Last night I drew into the foot artist, mouth painting calendar of a bird on a stump. I gave her false eyelashes, long flowing hair and while she was depicted as firmly established, I drew one raised foot so she is now teetering in the air in order to hold up her purse hooked over the other drawn in foot.
Must get around to finishing the survey on Make More Time book about pests, or time wasters. But I just can’t seem to find time for it.
Today I go to the hair dresser to be made into a ravishing red head again. The sands of time look, is what I call it when the hair above my ears begins to show sandy, gray extending slowly from a small area, fanning out and growing increasingly wider, grayer as the weeks go by between appointments. It is so like a sand clock moving against gravity. Perhaps aging is a function of money. If you have the means, the richness, the discriminatory spending, you can afford to obscure, to blurr, to fill in, to putty over the cracks, creases, chipping away of paint, sagging of lines.
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The problem with all decisions is that a decision can lead to a maintenance contract. Mowing the lawn and fertilizing it, is inevitably a commitment. Now with the lawn looking so spectacularly park-like, the level of expectation is established. Not in others, but within. One must be very, very careful about what choices one makes for improving the domestic environment. There is no going back. Do I want to extend my field of vigilance to include my appearance?
Italian women are spectacular and live in small dwellings without lawns. We can’t do it all.. where are my servants?