My mother told me that today is Paris Hilton’s birthday, in addition to my stepfather’s. Never more have I felt that she and I share the same DNA because I remember celebrities’ birthdays even more than those of my relatives. Today is also Denise Richard’s birthday (I looked it up once to make sure she’s older than I am–but she’s NOT). Four presidents were born in February–two major ones–so we link them together and get a holiday. I remembered that Lincoln was born on February 12, 1809 in a log cabin in Kentucky. But I didn’t remember that today was a holiday from work.
Once I understood that I had a day off, I set forth to complete pointless–but satisfying–tasks, like unraveling this yarn for three hours. After this, to make up for a weekend of watching The Secret Circle, I made myself read one Baudelaire poem in French. I did this for ten minutes, laughed at what a drugged out crabapple he was with all this “spleen” stuff, then went for a long run. Before Sam gets home from his work, I might try to wash the dishes. I could go to the bakery instead–be all festive since a president’s birthday is a good excuse for cake.
Back to work tomorrow.