Cat owners (“staff”) will understand what I mean about the cat hair thing. I not only wear it, I eat it. It also regularly gets into my eyes, where it lives for days at a time, hugging my eyeball until it decides to release its grasp. Eyedrops don’t help loosen the grip, but they do add more tears to the already tearful eye.
Working from home affords the luxury of wearing a robe most of the day – OK, all of the day. Robe is the new sweater. Cat owners (“staff”) will also understand that you can’t wear a robe without wearing cat hair on your robe.
I used to have more than a handful of pet peeves. But over time, and most likely since the passing of my mother three years ago, combined with the daymare that was the pandemic, and so many changes overall within and without, my pet peeves have dropped off significantly.
I wouldn’t say they’ve disappeared altogether. For example, people not returning shopping carts to the shopping cart bay, or to the front of the store is irritating, but it’s a small speck in the landscape. I’d rather return it to the bay or give it to an elderly person as I’m on my way back to the bay, than to stew about people not returning shopping carts.
I still notice when people ding my car with theirs and seemingly don’t care, but that really says more about them than it does about me. And it’s not something I can control. Thinking about things you can’t control is a waste of time. Others’ behaviors such as lying or cheating would still have the ability to overwhelmingly cause me to see red, but that is their behavior not mine. And it reflects on them not me. All I can do is not lie and not cheat and put my cart back in the bay and help the older person and shrug off the ding on my car. There are other things that I want to do with my days, and they don’t include throwing attention at things I cannot control. I believe that love and loss teach you what is important in life, and having experienced overwhelming loss of love and loss of the way life was at precisely the same moment in time, I can assure you from my standpoint, nothing else really matters. Let the peeves go, Jeeves.
It seems as if our friend Daily Prompt has had some type of family drama occur this past weekend. Perhaps it was the Thanksgiving holiday, if Daily Prompt celebrates, that led to this question of loyalty among people. Did Daily Prompt experience a falling out? I suppose we will never know, but I hope Daily Prompt returns to us tomorrow with spirits renewed.
Here’s an old photo of my cat, Bubba. Because cats make everything better. Feel better soon, Daily Prompt.
Kitty – the First AcquisitionBowser (Bowsie) – the Second Acquisition Mama Kitty – Third Acquisition with *bonus* Fourth, Fifth and Sixth Acquisitions included inside Bubba – the Fourth Acquisition – my best friend and his cat family’s source of exasperation Susie – the Fifth Acquisition Rafa – the Sixth Acquisition “Will” – the Bonus Acquisitions’ father (we think) Star – Not My Cat ™️
If you could meet a historical figure, who would it be and why?
I want to know why her sister Cassandra destroyed all of their letters to each other, and if Jane’s novels were based on true stories. I want to know if she was proposed to, and if she denied her suitor because she was fiercely independent, or for another reason. I also want to know how she died. Was it Addison’s disease? Lymphoma? I would like to sit down and have a cup of tea, a scone, and a chat with Jane. I’d like her opinion on the casting of Mr. Darcy over the years. I kind of think that she would agree with me that Colin Firth is the only true Mr. Darcy, but I need definitive confirmation on that from Ms. Austen.
One is born with instincts. Intuition is learned. Intuition would therefore be more likely to be trustworthy. But even then, one can’t make decisions based on intuition alone. Do I trust my intuition to make decisions? Partially, but intuition doesn’t get the full say here. We’ve got to look at facts and reasoning and all that higher level thinking stuff, as well.
Green grass under my feet, warm winds swirling about my head, making my hair dance. Lightning bugs. Daylight extending into evening, cicadas, all the flowers in bloom with bumblebees and honeybees and tough but harmless carpenter bees swirling about. Memories of previous Julys spent helping in the garden, digging in the sand at the beach, hanging laundry on clotheslines in the backyard. The feel of heat as a blanket wrapped around the body. The toes never get chilled. The fingers never feel like ice. Socks are not even a thought. Clothing is one layer, not twelve. Fall and winter are distant, disruptive thoughts. July is memory of warmth as the sun smiles at you from two feet away.
“It's Amy,” I said. 