Welcome to Baltimore and a life of ceaseless puttering. That’s what we do. Rob putters in the garden, pulling up weeds and planting new plants that look exactly like the weeds that were there first. I suppose the definition of a weed is something that you don’t plant intentionally, but once it’s been there a while, people assume it belongs. At the neighborhood Fourth of July block party, some people—I don’t know who they were—claimed that the tree in our back yard, the largest tree on the block, started out as a weed. This is not difficult to believe given that it is of no discernable species, but why are on-purpose things are better than accidental things? Our tree is beautiful. (I have to say that, lest it get angry and fall on the house, crushing us all.) Yes, beautiful. So beautiful. Nice tree. Weeds are people, too.

I putter in the basement, painting chairs. First I paint them dark grey, almost black, and then I paint them light green, almost yellow. Then, I don’t know what. One day, they will all be painted and I won’t know what to do with myself; luckily, that day appears to be far off. It takes almost an hour to paint one chair with one coat of paint, grey or green. I’ve listened to all the “Judge Judys” on TiVo from around the corner and down the stairs. Today, I moved on to “Airline,” a program that highlights the antics of people who get drunk in airport bars and then get thrown off of their flights and then complain about it indignantly. There are also would-be passengers who wander in after their flight leaves and complain about it indignantly. Sometimes they threaten to sue, in which case, one assumes, they will end up on “Judge Judy.” Television is so self-perpetuating. If I ever get on it, I will be immortal.

Or, I could just decide not to die until the chairs are painted, in which case, I’ll live forever and a day. But everything hinges on the hope that the beautiful weed tree does not fall on the house and crush Rob and me and the chairs.

Nice, nice tree.