At the end of my dream last night, I was in a nightclub at a little round table, watching an older cabaret singer, who crooned this melancholy song:
There's no green anymore
There's no grass anymore
Where do dogs play?
Where do dogs run?
|For a good time, call us|
We've had two big old Nor'easters already this fall, and we had about seven small trees' worth of willow branches spread all over our yard to dispose of. We enlisted Jonah's help while we still have him (he's heading back to San Francisco in a couple of weeks after living with us for several months).
As I was flinging branches into this truck (we decided it looks like we're heading out to do the flowers for a high-end wedding reception), a candidate for mayor walked by, and I called out,"Hey! Good luck!" and now I'm worried that they might not have realized I meant in next week's election. What if they think I was just greeting everyone who passed by with, "Hey! Good luck!"?