this helpful website but unfortunately, I am noticing that just counting the damn things is not enough. I'm counting like crazy but there are so many of them and, clearly, I need to learn to subtract. Egads! I feel kind of like talking Barbie: I like shopping! Math is hard! It is hard, too, and particularly hard when it involves gently putting that beer right back on the shelf because those are a whole bunch of calories that will be added in and besides, on that website, everything you eat is graded from A to F and beer, somehow, go figure, does not come in at a high grade. It's like a D, in fact. So depressing and, just like that D in 10th grade geometry, it brings down the high average I usually manage to achieve by eating hippie bread and lettuce, grade B+ and A, respectively. I don't know what happens if I fail - part of me really wants to try to have an all F day just to see if I get in trouble - but actually I'm afraid. Angry grownups might come out of the computer and berate me or something. I hate it when that happens.
I went over to Susan's last night and we worked on categorizing Annie's painting for the website, which has turned out to be a giant endeavour and a true catalogue raisonnee, which is extremely cool and really impressive. Susan is good at web design and it looks amazing. It was kind of fun to sit there and drink beer (Aaaugh! 110 calories each! Why is life so unfair?!) and look at thumbnails of over 100 of Annie's brilliant genius paintings and categorize them by decade. It was hard too and I bet a got a lot wrong, but at least we have somewhere to start. Then she can sit down with us and say which ones are wrong.
I actually went over to Annie's first last night, bearing a bottle of Prosecco. She hadn't answered her phone and then she didn't answer the door but I went on in anyway. "Annie?" I said, and she came out. "You didn't answer the phone," I said and she said, "That's because I'm in bed."
"I brought you some wine," I said,
"Oh," she said, "Glug glug!"
"Yeah," I said, "Glug glug! Should we have a glass?"
"No," she said, "It's too cold. I'm going back to bed."
And so she did. She's right: it was cold, too damn freaking cold for late May in Asheville, good god, I did not sign on for the fucking Yukon here. When I got home I dragged a whole bunch of sheets out of the linen closet and draped all the raised beds and plants in the front yard with them. It looked booth eerie and completely ridiculous and Miles asked me in tones of anguish why, just why, I had to do such weird stuff out front where everyone could see. "I can't help it," I said sadly, "I'm just like that." Poor Miles. Then we made a big pot of beans and rice and sausage and it was okay. Italian sausage, I find, can cure most things. But I lied about it on the calorie page.