mixed match

The mason who fixed the shower wall was from Grenada, a word that makes me very thirsty because I hear in it a blend of grenadine and granita. When he learned my name was Amy he chuckled and I asked him why. He'd never heard the name used before outside of TV, and it struck him as funny. He kept chuckling. Why does it seem to happen that some of these men of Brooklyn find me so amusing in a pathetic way, like some kind of oddly groomed dog?

I took my revenge later and asked him if he was a Freemason. He smiled and said "Yes, I work for myself." He's just lucky I didn't send him out until he found tiles glazed in the exact pink that was installed 30 years ago. He found something pink but duller after hitting his third source. Or so he said. I'm not sure if he just grabbed the first thing he found to make his life easier or if I suffer from a "deficit of trust," eloquent words coined by Obama today. So we have a checkerboard of pinks in the shower now, which I think I kind of like, since 2 shades make for a better story than one.

The back of the house sweetened up with the musty, earthy smell of grout. I wonder if that's what Iceland's Blue Lagoon smells like. I wonder if my California friends who are doing their part to support the economy in that land of extremes are in the silty impurity-leaching bath right now, butt naked.