More Fred Flora. Now that I think of it, this is from a week ago. It all exploded into fluff this week. But just look at that shot. I'm dead-center in Suburbia.

I may have lost the Woods, but I gained the Fields.

As you can see, we were visited today by the window-washing crew.

We had been informed by Fred Management that they would be doing all of the windows; and this was also the week where they were coming by to replace everybody’s air filters. The guy did the windows above me, and I took a nap, and when I woke up, he was on the other side of the building around the corner, and did not appear to do anything whatsoever to the windows of Fred Base One. I’m not saying that they are coated with a grimy film; they are not. The nice suburban clean air here does not obscure the opacity of my panes, but there is a significant piece of bird droppings, which I have been looking forward to losing. Previous examples have been washed away by the rain. This isn’t exactly something that I stare at every day intently, so it’s not that big of a deal. But the fellow in the cherry-picker did one of my windows and didn’t do any of the others, and they had slight imperfections that I might, conceivably, discern if the light was just so.

I sent a message to Management. The menu for the input form had a variety of options – maintenance – renewal – leasing – and complaint. I didn’t really want to complain; I never want to complain. I just prefer to point out things that needed to be pointed out. They responded promptly by saying they would speak to the crew and see what could be done, but I believe that the machine has already trundled off to the next job. So it’s entirely possible that they will call me tomorrow and say I’m sorry, but they’re gone, which case I understand, and will ask for a adjustment on my rent accordingly – kidding, but really – or the truck will make it all the way from wherever it’s stored at night to drive up to my window and hose off one little piece of bird droppings on the seventh floor window. That seems excessive. Then again, so does my rent.

As for the previous part of the day, well, a gentleman doesn’t tell. It was perfectly fine! Enjoyable, and that’s that. A big step, I suppose, inasmuch as I haven't done anything like that in 39 years.

Of course Birch was whining when I got back, and he had a new wrinkle:

He’s never done that before. Great. He’s already clawed chunks out of the shoe mat by the door, but it’s a Target special. No new gouges on the wall. He’s been odd all day. The heat and the smoke. I tried to take him for a walk tonight, and he just locked up solid: nope. Okay.

If you're curious, that used to be my Hot / Cold bag, which I use to get ice cream back to the freezer before it melts. I don't know what people used to do - were they just resigned to ice crystals? Oh - I'd mentioned those Target freezers near the door, and wondered if they were permament. They are.

I'm sure there's lots of research that went into this. Studies and customer surveys. Excuse me, would you come to Target more often if you could just grab a frozen entree from the front of the store, then go to the right to self-check out.

"Uh - I don't know, maybe? I haven't thought about it. Never entered my mind. Never found the trip back to the freezers to be the equivalent of Amundsen's expedition, you know? It's not like you find people sprawled in aisle 4 from exhaustion and exposure because they couldn't make it all the way to the back, to say nothing of retracing their steps. And since I'm usually there for other things, I make my freezer stop my last stop, because otherwise, it, you know, unfreezes? But sure, I don't know, maybe I would run in for just one Lean Cuisine if I knew they'd be right there, and I had to leave the car running because I had the dog and had to keep the AC on."

Great, thank you! (To the underlings:) Make it so.

I no longer have a Hot and Cold bag, which means I have to get one tomorrow - for a hot errand. Friday is pizza night, as you know, and I treat myself to the good stuff down the street on the week my Social Security check arrives and I'm feeling flush. I take it home in the hot bag, which is also the cold bag. I am being particular about food expenditures, just because, well, Social Security, and was astonished to see some Georgia Peach-flavored pork divots at Lundsnbyerly's for . . . $3.97. For two. That's two meals. The first I had with my Signature Cayenne Roasted Potatoes: delicious, and no real peachness detected. The second I had Thursday on a bun with Sriracha sauce. About five dollars per meal.

I mention this only because I had a cup of coffee this morning for $5.50, wincing. It's not that good. We have coffee at home! Yes, but you're paying for the atmosphere, the third place. I suppose. The barista had a shirt that said "Happiness Comes in Waves" and I said that was a nice thing to read in the morning, but the same could be said of nausea. I have no idea why I said that, except that when I am in a good mood I am needlessly voluble.

ANYWAY. Did the Aftershow in a merry mood, made the host laugh. Dropped over to the Giant Swede's afterwards, and the Crazy Uke showed up as well for an hour of palaver. Got a text from a friend with whom I used to chat at Natalie's Friday Piano lessons, a picture of her with her first grandkid. Midpoint of the summer. Good things everywhere in quantities large and small.

I'll tell you something else: at least once a week, sometimes more, I find myself thinking that I'm just on some extended vacation, and any day now I will go back home, and it will be the home I loved for so long, and I will never have to leave. It's a sudden certainty so strong I'm startled, and I have to push it away, because no. I gained the Fields, but I am lost to the Woods for good.