I have been negligent...again. Sheer laziness + nothing really interesting to report = no blog. BUT, wait long enough and one can accumulate plenty of nothingness. So, like Seinfeld was a show about nothing, here is a blog about nothing.
My last entry was dated March 4. Shortly after that, I landed in bed with my first ever case of the flu. The doctor diagnosed type B, which I think means my flu was only state university material, not an ivy leaguer type A. I was sent home with a prescription for Tamiflu which I dutifully took, but not convinced really helped. I was in bed for the whole of spring break, and then spent the next week tottering about like an old lady. Apparently, I am quite entertaining while under the combined effects of fever and Nyquil, tho' I don't remember any of that, really. Memo to self: get a flu shot in the fall.
Paige spent her spring break shivering in Destin, FL. Brent moved to Louisiana. Mitch worked.
Have you ever had a song worm its way into your brain and refuse to go away? A friend on Facebook shared a YouTube link to Johnny Russell's "Rednecks, White Socks and Blue Ribbon Beer." I must have two-stepped to this song a hundred times in college, and haven't thought about it since. That is until Pete shared that damn link and I just HAD to go and click on it for old-time's sake. It's nearly impossible to do anything that requires a modicum of concentration when you have a sound track weaving an endless loop through your head. In the interest of spreading the misery, I invite you to click on the link below:
My husband spent a weekend in Lubbock visiting our daughter, so while he played beer pong and tried to re-live his college daze, I took advantage of his absence to give the kitchen a thorough spring cleaning. It's easier to do things like this when he's not around to gripe ("You do this stuff just to annoy me"), or block my attempts to de-clutter the cupboards of warped plastic containers ("Why are you hell-bent on throwing out half the things we own?") I forgot about the cats or I would have packed them and their litter box off to Lubbock, too. Penny wasn't too bad because she's easily spooked by anything out of the ordinary, so she mostly watched from the fringes. But Phoebe cannot resist shedding copious amounts of cat hair in drawers that I've just wiped down, or crawling to the farthest corners of the cupboards where I can't reach her to haul her out by the scruff (and she knows this). Despite the feline nuisance, it was like Christmas dragging out junk I had forgotten I had...which gives you some idea of how long it has been since the last time I really cleaned. I threw out a lot of things I haven't used in years, which means if past experience holds, that in about two weeks I will suddenly find uses for those things that eluded me the previous five or ten years.
Back to the Lubbock trip, Richard must have had fun. I received a text one evening that said, "The girls here are insanely beautiful." Five minutes later came another: "I want my sons to marry Tech girls." I texted Paige to tell her that she needed to look after her dad, that he was used to 40 wattage at home, and I was afraid being surrounded by 100 wattage was going to blow his circuits.
Yesterday we decided the time had come for our annual spring flower planting, so off we go, my husband and I, to the nursery. An hour later we were home again, sans flowers and extremely po'ed at each other.
I wanted celosias, petunias, geraniums and zinnias in shades of red and pink. Richard, on the other hand, wanted begonias. I think begonias are ugly. They are nothing but lots of leaves with a tiny dot of color in the middle. Richard favors them because they are heat resistant and don't require a lot of water. Also, I believe a flower bed should be all one color for the most visual impact; he sees nothing wrong with mixing things up. Once again, my dreams of eye-popping color crashed and burned on his fields of boring practicality. In the meantime, we have beautiful beds of dirt to look at.
If you shop in stores that sell tobacco or alcohol, then surely you've seen the signs that warn they will card you if you appear to be under a certain age. At first it was 25, but the age limit has been steadily creeping up over the years until today, while checking out at Walgreen's, the sign says, "WE ID UNDER 40". If you are 48 and get carded, that's a compliment, but not so much if you are 30. Give it another five years and they will be carding everyone under 60.
Richard and I went to one of our favorite Mexican restaurants for dinner tonight. Our waiter was one of those over-zealous types that practically snatches your fork right out of your hand while clearing the table. As usual, Richard finished first. The waiter swooped in, took his plate and cutlery AND our basket of chips and both tubs of salsa. I would have protested at the chip-napping except my mouth was full and my reflexes dulled from the margarita. Less than a minute later, Richard's glass is heading for the dishwasher. At this point, I put my plate on the empty stretch of bench next to me and started eating from under the table, which embarrassed my husband no end (I was still mad about the flowers). And every time the waiter came within five feet of our table, I clamped my hand around my margarita glass so Mr. Grabby-fingers couldn't take it. I was like a hyena trying to protect its share of the kill from the other hyenas.
I promised a blog about nothing and I think I delivered on that promise.
Running on empty,
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