It’s not just the sky, mind you.
Every Monday, rain or shine, sickness or health, the blue trash and recycling trucks that work our cul-de-sac toot their horns for the two little girls next door, who jump up and down in the driveway, shrieking with delight.
The drivers don’t have to do this. It’s not part of the job description. But they do it anyway.
So in case you’re starting to wonder whether any hope remains … I’d say yeah. It rolls by twice every Monday in a big blue truck.
Herself just swung through the start-finish for another lap around the sun.
We’re celebrating by hosing each other down with bleach, hoarding canned goods, and watching our portfolio turn into more of a postcard.
And about time, too. I’m tired of listening to the technologically besotted as they totter hither and yon, chattering boisteriously with their invisible friends. Send them to Coventry.
As I finished yesterday’s run I entered El Rancho Pendejo to wild applause and cheers.
I grinned, threw both hands in the air, and finally bowed before remembering that I’d left KUNM on to deter burglars and some pissant orchestra on “Performance Today” was stealing my thunder.
Well, it wasn’t as though I’d set a PR anyway.
And don’t believe your lyin’ eyes. No matter what that photo shows, I was not running in shorts. Well, I was, but they were under tights, and I was rockin’ two long-sleeved tops plus a tuque and gloves, too. I may be crazy, but I’m not insane. Cold out there! Colder than a ticket-taker’s smile at the Ivar Theatre on Saturday night.
Speaking of emotional weather reports, the forecast remains uncertain in Alabama. Talk about putting the vise grips on our mental health. I’m old enough to remember when we sent short-eyes to jail instead of the Senate.
https://twitter.com/crysomemore/status/785230921922469888
(Hat tip to S.Reed.)
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