Guilt time. I’m regretting some of my comments about the Sunday Morning Talking heads. A woman who watches in a chenille bathrobe should keep her mouth shut. However, since I’m already in swampwater, here’s an update from yesterday:
The Sunday Squawking Heads Report: Matthew Dowd didn’t appear on ABC’s This Week with George Stephanopoulos so no blue jean report this week. Over on NBC, David Gregory had traded his lavender tie for an orange one and in a funny coincidence, one of his guests had on the identical tie AND the same suit as David. Remember when Laura Bush rushed upstairs to change at a White House Christmas party after a guest showed up in the same red dress? Not so much with men, I guess.
Now, on the the moaning…
You know how time flies when you’re having fun? By the time 60 rolls around, it usually flies anyway, fun or not. I’ll plan on doing knitting something for a Christmas gift and suddenly it’s December 23 and I can’t even remember where I put the yarn.
I’m thinking that’s a good thing. Sometimes we’ll want to slow time down to enjoy every perfect moment, but during those times when we fear the our world has collapsed and things will never be right again, it helps to know that the hands of the clock still move. Tick…tick. We can get through anything one minute at a time. Remember that.
Still, I have known people who try to sleep late so that the day won’t seem so long with nothing to do and that always surprises me. Nothing to do? It took DB months to learn to do nothing after he retired. Now he does it quite well, but then he had me as a role model. With retirement, projects don’t have to be squeezed into weekends any longer. The problem with that is…without that deadline, the projects tend to…well, linger.
The deck we were going to paint last fall? We decided spring would do just as well, but haven’t picked up the sander so far this year. I’ve already taken the paint back to the store to be shaken twice now. The next shake trip is on Dearly Beloved.
Sometimes the urgency about a job has to do with whether one is from Mars or Venus. Exhibit A:
(Note: DB says this deserves more explanation. Hey. . . he’s welcome to comment!)
Last summer we gave away our dining room table here at the beach house-not-on-the-beach, the too long trestle table that stretched out into the entry hall. Son and Daughter-in-law offered to bring their round dining room table out of storage because it was too large for their loft apartment, just right for here.
The table top wouldn’t fit into their car. No problem, just bring the base. We’d get the top when we drove up Thanksgiving. Only a few months without it and you know… time flies.
That table top turned out to be larger than we thought, larger than the back door of our station wagon. We returned without it. That was last year. The top has long been rolled back into son’s closet and the base still sits in our dining room, 350 miles from its top half. We call it the pinhead table.
So how badly do we want that top. . . 350 miles in a U-Haul truck? We’re still thinking.
In the meantime, people are starting to think us anti-social. Remember the aliens in Men in Black, the ones that could shrink their heads like deflated balloons? We could accommodate a couple of them, provided they wouldn’t mind standing. Very long arms would be required if we used chairs. We could start with a small salad:
SOMEtime, before any of that, I must head for the garden and dig out the weed which grows freely because I’ve procrastinated about doing it right and just pulled them with my hands. Bad move. The white root that looks like a ghostly cocoon sends out thin stringy white roots in all directions, making a network of the obnoxious plants. The landscape guy said the weed is from Florida. While I can imagine it easily stringing its way up I-95, I’m not sure it came from Florida.
Wouldn’t it have headed, instead, for the Blue Ridge Mountains… like the rest of the Florida contingent does this time of year?
(Welcome to NC, Folks. Please leave your weeds at the border.)