Home alone. Just me and the Mrs. Practicing. Ought to be fun. But it simultaneously feels like fate. The older one has been up in Canada for the last few weeks with her boy friend and the anchor of our family-life normalcy, the little one, isn’t so little anymore. A junior, she has been invited to the senior prom this evening. She’ll be sleeping over at her friends and so we’re staring at one another considering the rest of our lives.
I made calamari. Frozen rings, with lots of minced garlic. I didn’t bother to try to bread them as they always seem to come out wonky that way. But the oil is never hot enough, and the guess-timation on just how long to leave them cooking is generally longer than it ought to be. They taste oily instead of crisp and I’m ready to clean the dishes before I’ve finished clearing my plate.
Sure. Let’s watch “Game of Thrones.” Sex, and murder. Freezing scenes and arid scenes. Some characters Arya and Tyrian remain interesting. Others like Lord Baylish and Jon Snow make the same face every time you see them. Tolstoy could sustain a story this long. Pierre and Natasha are plausible and compelling throughout the remarkable journey. But Daenerys Targaryen and Jamie Lannister aren’t sufficiently complex people to merit prolonged accompaniment. They pout and smirk the same way, throughout.
I’m in a big chair, closer to the screen so I can read the subtitles of a narration that is in English. Why do I care? Perhaps I simply miss reading. In as much as the text is presented, (there is invariably a progression of button pushes that would remove this.) I feel obliged to read it, even when it says things like “distant rumbling.” My wife lying on the couch. She beckons. I join her. We cuddle for a while and then check our messages to see if the little one has gotten home safely. Tired, we eventually agree that this will be our last episode.
Monday, 6/14/21
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