Out to breakfast at my favorite diner. There seemed to be a lot on this blog about dining.
That should come as no surprise to those who know me. I like to eat–it’s a challenge to enjoy fine dining and stay healthy.
Preparations need to be made for an extended trip out of town. There’s still plenty of time.
This Father’s Day, I’m content to take a back seat–watch children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews. If they attain success, then I’m happy.
Remember going to old people’s houses when you were a kid? They were dark and dreary, smelled musty. There was no reading material for kids. Worst of all, there were no toys to play with.
Lace curtains covered the windows–which were never opened. Something to do with bad air. Hand crocheted lace doilies covered stuffed chair arms and headrests. They always fell down when kids got restless. What good were doilies–anyway? Playing with them always got you in trouble.
Old people liked to sit around and talk. Talked about boring stuff and the good old days. When a dollar bought something, and people knew the value of hard work.
Fidgeting didn’t work. Neither did the sad-eyed, “can we go now, mom?” Too much fidgeting brought the rapier-sharp “death stare” and the excuse, “you didn’t get enough sleep last night.”
Their pets were old–too. Old dogs or cats, half-blind or deaf. They sat on their owner’s laps and didn’t do much. Old people seemed to know if they needed something.
The truth–old people were tired. Tired of being sick. Tired of being taken for granted. Tired of disrespect. Tired of being thought of as just being old.
An updated re-blog from last January about kid logic.
Taking the last of anything held special significance. An infraction among kids that deserved special punishment.
“Mom, Billy took the last chocolate chip cookie.” It was even worse, if your sibling cried, and added, “I didn’t even get one cookie.”
“Sherry ate the last of the ice cream and didn’t tell anybody.”
How could the last of something be more important than the first of something? It was a mystery of kid logic–like riding shotgun in the family sedan. Window seats were also held in high esteem.
The proper procedure was to “call it” before anyone else. “I got the window seat.”
“Bobby always gets the window seat. It isn’t fair. I don’t mind taking turns–but Bobby’s a cheater.”
Middle seat losers were subjected to pummeling from both sides, which led to parental intervention.
The worst was rearranged seating, with the complainer stigmatized by being forced to sit up front between both parents.
This could explain kid logic behind putting things away with micro-crumbs left in the package. Being found out was too high a price to pay.
Getting depressed at Christmas is a real thing for some folks.
Secret Santa’s didn’t visit my house, again–there’s always next year.
This is the time of year when imperfections become endearing qualities.
Grandchildren complain about Grandma’s “iffy” internet service.
My dogs check the mailbox everyday, not for Christmas cards or letters, but rather, for scents from other dogs. I suppose that’s what the Holidays mean to them–and all other days.
It’s the most wonderful time of year–as you’ve already heard many times.
I’m offering the following free advice to everyone this Christmas. You don’t have to believe everything you read, see, and hear.
While my thoughts circle further round the drain–who or what the heck is Eddie Redmayne?
Have a Holly Jolly, non-gender specific, carbon-neutral, appropriately proportioned Christmas this year!
A nice breakfast started the day. Then off to the grocery mega-mart.
It wasn’t long until I lost my job as shopping cart driver. Where I currently reside they’re called “buggies” and not shopping carts. While staying in the upper Midwest do “as the Romans do.”
My spouse wasn’t aware of it, she piloted the cart in circles, instead of straight lines. The shortest distance between two points was a straight line. All in the name of efficiency. Why should I care? I’m retired, have nowhere else to go, nothing to do.
Shopping’s done. Cooking will be done by the experts. I’m the official turkey carver. That’s the view from here–the day before, the day before Thanksgiving.
In the throes of logistics misery is a terrible place to be. Called in a favor from a friend with a pickup, to deliver lumber for my project.
Not long after my arrival at the big-box, home improvement parking lot, there was a page. My friend’s pickup broke down on the way.
Everybody has a Plan B–Plan B failed. The store’s only rental truck was already rented.
A new day–will Plan B continue to fail? Will logistics haunt me another day? It is October–the month of Halloween, ghosts and goblins.
A more loose-knit committee has heretofore never been seen. Building a piece of furniture, with tools and volunteer craft persons 800 miles from the comfort of my workshop, is proving to be a challenge. Not impossible, but quite unwieldy.
Yesterday afternoon, most of the committee members met in a informal backyard setting, around the swimming pool. There were no disagreements. However, most members were more concerned with what was for dinner–stuffed pork chops.
My two mutts and Bogart, step-daughter’s dog, are getting along well. There was an incident the second morning, where my trusting spouse, let Maggie out of the yard to test whether or not she would stay within property lines. Needless to say, Maggie headed for the nearest ravine–full of briars. The recalcitrant pup was retrieved; and in the process, we met Roxanne–the nice neighbor lady across the street. It turned out we had mutual acquaintances, and received an invite to an upcoming soire.
That’s the view from here in the northern climes. The leaves have yet to change, but the temps have gotten into the forties at night. Another impromptu committee meeting could happen at any time. More volunteers could join this rag-tag army. Wouldn’t that be something?