Yesterday I wrote about going to the store when the only thing I needed to buy was pepper. I could’ve put off the visit to the store until I needed more than pepper, but I wanted the human interaction. That’s warped, I know.
Wanna know what’s even more warped? Instead of going to a supermarket or a Dollar Store, I went into Walmart. For one item. What kind of idiot goes to Walmart for one item? Of course, I ended up buying cat food and bananas and deodorant and something else I can’t recall.
But I digress. The important thing is that as I was walking from my car into the store I made up a pepper song. It’s probably the best song I’ve ever heard, and it goes like this:
I’m sitting in my car under the shade of a tree, eating lunch. It’s become my new normal. The cafés I frequent don’t offer seating nowadays. Instead, one orders at a window, waits in an approved area, picks up one’s food, and departs.
If I lived a little closer to Tallahassee, or weren’t so impatient, I’d take my lunch home. Yes, I could make lunch for myself, but I crave interaction with others, even if it only comes through a window during the ordering process.
The young woman at Sweet Pea Cafe asked me how I was doing today. Her question touched me. I even remembered to ask her how she’d been. Some of the niceties of human contact have almost fallen by the wayside, but we salvaged them, at least for today.
Once I’m finished with lunch I’ll make a quick stop at a store to buy pepper. We don’t really need pepper, but will in a week or so. I could put off the trip until I needed to buy more from the store, but maybe the person who rings up my purchase will comment. I’ll respond, and it’ll almost be normal.
Our kitty, Scout, thinks that if I’m in the bathroom she should be in the bathroom, as well. Unfortunately this morning I made the mistake of closing the bathroom door before she realized where I was.
Soon she was tapping against the bathroom door and meowing pitifully, but I was taking care of business and couldn’t stop to cross the room and open the door. Before long, she was shoving toys underneath the door.
I believe she thinks she’s sacrificing her toys to save me.
I was so full of myself after finishing my first manuscript that I immediately began writing another. Actually, I have two going. One’s a sequel to book one and the other is a light romance. I’m still not sure how book one should be classified. Quirky, maybe. Is “quirky” a genre? If not, it should be.
The light romance is set in the panhandle of Texas, so to keep me in the mood I’ve been listening to country music. Alexa has begun to anticipate my needs, and for some reason Amazon is sending me ads for western wear. What a world, eh?
Occasionally, Alexa will play a song that forces me to get up and dance. Not to brag, but no one two-steps with an invisible partner as well as I do. And waltzing? Fuggetabout it! I’m surprised no one’s yet knocked on my door to award me first place in the imaginary partner category.
Some songs make me cry, though, and instead of dancing I sit in front of my computer and cry. Most recently that song was this one by Vince Gill. It breaks my heart every time.
This might not be the best version of the song because Vince breaks down and cries, but it’s become my favorite. “Go Rest High On That Mountain”
I’ve frequently purchased “Southern Living” magazine. “Home and Garden” is one I enjoy thumbing through, too. Oh, “House Beautiful” should get a mention, but “Garden & Gun?”
Really? I was almost tempted to buy the periodical just to see photos of people gardening with their guns. Maybe they use a pistol in place of a spade. Or a rifle as a hoe. My imagination has been titillated.
I’m not a gardener, but the essence of a garden is peace and life. To paraphrase Tina Turner, “What’s gun got to do with it?”
Something I’ve noticed as more and more people are wearing masks is that I rely an awful lot on watching people’s mouths in order to understand what they’re saying.
Studly Doright has told me for years that my hearing has deteriorated. I just say, “Huh?” and move on to the next topic. But now I get what he’s talking about.
Yes, the masks dampen sound, but even if someone is speaking up and enunciating, it often takes me three or four tries to understand what’s being said. Once I had to ask a person to write down their question. It was, “Do you want fries with that?” Color me embarrassed.
The masks at least, offer an excuse, but I have a feeling it’s time I sought professional help. I’d hate to miss out on someone yelling “Timberrrrr!” or “Fore!” or “Chocolate!”
The Testicle Festival is back on. I know how eager my readers are to sink their teeth into some fine bull testicles, often referred to as Rocky Mountain oysters, calf fries, or huevos del toros (literally “bulls’ eggs), among other euphemisms, and here’s the opportunity.
The festival is scheduled for August 1st in one of my favorite places in Texas, the great town of Fredericksburg. “Go for the testicles, stay for the beer,” is what I always say.
I kid, but the festival looks like a lot of fun. If it weren’t for Covid-19, I might attend. And if you’ve never visited Fredericksburg, I suggest adding it to your “to do” list.
A couple of weeks ago I got a new pair of glasses. This style is radically different from my previous three pair, and I think I like it. The problem is, very few things seem to be in focus.
I can read stuff on my phone and my computer easily, but my eyes won’t focus on distances. It’s not like I’m as blind as I would be without glasses, but I certainly don’t have the distance vision I did with my last prescription. I can’t read a large green street sign until I’m within fifty feet or so. That’s no good!
I really wanted to avoid an in-office visit, but yesterday I finally broke down and called for an appointment.Fortunately they had an opening this morning, so I’m sitting outside the eye doctor’s office waiting until 9:10 to enter.
Studly Doright is a capable kind of man. He’s a combination of Mr. Fix-It and MacGyver wrapped up in one nice looking package. Seldom do I find something he doesn’t comprehend how to do. During our nearly 44 years of marriage I’ve only encountered a handful of things that stump my guy, but recently a new one popped up.
Since the pandemic, we’ve been performing personal maintenance tasks that we’ve paid others to do in the past. I’ve been giving myself (awful) pedicures and (even worse) manicures, and I’ve been keeping Studly’s hair trimmed. Studly doesn’t have much hair to trim these days, and by the time I finish shearing him, he has barely enough to notice.
After the last trim I discovered Studly in the bathroom, looking in the big mirror above our sinks and holding my hand mirror behind his head. He was trying to see if I’d cut his hair evenly.
“How do you do this? I can’t see anything,” he said.
“Wouldn’t it be easier if you turned around and used the small mirror to reflect the back of your head into the big mirror?
After several tries he made the magic happen, and I had the satisfaction of briefly knowing how to do something he did not. It’s not as rare an occurrence as a Halley’s Comet’s sighting, but it likely won’t happen again in my lifetime.