It’s been only recently, exactly a year after I finished radiation therapy, that I have been able to touch my right breast as if nothing had happened, as if nothing was going to break, as it if it weren’t a combustible part of me that could explode at any moment.
Campari & Sofa Posts
Yes. The weekend again! One I can enjoy in full, assuming the plumber restores water to my abode. I have a long hike planned, and a peek into a Trisha Brown performance on Sunday. To satisfy both the bucolic and the city girls who reside in me. My week was punctuated by a few chuckles here and there and some mindless tv enjoyed in my pjs (having a proper excuse for not washing). I am passing it all along.
Until she divorced, when I was already in my 20s, my mother was a homemaker. Being the disgruntled teenager that I was, I criticized her to martyrdom for her choice not to work, as I saw it, and spend her time cooking two meals a day, shuttling my sister and I all over town and, the worst offense of all in my book, waiting on my father hand and foot.
I have this long-standing habit of leafing through fashion magazines or catalogues and asking myself, on every page, “Out of the selection on these two pages, what would I buy?”. It’s a tad compulsive habit at this point, probably because I have been doing it for so long, but it’s a cheap and engaging way of spending twenty minutes.
There is something sofa girl and I have in common: we abhor food waste, always using everything, down to the last bit of sad-looking celery in the refrigerator drawer. I am not sure where we get it from. My mother has never wasted food, and always repurposed leftovers, but even she doesn’t come close to my compulsion. If I bought it, I will find a way to cook it and eat it.