Even in this small and insignificant place,

where I come to write once in a while, it is not private.

When I posted the last post, I got this page that is in-between the writing of the post and the viewing of the blog.  In those few seconds between writing and viewing, this ad appeared on that 'tween page.  Lordy.

Frozen tuna casserole.  The egg noodles are good.  The celery is not good at all.  Not sure where the tuna went.  However, the peas make up for everything.

I am happy to be your friend.  I am glad to be able to take you out for shopping, or meals, or just to go somewhere for coffee and an hour or two of conversation.  Really.  I know that you are lonely and I am, again, happy to be your main social contact.  Truly.  That said, I am not certain that I am able to take you out for many more of these long days. 

I am still feeling ill and Easter Sunday brunch yesterday would have been so much fun if it had been only three or four hours.  Arriving back home at 10:00 p.m., I must admit, was way too late. 

We can still go to the big city for one of those thirteen hour days of lunch, shopping, sitting and talking, dinner, talking and all the rest.  Then, later, I think we need to talk about this.  At least a little.  Huh? 

Rhubarb, I love your hearty efforts to survive everything you have endured for the past three years.  The transplanting, the stomping and tromping, the late season, wintry weather.  Even a covering of April snow has done nothing to offend or inhibit you.  You just shoot your brilliant crowns up through the still-chilled soil and unfurl your dreamy green leaves.  I need to find my inner rhubarbness so that I am not feeling distraught over my own snow bonnet.  Metaphorically speaking, but you already know that.

I had to decline a new opportunity because of the last thing that happened with that gallery manager.  On Friday I was offered major space and I just kind of said that I was no longer exhibiting, mostly because I do not want to rehash what happened or even re-experience those feeling from earlier this year.  When the gallery owner replied that that was not possible and kept staring at me, waiting for some kind of an explanation, I realized that it might be true.  I might not have the heart to show my work anymore. 

I am simplifying my schedule.  I have eliminated three obligations and moved four more to different days.  With any luck, I will have three or four days each week for taking care of my older ladies, for cleaning better around here, for spending more time with my grandbabies, napping, sewing, napping.

The difference between all the past months and May is astounding.  May looks positively empty.  I am not sure that the future will find me all that happy about releasing some of these obligations, but for now, it seems wonderful.

In releasing my attachment to judging other people, I seem to be more stuck on critique, criticism and nit-picking on myself.  I am a slacker of the highest degree and deserve that kind of observation and correction.  I am hoping that my desire and efforts to improve myself, and all of the attendant issues, can keep pace with the urgent attention paid to how much have I still have do and how far I still have to go. 

I am running as fast as I can.

Simple thoughts

McDonald's will not serve you water.  They have water, they just will not let you have any.

The robins thought it was safe enough to come back north.  I am guessing that the past 2 1/2 days of snow and freezing temperatures were not on this year's schedule.  I know that it was not on the rhubarb's schedule.

Yesterday was A's birthday.  His friend, M, from school, was cute, funny and a handful.  His parents are sure to age prematurely.  I hope they have factored that into their life plan.  I really do.  My C was a handful and I never thought to plan ahead.

I am weary of sitting here at McDonald's, and my soon to be accomplished return to the car repair place seem to be almost more than I can handle.  Last night, when my sore throat, sore glands, sore sinuses and sore head were making sleep impossible, I begged to not be sick again.  Please, I implore you, body, do not be sick.  I do not have time to be sick.  More importantly, I do not have the heart to keep getting sick.  I accept a crappy immune system and seriously impaired mucus membranes.  I do.

Last night, the prospect of being ill again, so soon, only since the end of January, for cryingoutloud, was discouraging enough to have me thinking about an overdose of something.  That I do not have anything capable of producing an overdose seemed to not be an obstacle last night.  Today, the daylight, gloomy as it is, allows me to see the flaws in that plan.

I mean, you can no longer overdose on acetaminophen any more.  At best, you will just lose a leg and the final shreds of respect that your family holds for you.  If you have any doubts, just ask S.

When you are visiting your daughter and her family for three months, just following Christmas, it is not in your best interest to precede your departure to her house with a week's worth of fighting. 

If you do, on the two days when you have your catarracts removed, your daughter will refuse to hire someone to come in and be with you whilst everyone else in the household is at work or school, and she will leave you to spend the remainder of each surgery day in a restaurant.

You will have money for lunch and coffee and, maybe, cake, but you will not be able to see well enough to find your way to the restroom.  You and your ancient bladder will have to rely on the kindness of strangers to help you pee.  This one is not about me.

It is important, if not actually essential, to avoid laughing out loud when two men in very expensive suits walk into the McDonald's (where you are waiting whilst your car is being repaired next door) and one of them asks the counter clerk, "So, what's good today?" and then stands there and stares at her until she begins to recite the menu, which is posted on the wall behind her.

Especially when that man orders for the other man, and they end up with fries, one Big Mac (which they split), two soft drinks and a dipped cone.  Lordy.

Especially when he turns and you see that it is your old boss.  I mean, you heard his voice every day, for years.  Failing to recognize him sooner must be your heart, trying to protect your psyche from those memories.

This simple girl is taking her prescription cough medicine, her antihistamines, her nose goo, her pain meds, her mentholated chest rub, her snugly blankie, her book, a couple of cats, her simple thoughts and going to bed.