The doctor suggested that we start making some lifestyle changes. One of those changes involves eliminating trip hazards. Or, if we do not eliminate them, to make them more apparent.
Today, I bought a dozen bells. Each dog now sports four of them on his collar. It sounds like Christmas around here. It is fitting. The German Shepherds give Reindeer a run for the money with regard to size.
The Boston Terrier is more of a trip hazard than the big dogs. He is sneaky and gets under foot. We run into the Shepherds. We trip over the Boston Terrier.
The bells are 20mm and the hurky-jerky movement of the terrier really lights them up. The German Shepherds are more sedate and they are quieter.
My new cell phone will be arriving from Fleabay on Saturday or Monday. Capital One and the United States Post Office have been incapable of putting my replacement credit card, my one-and-only credit card, into my hands. I feel very retro.
As I was checking out of the craft store, the cheerful young lady asked me, "What is your email?"
Blank stare. Pause. Look of consternation. "What's that?" I asked.
"Oh, you know. It is like when you get email." Pregnant pause. "Like...on your computer." She faltered.
It is inevitable that readers form mental pictures of the person whose work they read. I have carefully avoided posting pictures of myself. Trust me, it is much to our mutual advantage. Your mental picture of me can be whatever makes you comfortable.
In fact, I look as though I wheel all of my worldly belongings about town in a purloined shopping cart. My clothing is tattered, but not in a fashionable, $70 pair of jeans way. The rents and tears in my clothes are stitched back together by hand. The thread matches the clothing that I repaired, but only if the clothing is black. I bought a one pound spool of #69, black, nylon thread a few years ago and I still have a ways to go before it is gone.
I look as if I race 'possums for that last few licks in the bottom of cans of Little Friskies. Additionally, I am very capable of acting like a person in the grip of whatever exotic neuro-toxins may have been brewing in those last few licks.
And that is when I am dressed up for polite company. You don't want to see me when I am slumming.
Blank neuro-impaired stare. 300 baud rate audio. "What's that? Shemail?" I asked.
The cashier was very well trained. She took my money (the real, green kind). She made change without making anymore eye contact. She kept looking toward the back of the store as she bagged the bells. I was able to complete the transaction without being pestered for any private information.
I wish I was classy enough to honestly say that I dislike behaving that way. But I must be truthful. It is kind of fun every once in a while.