Barney Can't Carry A Tune To Save His Life, But Gomer Can?
Pink and blue hyacinths, crocuses of various colors sprinkled like stars all over the lawns, red tulips, yellow daffodils, both miniature and regular, all nodding in the intense breeze like fragrant little headbangers all grooving to Queen. . . .
What’s not to like about Spring?
Besides the mud, that is. The incessant, shoe-sucking, sock-drenching, tracked-in mud. . . .
But except for that, what’s not to like?
I can’t think of a thing, off-hand.
I do, ridiculously, resent the fact that “spring” is not supposed to be capitalized, but that is one of the few rules of standard English grammar that I take great pleasure in ignoring. I capitalize Spring. For winter, summer, and fall, I’m not so adamant, but Spring is too much like a human being not to be capitalized. I don’t even feel bad about not capitalizing ‘autumn,’ but then, autumn is not Spring.
It’s really here, too. I know it is. The wasps are out in full force today, and until we spray the deck, I can’t go out there barefoot any more. Plus, someone down the road mowed their grass yesterday and we can smell the cut grass-and-wild-onions all up and down our road. I love that smell.
And back in the woods, the ground is covered with Trilliums. This thrills me, it really does.
Obviously, since I’m sitting right here, I’m not outside breathing in the fresh air, but that’s because the sun is out in full force, and I can’t do that. Not any more. Gosh, back in the day, I used to mix baby oil and merthiolate and coat myself, and lay out by the side of the public pool to marinate. Now, a few minutes in the bright sunshine and my skin nearly explodes. Yes, I am the extremely large and really pale and pasty one, there in the corner. I have tons of hats, but I can’t stand for something to touch my head, so I just wait until darkness falls, like the vampire I so obviously am.
But I can see it all out the windows, and for now, that’s good enough.
Welcome, sweet capitalized Springtime, we greet thee in song.
Nightmare Number Three
You know how in some science fiction stories there’s a toxic being whose bodily presence shuts down computers and stops elevators in their tracks and causes cars to stall and makes the machines go all Benet? (bonus points for source) You don’t? Well, I think I was that person this weekend.
First of all, I tried to stop by the grocery store and was headed off at the pass by a teenager rounding up cars who told me that the store was having computer problems and nobody could enter. Furthermore, anybody already in the store, with stuff in their carts, had to stay until the computers were fixed if they wanted to take home their milk and Kraft cheese and Ben & Jerry’s.
So, I got back in the car and drove across town and stopped at another grocery store, only to be stopped in my tracks by a man in a white apron who was standing in front of the doors holding a big sign that said “computer problems, store is closed.” Well, so we didn’t have any milk Friday night. We survived.
Tonight, Hub and I decided to run into town and grab some Steak and Shake. We pulled into the parking lot, parked, got out, and were stopped at the door by the manager who was just in the act of taping a sign to the door, a sign that said, “computer problems, restaurant closed.”
I don’t know what distresses me more: that I had to wait to buy milk and Kraft cheese, or that we had to go to McDonald’s instead of Steak and Shake?
That every business I tried to patronize went computer-up the minute I approached it?
Actually, I think what distresses me most is that even though I realize that these businesses like to keep close tabs on inventory, eg having the computers in the first place, they all lost a LOT of business this weekend because apparently not one employee in any of the three buildings was smart enough to add up a column of numbers and add the tax, on paper.
I find this very, very scary.
The Golden Girls We're Not
Last night I met the Girlfriends at the Shoney’s Chinese. It was as it always is: wonderful. My old high school Girlfriends are still close, even though the years have made us even more different from each other than we were in our teens. We love each other, and we always will. Nothing has or ever could change that fact. We don’t always approve of each others’ choices, but why should we? There are no two of us even remotely alike, but again, so what? We sat there at a long table, chowing down and catching up with our lives, and it was as though nothing had ever changed: there we were, all together again, laughing at the same stuff (and different stuff, too; we ain’t static, ya know!) remembering the same people, going all Das Boot on certain happenings, and laughing. Oh, we’ve always laughed.
There are nine of us who are still close, no matter how far apart we might be forced to get. Last night, seven of nine (heh) were able to meet, and we sat around that table and became kids again. Most of us met in grade school, some of us in kindergarten. We’ve supported each other through marriages, divorces, kids, deaths, illnesses, tragedies, despair, and delight. I would share anything I had with any of them.
We have bonds. We have understandings. We have blackmail. . . . .
What we have, is history. We have a shared history.
So, Janice, Carol, Brenda, Rosie, Darla, and Jill, who were able to come last night. . . Vicki and Ann who couldn’t make it this time. . . . I loved you all back then and I love you all today.
Oh, and remember that heavy silver ID bracelet that Mike gave his girlfriends to wear, back in high school? That bracelet we all wore at one time or another? I had it first. And I had it several times after that, too. There was a time when that would be a ‘brag,’ but now it’s more of a sheepish admission of weakness. After all, he lived across the street; it was just too easy.
‘Till next time then, girls.
