Sunday, sweet Sunday

The weekend started early, with a Friday morning breakfast at Ginger Sue’s in Liberty.  I count this activity as one of my most favorite, since it’s always in the company of my friend Pat.  That afternoon found me in a jury assembly room with a few dozen Clay County lawyers, learning a new way of looking at Guardian Ad Litem work.

I relaxed the rest of the evening, I must admit — code word for did precious little and went to bed early.

I had a “coaching session” courtesy of the Cleaver Family Y set for eleven o’clock on Saturday, which followed the world’s most expensive vet visit in which my dumb brown dog got a semi-clean bill of health and a new prescription.  Pampered, she is.  My son texted to check on her status and offered to contribute to the tab.  Just remember me when you’re rich and famous, I replied.  We traded goofy comments about awards he could win and I found out about a few of which I’d never heard.  He’s an LA sophisticate and more knowledgeable than I about the screen industry.

By five, I had discovered Thou Mayest Coffee shop, with its Steinbeck theme and fabulous sound track.  There, I started writing something that has no definition as of yet except perhaps to be the bricks on my path to real-writer-status.   Who knows.  Maybe someday.  I recently read a few pages of a published book that I found so poorly written that I could not believe anyone would buy it, so perhaps hope still exists for me.

I slipped into Gallery 504 a few minutes before The Accidentals took the stage at their CD release party.  Angela Garrett-Carmack and Jake Carmack make a convincing argument for harmony.  Her cello, his guitar and voice — melded with the light which shines between them.  A lead guitar, female vocalist, bass player and drummer eventually took the stage to reveal a new group, The Accidental Project.  I don’t usually stay out past sunset but the evening at Ruthie Becker’s Crossroads venue proved worth the slightly scary ride home.

But Saturday had not yet closed for me.  Jessica and I packed into the Prius to explore the District, Waldo’s newest eatery.  She nibbled delicately battered fried catfish while I explored mushroom street tacos.  Then we sat outside in the warm night, talking until I realized my eye had begun to do its fluttery thing so we headed home.

I answered an invitation to coffee on Sunday from my friend Vivian and have no regrets.  We started at Mud Pie, then moved to the City Market Coffee house where I learned how delicious gluten-free bread could be with rich scrambled eggs and lightly broiled cheese.  After breakfast, we strolled among the flea-market tables, where I found a lovely Gold-filled broach for $3 and an unblemished piece of Francoma for five bucks. Vivian got me a beautiful bouquet and I retaliated with a pound of cherries that I saw her eyeing.  Under a steely sky, Vivian walked me to my car, where I spied a little sign of good things to come on the pavement by the driver’s door.  I scooped it up, flashed a grin at my dear friend, and put the token on my dashboard where it will remind me of better days ahead.

And that, my friends, is a weekend about which I cannot complain, from fabulous Friday to Sunday, sweet Sunday.


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