In the fancy neighborhood a couple transitional NHs away from my old neighborhood - Kingfield (the old NH was the unfortunately named Regina; rhymes with, yes, angina) the Sunday farmers market is a funny mix of upscale and downhome, gourmet expensive premade treats from mobile chef outfits, rarified cheeses and wild mushrooms from outstate farms, and cheap sturdy veggies from Hmong family farmers (who have picked up on the heirloom variety trend, with good results).
I go for the Foxy Felafel, made by tattoed twenty-somethings and the coffee from this guy's family farm in Guatemala, but it's also very interesting people watching. We try to represent for the geeky middle-aged white lesbians, but we are not the only ones, generally speaking.
The Smartcar license plate is par for the course.
We had to squeeze it in after running and before the young Border Collie Springer mix went to flyball practice, or would have biked there. Our first truly nice day in weeks, and it almost feels cold at 60-70°...
I cooked the beets, washed and dried the lettuce and greens, rearranged my too-clean new fridge, and de-matted the boy cat. Time to mow my weedy crabgrass full of raspberry invaders, then hop on the bike, to join the hordes of groups in matching technical gear and family trains as long as I can stand the traffic jam. Then it's butt in chair time, with a vague plan for re-writing the pesky novella project thingie finally forming in my head.
To say nothing of nerdy butches, of which there are far too few, is just an oversight?
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