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.
Praying for Eyebrowz 