We got cell phones today. Caltrain will no longer be able to ruin my evening. Well, they will, but at least I'll be able to express my opinion of them to the people whom I'm supposed to be meeting so they'll know why I'm late. I'm absolutely delighted.
Other than that I'm a bit depressed. Not a soul-searing black hole of depression, just the ordinary garden variety. Ha ha, she laughed hollowly. Garden variety. It's a joke, get it? My garden is depressing me. I'm still having trouble with understanding the climate here. The wind acts as a super quick drying agent, and I'm not sure if I should be watering every day. If I don't, several plants go crispy around the edges. If I do, several plants get yellow leaves and look miserable.
None of my tithonia or nasturtium seeds sprouted. That's $5 worth of seeds, and $5 worth of potting soil which smells nasty, and several hours of wasted effort. Now it's too late to start seedlings for summer enjoyment. And I just discovered yesterday that my carefully tended ixia corms haven't sprouted at all. They ought to have been blooming by now. They're not rotted, or dried up, they just haven't done a thing. I'm upset. I'm thoroughly irritated. And I'm definitely depressed about it. At this rate I don't plan to order any bulbs at all for fall planting. I can only hope the daffodils and tulips of this year's container garden decide to come up again next year. I'm doing something wrong, and I don't know what it is.
I pulled out of my depression long enough to spend a few hours with Jessie mooching around Menlo Park. I could have talked another hour easily, but someone actually wanted to use her driveway so I had to move my car. I'd get depressed about her moving back to Boston this year, except I'm really pleased I'll have someone interesting to visit in Boston when we go out there in March for Corflu 18.
The other thing I did this weekend was read the entire 700 page biography of Gerald Durrell, and I'm sad because I'm done. This happens to me occasionally; I get so involved in the world of my book that I feel bereft when it's finished. It's not like I didn't know Durrell was dead, but it was still a drag reading about it. He was such an amazing character. His contribution to international wildife conservation was invaluable. His life was unusual, passionate, and vivid. I hate to think it's over, I suppose. This is the inevitable drawback of most biographies.
Luckily, I have the new Harry Potter book to start on, though I'm being sensible and not using it as my train and lunch hour book. I'd probably miss my stops. Instead, I'm going to bring Philip Pullman's The Golden Compass which numerous people have recommended. I found it in the children's section of Kepler's but it doesn't seem particularly childish. It looks rather dark, in fact. Should work fairly well as a "dip into it" sort of book. I will read Harry Potter in the evenings.
That should cheer me up. That, and being able to call John and abuse Caltrain to my heart's content the next time they strand me at a platform with no seats.
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