A bit ago, I received in the mail a completely unsolicited $25 gift card from West Elm.  No strings attached, either: no “off of a $75 purchase,” no “so long as you sell us your first-born child.”  No small print.  Just a “please come visit us, we think you’ll like what you see.”

I suspect they bought my name from Crate & Barrel.  I swear, that catalogue is my porn, and the dollar-amount I spend there is positively obscene.  But boy did they have me pegged.

Dear PhD, we are moving to West Elm.  As in, we will henceforth live in the store.  Mmmm-kay? xo, magda.

I suppose there are some people who will go there all practical-like and get one candle or something, totally for free.  Not me.  They’re counting on me, the little be-visaed spender, who’ll use her $25 as a passport to bigger purchases.  They probably had a candid picture of me, blown up and rather grainy (in black and white, naturally), on posters during their campaign period.  “This,” a suit would say with a snap of his wooden pointer to my photo,  “is our target.  This girl right here is what will make this whole promotion worthwhile.”

The checker snuck a catalogue into my bag.  I swam in it all the way home on the train.

I dropped the newly-acquired darlings off in this here apartment before heading off on a few other errands; but a moment to breathe, and I was off again.  The macbook is back (oh happy fortune!), with a whole new keyboard—they replaced the entire casing.  Best part of this story, it was all free, thanks to the extended warranty I apparently purchased.  The me of the past who signed up for that is brilliant.   So, so  brilliant.  Man, I love that girl.  The keys are back to click-clacking, and there is peace in the world of me once more; plus, the whole thing feels like a brand new computer—so sleek! And smooth! And crisp!

I also ran by Target (ooooh, lovely), and grabbed a few things for New York this weekend.

Incidentally, however, I was unable to find dirt.  I’ve had problems in this department before.  Last time I was planting things, it was winter; that may have been why there was no soil to be found, anywhere.  However.  It’s not really spring anymore (hello, 100+ heat index), but neither is it November; come on and help a girl out already.

After making a few determined stops, I have concluded that either (1) potting soil is simply not sold in the state; or (2) the stores here are so inept at organization and I am so bad at location that it’s simply lost in the chaos, everywhere.

Alas.  I have some sprout-lings in dire need of more permanent homes, so it was back to the cemetery for me.  Sort of the cemetery.  Overlooking the cemetery.  Still, though, really, there’s something incredibly unsettling about being near headstones at dusk, with a sky angering towards a storm.  Digging in the dirt with a big spoon while the cicadas chirp up above does not add much comfort to this picture.    C to the reepy, oh my lord that was something only I would do!  And in my work clothes!

Happy result, though, is that those spirits relinquished a bit of their earth.  My most holy Catholic plant is faring quite well indeed in that same soil, so hopes for these next ones, yes?

The commonwealth earned itself a bit of my paycheck tonight, but also yielded its rawness, its ancient depths, to a new home in my kitchen.  That’s about the way it should be, I’d say.  I’m prepared to call it an even trade.