As I looked out the bathroom window into our backyard and the adjoining yards early Saturday morning, I spied the elusive 8 year old Jasmine. We haven’t seen Jasmine in ages, because she is in daycare a lot. Whenever she does come to the bus stop, she usually hides behind her dad’s leg — too shy to notice that she’s stunning with her dad’s dark Indian skin and her mom’s Cajun cheekbones.
Completely unaware that anyone was watching her, the spring sprite, Jasmine, was spinning and leaping around her yard by herself.
With coffee in hand, I went out soon after to transplant hostas and put in some new perennials. Sometimes I just sat and watched the things grow.
The tranquility of the yard was interrupted later by a bacchanalia in New York. Our friend, Margie, turned 40, and her husband pulled out the stops for a bash in the city. We gorged ourselves with a four course meal including a raw bar at Bar Americain, a Bobby Flay restaurant. The ever hovering waiter in our private room kept pouring the wine, so I’m in major league pain today. After dinner, a smaller group of us dropped into a bar to catch up about coyotes in Central Park, the Duke rapists, and the 911 9/11 tapes.
I think we stumbled home at 3:00 last night, so I’m retiring to bed right now.
Apt. 11d 