While waiting for my slides to get duped and for my Shelley Winters/Debbie Reynolds midnight double-feature horror dvd to arrive, I perused the Craigslist personals today, to follow the abject sex lives of my former suitors. I think I mentioned them before–or the perennially-on-Craigslist one of them–but I’m going to mention them again, because I’m bugged. First off, I’m bugged that I saw even one smidgen of an attractive quality in either. One is now seven! years younger since we went out, the other… well, I can’t really mention his particular metamorphosis, except to wonder how he would have faked such a thing with me had we ever actually met. The mysteriously-7-years-younger guy might be trying to appeal to the type of guys who like the not-too-much-older-guys-who-look-significantly-older-than-they-say-they-are? While I may photograph myself from particularly flattering angles, and with lighting that accentuates this or that, I endeavor to portray myself in a realistic light. That is, if we meet, you’re going to find out that those gray whiskers in my picture are also on my face, so why Photoshop them out?
I voted for Hilary today. I want a smart person in the White House again, and Hilary’s married to one.
I pruned my plum tree this morning. It’s still on its last legs–its last trunk, actually–but it has at least a few more years in it. I lost a few key limbs in wind storms over the years, limbs that were unfortunately ripped from the central trunk just below their collars, so they never healed correctly, and now there’s rot in the central trunk. I think I’m going to wait, though, until it just topples over. Or not. Or until I can decide on what I want to plant in its place. I’d love a fruiting cherry, but I’m not sure if there’s one that would do well in San Francisco or with my particular micro-climate.
Today was an absolutely beautiful day in San Francisco, cold and crisp and sunny. The first flowering plum blossom opened in my side garden, and the daphnes have begun to release their perfume. All is right.