When Pigs Fly

The last dream of the morning was about Shadow. I was feeding birds, and she helped by following me and carrying a container of bird seed. It wasn't quite a true-to-life incident, but near enough as makes no difference. I woke missing her terribly.

Perhaps that's why my spirits needed lifting. The President's speech and press conference didn't exactly do it for me. Neither did all the punditry that followed, on NPR and on cable news.

So I went into the city to have our snow tires put on the big Saab. And to run a few errands.

The dudes in the tire store are always great fun.

"You're here early to beat the rush!" one of them said.

"When does the rush begin?" I wondered.

"Babe, as soon as those flakes start flyin'."

Being called "Babe" was incredibly spirit-lifting.

I'm impressed that my tire guys have a subscription to the New Yorker. A white-boy rock station was blasting, meaning I could read a New Yorker review of Stephen Frears's film The Queen while--wait for it--Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody played. What could be more perfect?

I made it out of the tire store just before the pervasive rubbery aroma gave me a headache.

It was a blustery day, but there was autumn beauty to be seen. In a medical office parking lot, I spotted these valiant snapdragons, not yet killed by frost or covered by the falling leaves.



Then I spotted this autumnal sight.



A retail therapy session resulted in the purchase of some amazing flannel loungewear. One look at the winged pink pigs and puffy white clouds--in a style reminiscent of Terry Gilliam circa Monty Python--I just had to buy.

Once home, I had to wear.



My flying piggies and I are off to curl up with a cuppa and a good book a warm dog or two. I can think of no better mood-enhancer than that. Except the return of the Chap...which is imminent.