at home with barco

East coast Americans of a certain class adopted the Victorian custom of "at home" days -- when well-bred ladies could call on other well-bred ladies.

I have never been a well-bred East coast American lady (though the current political milieu gives me license to claim I am anything that pops into my pretty little head). But, I know all about such social arcana from my early introduction to Emily Post's Etiquette in Society, in Business, in Politics, and at Home.

My copy was used -- from the musty little book store shoehorned between my parents' motorcycle shop and our insurance agent. I suspect I bought it for the "in politics" part of the title. But it did arm me with enough information to discuss the proper placement of fish forks at formal supper parties.

But fish forks are not at issue today. Being "at home" is.

I decided to stay home to monitor Barco's recovery. I needn't have bothered. Late last night, he was back to his "open the bedroom door: I want out -- now, open it again: I want in" routine.

Today, he is working on his proof that Plato had objective reality backwards. Barco is convinced that the shadows of butterflies, dragonflies, and hummingbirds flying across our courtyard are real; he has no interest in the living things that cast them. He has spent most of the morning running full tilt in search of his personal Dulcinea.

My sole job is keeping him out of the pool. For that, I should be fired. My success rate is lower than Obama and Bush's middle east policies. He manages to slip into the pool almost every time I turn my back. To just sit and contemplate whether Wittgenstein may be more plausible than Plato.

I am so seldom at the house during daylight hours, I miss the regular callers who prowl the neighborhood. This morning, it was the young ladies from the health department who search through the open spaces of houses to ferret out breeding pools for mosquitoes -- especially, the dreaded and far-too-common aedes aegypti.

They were here today on an important mission. To me, they were the next victims of my faltering Spanish. I do not get to talk with people very often. So, when I have visitors, I pepper them with all sorts of questions in hopes of starting a conversation.

The three young women reacted as if I were one of those pathetic northerners who attempt to pick up local young women. They were polite and professional. But they hastened their retreat to the street. In my defense, Barco was even more insistent in getting them to pay attention to him.

So, it appears The Dog is returning to normalcy -- as Warren Harding would have it. He is still walking a bit funny. As a result, I have truncated our four daily walks.

Even so, it is good to have an "at home" day. If I am lucky, maybe the Jehovah's Witnesses will show up for an extended theological discussion.