Miserable Monday

Okay, not miserable, but a fiasco. To cut a day-long story short, Jim was to pick me up at 6:00 for the Dudley House pot luck. I stayed in all day, because it rained all day--and this was east coast type rain, heavy and steady. I changed the sheets, did a white wash, and just a few minor chores after that. Showered and washed my hair. Called Jeanne Painter to tell her my brother's place in Cooper City (Florida) is only 58 miles from where she lives in West Palm Beach. We'll try to arrange to meet once I make firmer plans for visiting.  Called Jim at 4:30 just to remind him and he didn't pick up after the recording. I kept calling, the rain kept falling, and I am not going to continue this appalling--AAGH!  

To cut to the chase, after five or so calls to Jim with no answer, I finally called Sherry, then Lynn, the Dudley House movers and shakers, and after conversation, I told them I wasn't going to go. (At this point, I'm not even sure they actually had the gathering; will call Sherry today.) I was uneasy about Jim: Why didn't he pick up? Was he sick? Hurt? In an accident? (A stage of emergency had been declared.) Concerned and deflated, I started looking around to make something for dinner when about 6:10, the doorbell rang. 

Yes, it was Jim, standing at the door soaking wet and bedraggled. It seems he had had his class at 2:00 and had stayed on campus, then came directly here to pick me up. Because he doesn't have a cell phone, I wasn't able to get in touch. Later, he told me that adjunct faculty "weren't allowed" to use the phone at the college. That sounds stupid, but of course, it's assumed they have cell phones.

Anyway, I quickly got my boots and jacket on, repacked the orange cake I was bringing, and followed Jim out into the pouring rain. He had parked at the entrance, of course, and we were both drenched by the time I got in the car. At that point, I suggested what I should have before we left my cozy apartment: The hell with it, I have a pizza in the freezer and red wine in the fridge, so let's we eat here. 

Jim was happy to agree and we went back--this time, we drove to the other gate and my parking spot, so we didn't have that far to walk. We went in, I put the pizza in the oven, poured us each a glass of red, and we chatted on the couch until dinner was done. It was okay and I served the orange cake for dessert. Jim stayed until after 8:00, I cleaned up, watched the penultimate (I think) episode of the Bernie Madoff story, then went beddy-bye. It turned out to be not a bad day, after all.

😢😢  😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢 

I did a jigsaw of Betty and me before entering one of the Ventnor baby parades. While I was fitting piece after piece, tears rolled down my cheeks. I cried and cried, about as cheery as we were in the picture. 

I can only speculate why we were so glum. Did Mom (who surely took the picture) admonish us to stand still? Had we been wary of this new adventure, the baby parade? Neither one of us was particularly high-spirited at that age--Betty more fearful than I, but I was hardly intrepid. The names on the doll coaches? Our nicknames when we were babies. The story goes that one of us couldn't pronounce our names, so "Betty" came out something like "Bobby" and "Rosemary" sounded like "Mimi." (Which one of us that was, I don't remember.) Until the day he died (June 2, 1950), my father always called us by those names. Years later, of course, Betty called me "Art," the chronicle of which I've blogged about before.