We had a lot of glorious, if chilly, sunshine over the weekend. Bernice and I took 5 and a half walks around the pasture–on the 6th, we accepted a ride home from Jenni, who just happened to be driving in when we got to the top of the driveway. On our sojourns, we encountered no moose, no pack of ravenous coyotes, no fire-breathing dragons. (As you can see, having a very well developed imagination has it’s downside.)
I bought books–real books, with pages, no less–a biography of Charles Dickens, a memoir or two, a very short book on critical thinking. There’s humor in that, but I guess I haven’t had enough coffee, because I can’t seem to get the joke. I just know there is one.
Does anybody remember that comical scene in “Mr. Mom”, when Michael Keaton is at the supermarket buying the groceries and other stuff for the household, while his wife works, and is mortified to be seen purchasing tampons? The sales clerk holds the box high in the air and yells something like, “Price check! Tampons!” at the top of her lungs. I had my own version of that at Fred Meyer yesterday–I had chosen, among other things, a fake-fur vest to wear on walks with Bernice. It didn’t have a tag. So the clerk–I swear, it’s true–waved the thing in the air and practically screeched to a free-ranging colleague, “Price check on this vest! EXTRA LARGE!” I had to chuckle–and silently remind myself that my size, like the numbers on the scale, is headed downward, not up.
At the beginning of the weekend, I had this wild plan to spend two full days in my newly organized craft room, playing with various toys. Didn’t happen.
Today, I’m working on the new book–and going to the dentist.
Into each life, some snow must fall.