How hard this it, the death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg before the Donald Trump nightmare can end. And the almost instant ability of Repblicans in the Senate to immediately abandon things they considered PRINCIPLE -- waiting until Americans have their chance to tune in by voting -- and say let's get a dependable conservative in there right now. We usually expect Mitch McConnell to be turn whichever way works, but maybe, just maybe, not all of his Republican folowers will fall into line. Lindsay Graham turned hypocrite with no problem, but perhaps this time Susan Collins will find her soul and not order the roast beef sandwich. (You can look that up probably.) And we go over the 200,000 death count right now from coronavirus. They slide past that so easily, the Senators never yelling at the president that he needs to DO something. We have reached a sorry place, including Bill Barr's comparison of virus rules like staying home and wearing a maska as secondonly to the "restraints" of slavery. The president should be invoking one of his fasvorite phrases: "It's sad." Yep. Lots of sad.
We said goodbye to Tracer on August 2, 2019. That day has turned out to last longer than most -- he was what my parents might have described, when I spent hundreds of dollars on his chemo, as "just a dog." Not so. He was just Tracer, every day going about his routines as if they were religious ritual -- the watch over food prep, the interest in the dishwasher, the hour at the hall window after breakfast in hopes that a rascally chipmunk or dashing squirrel would appear, the appearance in front of me at 9 p.m., the time of day when (after Milt's death) when I had habitually said "time for TV Tracer," and off we'd go to drop the blinds, turn on the TV and watch and snooze and watch. Around 11, before the chemo started, he'd get up and stare until I moved to take him out and put him to bed iin his crate. For 12 years, with a few memorable exceptions, he slept until his humans got up, or he waited quietly. He's in every corner here, and yet he's not. And the weeping of August 2 goes on, sometimes rushing out without warning. Like when he should be there to get a Frosted Mini Wheat, or two or three. Or the end of the banana.
It's hard to know when exactly "elderly" starts, but certainly I've tried to hold the term at bay Read More
Now it's apparently high fashion. And the pants are much lower. A guy bends to pick up anything, and there's the beginnings of his butt. He stands up, hitches up his pants and goes on his way. But the pants are too big, the belt nearly useless, and one wonders how seemingly hipless males are able to keep their pants from just falling to the ankles.
It happened at the post office the other day. Too much information. Not fashion. Perhaps, given the falling-down possibility, not even comfortable. At the risk of being labeled "fuddy-duddy," for which I qualify easily in age, I don't like it. Didn't even laugh the last time the plumber came. Read More