Love Island Explains Brexit

Prepping for my fabulous weekend with the fabulous Carol.

We will hike, review the 17,000-year history of glassmaking, cuddle goats, and generally hang out.

Notwithstanding all this fabulousness, I woke up this morning with a splitting headache, which I deduced came from grinding my teeth all night long.

It’s that British version of Love Island, which I’ve been watching before I fall asleep.

Must. Stop. Watching.

Although I will say Love Island has given me a lot of insight into Brexit.

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I spent a few hours in the garden yesterday.

I have now become a gentle-lady farmer specializing in marigolds and chili peppers.

It seems to me that the garden this year had a narrative arc: It was so excited for the arrival of the Beauties! They came, admired it extravagantly. We spent an evening watching the fireflies. Mia had never seen fireflies before; I felt she must see fireflies.

(Did Mia think, How cool? Or did Mia think, I must humor Max’s crazy mother?)

When the Beauties left, the garden fell into a depression. Cabbage worms ate its broccoli, collard greens, Brussels sprouts. Squash bugs devoured its cucumber, cantaloupe, and watermelon vines. The weeds sprouted.

Of course, that month—August— coincided with all those trips to Tburg and what seemed like B’s long, loooong dying.

Although in retrospect, B took an amazingly short time to die, didn’t he?

So short that most of me simply does not seem to know he is dead and keeps expecting him to text me that Canadians don’t care that much about blackface, so Justin Trudeau will be reelected.

Some people choose whom they love, I suppose.

But I was never one of them.