I had planned to spend the day in San Francisco looking at pretty pictures of beautiful women. I had dressed, not up, exactly, but certainly more respectably than my regular schlubby self does. Black corduroy slacks, a black v-neck sweater covered with a deep burgundy velvet shirt, jewelry, lipstick; in other words as befits hanging around an art museum.* General business casual. (I am having a bad hair day, but that seems to be the norm the past couple of weeks. I desperately need to get my hair cut, something which I usually dislike getting done.) The Rocket Scientist was going to take me up and we were going to lunch and then he was going to drop me off before heading to a weekend workshop further north. I was going to take Caltrain back home, which I almost always enjoy. (I like riding trains.)
Life happens. Specifically, defective radiators happen. The radiator which we had installed in Vincent the sixteen-year-old black convertible a few months ago sprung a leak. The good news is that it is still under warranty, the bad news is that the time it cost us to determined what was wrong and make alternate transportation arrangements precluded going up to the city. Rats. We did have a nice lunch locally with the Not-So-Little Drummer Boy, who is home from college and whose company is almost always a delight, but it still is not the same thing as a museum trip that one has been planning for weeks.**
So I am sitting at home in front of my computer. I feel like I should go out and do something this afternoon, just to make up for missing my museum outing. The house is pretty much clean, and even if it were not, I would want to change before doing housework.
Sigh. I hate having to figure out alternate plans.
*I am actually of the opinion that t-shirts and flip flops are okay for museums, as long as people are there and are really interested in the art. Enthusiasm covers a lot of sartorial sins in my book.
**I originally was supposed to go see this on my birthday, but I was ill and had to punt.
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