There are no flannel lined jeans at Farm & Fleet for women. Only for men.
When we go somewhere to shop, say Farm & Fleet, and my husband doesn’t want to come in, I consider that an affront.
My dog ate the book I was reading, not “100 Years of Solitude” (although I might leave it out in his bowl), but one of those Scandinavian mysteries, the title of which I’ve forgotten so I can’t even get it out of the library to see how it ends. I don’t care.
One loss of my hearing loss is that I can’t have heart to hearts with my hairdresser anymore. Once all the hardware is off my head, it’s silence. A big reason for going was the unloading, now it’s just the haircut.
I’m entering a contest, the first prize of which is $500 and a week at a writing retreat. I just want to win the $500 and stay home.
I am learning more about the ownership of problems and how when you are disappointed in someone you are probably occupying real estate that isn’t yours.
Today, I was finally rid, mostly, of the heavy wash of bitterness I have been feeling about the old people who so vociferously opposed homeless people using a room in their senior center after hours to stay warm this winter.
The people who got off the cruise ship to visit the volcano island near New Zealand did it because it was one of the choices, never thinking for a single second, that it wasn’t safe. They trusted the printed page, pretty much like we all do. Why would they not?
We have a wee small Christmas tree. It was growing under our porch up north for the past five years. We said someday we’ll cut it down for a Christmas tree and look, here we are.
This year we are going to combine our family’s Hanukkah dinner with Christmas Eve which is probably a monumental inter-religious faux pas but like my husband said, so what, we get to do what we want.