I’ve been mediating catfights for the better half of the evening now. Nacho chases after Maya and Maya hisses and scratches and runs away or bites back but Nacho is not the type of cat to take a hint. Spartacus, worst-named-cat ever, slinks around watching them, going to hide when things get too loud.
Yesterday I ended up going for a bike ride, despite waking up feeling incredibly Blah. It was just for a couple hours and I went mostly because I called my dad and he told me that he was planning on taking my sisters to Chicago “later.” It was four there, three here and for a moment I forgot my lines for 21-year-old daughter and blurted out, “later? but it’s already so late!”
And my 50-year-old dad and N-teen year old sisters laughed at me.
So I decided to buck up and ride as far as I could toward the mountains and I did – but it wasn’t very far before I reached private property and it was getting dark, so I headed back, taking less than half the time to get back than it took to get there due to the fact that elevation is so slowly gained, quickly lost.
My helmet is still in Boston. 35-miles-an-hour, dusk on winding roads with no bike lanes, I wished it weren’t.
It felt good, though, to be out, to be moving, and the color of the Catalinas at sunset cannot be rivaled. Suffice to say that I never had a favorite color until I saw it.
It wasn’t a white Christmas, but it was a beautiful one.