tile saw

Someone is running a tile saw next door.  Never mind.  It’s not a tile saw.  It’s just some anonymous whirring noise, and now it’s done.  It’s Friday morning, the twenty-third of August, 2013—i.e. approximately one week before the conclusion of this blog.  I am on Caroline’s side porch.  There is a slight breeze.  I am in my pajamas.  We shall swim today. 

The saw noise has returned.  It is a tile saw.  I went onto the front porch and found Caroline reading Al Jazeera because she could not access the New York Times.  The house across the street is having its kitchen remodled.  A team of roofers was there yesterday, replacing some slates on the roof.  One roofer attempted to emasculate the other roofer by telling him that his saw was “short.”  He responded that he had been using his short saw for twenty-five years. 

I can now hear the distinct sound of a garbage truck.  There is a gas station about one hundred yards from here.  I am guessing that the garbage truck is emptying the dumpster there.  Sometimes I fetch Caroline chocolate bars from that gas station.  Two houses and a bunch of trees stand between me it.  I don’t have much else to report this morning, except this: last night I dreamed that Caroline was ordering hundreds of dollars worth of pizza and several salads.  I was concerned about the number of toppings.  It was going to be expensive.  For one salad, the “Delmarva salad,” she ordered two separate dressings.  That concerned me, too.  I am going to miss writing this blog.