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The story of my life in an eggshell…
I was frying up a couple eggs for breakfast this morning. As I very carefully cracked the first egg and allowed it to slip gently into the hot, non-stick skillet that had just a touch of olive oil in the bottom, I realized the egg had a double yolk. Wow, fantastic, two egg yolks, I thought, then both of them broke.
My grief was palpable.
At times Señora is such a spendthrift. She is attempting to convince me that I have maximized the utility of this particular pair of Sperry boat shoes.
Puts me in mind of a picture that was most likely put in the trash years ago. I had a t-shirt commemorating Arkansas Razorback basketball that I wore for years when I jogged – in Arkansas. It got to the point that there was no cotton left in the t-shirt. Just the base polyester weave, making it entirely see-through. A picture was taken of me as I very reluctantly placed it ever so gently in the kitchen trash can. I was thinking it still had a few more jogging miles in it.
Truth is I have a couple of other pairs of boat shoes that I purchased as I thought perhaps these were a little tacky to wear most places, nearly as bad as wearing a pair of house shoes to the supermarket. Don’t tell Señora, but I did put them in the trash can today. For some reason it had become almost impossible to keep rocks and dirt out of them.
And so they went.
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Señora and I recently returned from a week’s long road trip. First we went to Kentucky to visit my Aunt Betty, then to Asheville to visit the Biltmore and to spend the following day cruising around the Great Smokey Mountains. On the way back, we stopped in Lebanon, TN just outside Nashville to visit my Aunt Jackie. Both ladies have some physical health issues, but both are still very mentally sharp. I hope I get those Rush genes rather than the Carr genes. Five of the eight Carr sisters ended up with dementia.
I knew we would be tired after a day in the mountains, so I wanted to find a hotel just west of them rather than drive an extra two or three hours to Nashville. I started looking in Knoxville. Because there was Continue reading “US 129 Tail of the Dragon”
The following article popped up in my Google news feed: Nose Picking Could Increase Risk for Alzheimer’s and Dementia
The Carr side of my family is famous for faces endowed with distinctive sniffers. I am no exception. My son used to refer to my proboscis as a B-52 Booger Bomber, for all I know he may still do so.
A well functioning airplane maintenance program includes keeping the aircraft clean, outside AND in. Being the son of aerospace technical representative, I have internalized his maxims about maintaining your tools and machines. My rather cavernous airship definitely requires regular internal attention. Respecting my father’s wise words I am more than prone to provide regular cleaning services… discreetly, I hope. And now I learn I may be pushing myself towards the dementia ward. YIKES.
And so it goes.
“There are three classes of people: those who see, those who see when they are shown, those who do not see.” ~~ Leonardo da Vinci
My for what’s it worth ruminations: I feel like most of the time I am solidly in class 2. I have had rare epiphanies that boosted me to class 1… briefly. While I have more than a few blind spots, hopefully I am not too firmly anchored in class 3 by those. But I am reminded of a philosophy that more than a few folks have espoused to me, “it is better to go through life with blinders on.” Perhaps.
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yeah I know you did not ask!
Beware – “adult” themed.
I wonder if this will become a new put down –”You’re no Pete Davidson.”
Or perhaps a woman being asked about her date last night. She sighs and says, “Well… he definitely was no Pete Davidson.”
On the high probability that you have not been following the stupid news aka celebrity news, just type “Pete Davidson 10” into your favorite browser. The main reason I know anything about this is that Stephen Colbert make a joke about it. Not understanding his reference, but suspecting, I did a Google search.
This puts me in mind of an article I posted years ago, Penis Sizes Of World Religious Figures, which linked to the satirical article by Jim Goad of the same name, Penis Sizes Of World Religious Figures . At the bottom of that article was another link (I sweating from clicking all these links), 50 Women Talk About Having Sex With An Extremely Large (Or Extremely Small) Penis. All I can say is, “While I am the yin to your yang Pete, I am sorry, we all have crosses to bear.”
yeah I know you did not ask!
I have a recurring nightmare. I am somewhere in the afterlife, in a large room surrounded by all my old girlfriends and wives. Every single one of them is wanting a “debriefing”, a rehashing of our relationship. There is a cacophonous chorus of “we need to talk.” I can find no possible exit, the floor refuses to swallow me up, they all start in on me simultaneously.
Of course this is somewhat reminiscence of an episode of 3rd Rock from the Sun. The many ex-girlfriends of the French Stewart’s character, Harry Solomon, show up at the extraterrestrial’s apartment at the same time, much to his embarrassment and chagrin.
“Matrimony… the final frontier. These are the voyages of the Starship Casamiento Segundo, its until-death-do-us-part mission… to explore a strange new relationship… to seek out a new life and new adventures… to boldly go where no sane couple has gone before.”
Señora and I were sitting at the kitchen table partaking of our evening repast. She mentioned the upcoming birthday of a mutual acquaintance revealing that they were turning 70. This somewhat surprised me as I did not realize that they were about to achieve this “milestone”. Señora found this a little humorous.
I went on to say, “I don’t know how the f*** I got to be 70 years old.”
“You’ve managed not to croak this long,” she informed me, causing me to spew pasta upon the autumnal decorations anchoring the center of the table.
Words of wisdom from my own personal rhabdomancer.
yeah I know you did not ask!
This morning I was visiting with one of my Spanish tutors for conversational practice. This particular gentleman lives in El Salvador. I had been telling him about our trip to visit the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, NC. As conversations tend to do, we rambled, leading to our discussing property taxes which they do not have in El Salvador and most of the Central American countries.
“How nice,” I said, “we pay close to $6,000 a year on this house here in the St. Louis suburb of Chesterfield.” I then went on to explain that if we did not pay our property taxes the government would seize the house and sell it for those taxes.
To which he replied, “Basically then you are just renting from the government.”
He may have a point.