I take the back way to work, which, in this part of New England, usually means farms. New England farms are sprawling fields of corn, spuds, squash and tobacco surrounded by forests of tall deciduous trees and punctuated with big white farmhouses. This time of year my ride to work would make a box of crayons blush. Mr. Pantone himself eyes my ride with open envy.
But if Mr. Pantone had a brother, a cousin maybe, in the scratch and sniff business, I hope he stays the hell away from my ride, because this time of year, those farms *stink*, and I don’t mean maybe. My eyes and my nose have very different opinions about the back way to work.
My mouth, however, says it’s time for dinner. Good night.
* We’ve moved. We actually have curtains up and everything. There is a playground nearby, and many of the neighborhood streets, including our own, are named after people we know. Much drama involving installation of internets and television make-go things.
* POOP! She has pooped in the potty once, peed twice. So. fucking. great. Yee haw!
* The class I am teaching is shaping up to be an exercise in winging it and fending off doom. Dooooooom!
Should be fun, though.
*Did I mention there are bears? Yep. Saw one coming out of someone’s driveway, cross the street named after Pete’s cousin, and go into someone else’s driveway. Really.
Good Reads
