Tweets Not Posted

Here’s the day in 140 characters or less that never went up on Twitter.

Cleaning up cat barf does not instill the requisite creativity. At least it’s just fur balls.

Scalded tongue on first sip of coffee, but it’s still cold before I finish a quarter of a cup.

On the road in the rain to buy souvenirs for folks I’ll see in California.

Traffic is nuts for a rainy mid-week in what is supposed to be a resort town. More excavation, which = more houses and more congestion.

The gift shop makes me want to sneeze and I refuse to wander the aisles looking for Connecticut stuff.

Find two huge candles with ineffable scents that are less sneezy than the others.

Run to the fish market to get shad and a pair of roe (for me myself and I). Call Ma to tell her the shad is on its way.

Run in and out at Ma’s. Run home and fire up the dish washer. Revise “The Paper,”  listen to the tape of “Solo on the Drums.”

Reread the story on Languedoc and decide not to write the ombudsperson about the howling errors that undercut an otherwise good article.

Try to clean off my desk and get down to within five or six layers of the surface. Can see wood in about in about a six-inch square area.

Realize that I’m about to be late for a doctor’s appointment. Get stuck behind a fire truck and ambulance stopped 150 feet from the entrance to the medical complex.

Come home and give up all thoughts of a walk because bands of showers keep streaking over the area.

Do a bit more sorting through office piles and finish off a section of the Times so it can go out in the recycling.

Locate recipes for shad roe, which either contain too much fat or too much salt or both. Cook shad with butter (drained off before serving), lemon and capers (rinsed.)

Now will finish emails and retire with the book du jour.

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