Oh, Alameda. It's a persnickety town, too privileged for its own good. I worked dispatch there for years, and I know its ins and outs — I know who the crazies are and where the pains in the ass live. I even still remember one drunk's birthday, because I ran him for warrants so many times.
Today we went to the dog park in Alameda. In the time I was there, I heard five different people gripe at each other about some small infraction: Don't let your dog too near mine, you can't trust him on the leash (why on earth is he at the dog park?), don't leave the trash can lid open, it's my turn to go through the gate. I ignored them all and we just ran around.
As we left, a woman told me what a fucking asshole the guy was that she'd just talked to. She'd told him his dog had pooped. He said thanks but didn't clean it up. I said perhaps he was going back for it later, but really, I didn't care. Some people don't clean up after their dogs. They should, I get that, but I don't care enough to police every action of those around me. She was mad at me that I'd even suggested we give him the benefit of the doubt. She's probably very stressed out all the time with other people's action, you think?
(Pt. Isabel, in Richmond, is totally different. It's Disneyland for dogs, and the humans are usually peachy-keen, too. I have to remember that.)
Clara has finally figured out how fun it is to stick her nose out the window (she's on a seat-belt harness that keeps her safely inside the car). It took her a long time to learn that.
I've had a lovely day so far, aside from having to go get blood tests. Dr. Smartyboots diagnosed me with gallstones earlier this week, from wisdom gleaned from the internet. I do not browse medical sites. They freak me out. I thought she was crazy, but then I read the symptoms, and went to see my doctor, who thinks Dr. Smartyboots is probably right since I have all the classic symptoms. So, blood tests. A sonogram next week. Whatever. If it is gallstones, it doesn't hurt most of the time, so I'm not too concerned.
Then I had two hours to kill before yoga, so I wrote at Gaylord's in Piedmont. When did everyone start smoking again? I'm just wondering. It seems to be hip again.
Then yoga rocked, even though I was tired and achy. Yoga is my church. I'm so in love with Loka Yoga. Then a bath, and a nap, and a dog walk, and now it's time for more writing. Then I'll head to a rendevous with a friend with whom I'm collaborating on a pretty exciting creative endeavor, and there should be beer there, so it's just a damn fine day, isn't it?
At some point I should knit. I'm getting close to finishing a sweater for Lala, since she obviously needs something to wear to Stitches next week. Instead of this:
A thrift store sweater (nothing wrong with that) full of holes (SO WRONG) that she wears all the time. She'll totally wear that, too, if I don't finish hers, just to prove that cobbler's children go barefoot.
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