Monday, March 14, 2011

Consider the little purple flowers.

Rob forced me on a walk yesterday, I think to try to keep my brain from popping like a zit under the pressure of turning in my last paper for the quarter. (Take that, uncanny appearance of the monstrous feminine in Chicano literature! Ugh. I just bored myself.) The sheer intensity of my very verbal protests may have caused damage to my larynx. But in the end even my impressive execution of the especially childish and nasally type of whining (or as I like to call it, the "big guns") was no match for his desire to get out of the damn house, and he managed to get me into outside pants long enough for a stroll through our pretty little neighborhood.

Our Silver Lake walks are the daydreamiest of times. We love to point out the streets we like and the houses we'd like to live in, the way we feel about glass bricks and zero-scaping, and basically imagine what it would be like to have a little more money. Rob describes the studio he'll build in the yard or garage. I talk about all of my neo-hippie urban farming-type plans. (Chickens! Beehives! A goat! Okay, maybe not a goat. And maybe not bees, either. This plan is still in its infant stages.) I think it's the most fun two poor people can have without a cardboard box.

And, this time of year, we get to see a whole bunch of these:

I like it here.

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