The husband and wife were complaining about cutbacks. The city had removed the drop boxes for utility bills from ‘their’ end of town, necessitating a two mile walk or drive to drop the bill off. “Hardly a drop off,” he huffed.
She said, “They keep cutting services back but we keep paying more.”
He began laughing. “We sound just like our parents.” Standing, he said in a raised voice, “I remember when they delivered the mail twice a day and stamps were three cents.”
It was funny, even if it was all true. Someday, Gen Z will complain and say that they sound just like the Boomers.
The writing day drains me again. I feel physically like I’ve run a half marathon — and I’ve done that and remember how I felt afterward. I also feel like I finished an important project at work, one that consumed my time and thinking. I feel, too, like I’ve been at a funeral, by a grave in the rain, and now I’m back home, changing clothes, reflecting on life and death, change and emotions, and I feel like I’ve been waiting for someone who never showed.
A good writing day, I judge it, even though so much remains to be written.
I identify with this quote. So many can’t change how they see others, and must act on that, torturing logic, evidence, and truth so the narrative fits what they see, and not what the other actually is.
Floofment(floofinition) – Animal action to instigate a reaction or rouse others.
In use: “The dog learned that the best way to floofment Suzanne and get her attention was to jump up, look towards the downstairs area as if hearing something, and then start barking like mad. It worked every time.”
Hello! Welcome to Wed-nez-day.That’ how I always feel it should be said, and I often do say it that way. But language and pronunciation are like quantum physics, working to their own mysterious rules.
It’s the 16th of November, 2022. The month and the year are uncoiling for their final segments.
Sunshine has invaded the fall sky, complemented by a rich abundance of wind. Sunrise jumpstarted daytime at 0702. Night’s portion of this Wed-nez-day falls into place at 1648 tonight. It’s 50 out now — that’s Fahrenheit — and the 62 is the expected high.
No news on Mom. Sitting here drumming my fingers, waiting for test results. Middle little sister — I have three younger sisters to match my one older one, and they are an interesting set — said that test results usually need four days in that hospital system. Herself says she’s feeling fine but annoyed.
Feeding the beasts this morning, I was singing them a song that I often utilize, that being “Fifty Ways to Feed Your Floofy”. The lyrics for my cover go, “Just open a can, Sam. Fill the bowl, Moe. Just feed it to me. Don’t look at the clock, Jock. Don’t need to discuss much, just pour out the food, dude. Give me something to eat.”
The Neurons picked up on it, so the original Paul Simon melody is thriving in the morning mental music stream. This was Simon’s only solo number one. When I heard that years ago, I had to verify it using the net. Did it again today. It’s such a familiar song for me and lends itself well to the morning feeding ritual. The song was released in 1975, the same year my SO and I started leaving together and then married.
Coffee is being drunk. The Neurons are happy. Stay positive, test negative, and vax up, including the flu, you know? It’s doing the circuits, dropping people out of social and volunteer commitments. Hope it doesn’t get you.
Here’s the tune. Feel free to supply your own lyrics, like, “Give me a cup of brew, Stu. Must be fifty ways to have your coffee.” I’m having mine with Meyer’s lemon pound cake. Wife made it to give to others. It wasn’t to her standards, so I’m the beneficiary. That light sweetness goes great with my coffee’s bitter essence.