A modern classic equal-parts cocktail containing Bourbon, Aperol, Amaro Nonino, and fresh lemon juice.” I’d never heard of the Amaro Hey-nonny-oh or whatever, so I checked to see if Infinite Intoxicants down the street has it. Yes! Sixty dollars a bottle. That’s a big commitment for a spirit that inevitably ends up in the back of the cabinet, and sits there unmolested for nine years.

There’s a recipe for a Aperol Paloma, which requires tequila. I have tequila. The website notes: “I like to serve it over ice with a grapefruit wedge and salt rim (or try it with Tajín for a spicy kick!”

I was surprised to see that, because . . . I have Tajin. It’s one of the spices I secured in Mexico. Doesn’t that sound cosmopolitan? I mean “picked it up at the airport, thinking ‘that’ll go good with eggs.’” I do not recall if it went well with eggs; the fact that my container is mostly full suggests it does not. Let's see . . . that would've been the Three Suns store at the Cancun terminal, I would shop there while S. was checking out scarves or bags. Used to do that twice a year for a while. Got used to it. Like it.

You had a nice life, she said with an almost accusatory tone, in that conversation about me doing nothing but tra-la-la'inh through the day, and ending up with all these things I did not earn.

You know what I want to do right now?

Some day everything will stop reminding me of everything. Or maybe it always will.