LitaWrites (real_lawyer) wrote,

Tossed Salad Friday

~~ As I am walking back to my car post-yoga, I spot a man exiting the liquor store carrying a bouquet of red roses and what looks like a bottle of champagne. Spontaneously (so not me) I say, “Enjoy your celebration!” He turns, says, “Wow!” then asks, “Are you a detective?” I laugh and say, “No, just psychic.”

~~ This:

~~ According to exit polling I’ve read, Trump voters don’t care who he alienates and insults, as long as he makes “good deals” and restores greatness. Interestingly, they don’t agree on when it was great before, with as many saying 2000 as 1950, but the majority agrees with Pat Buchanan, the original Ted Cruz, who seeks a return to a whiter, straighter, patriarchal USA.

~~ Buchanan, interviewed on NPR, also compared Trump favorably to Dwight Eisenhower. This has to be a giant punking of the country, right?

~~ You may think you’re relaxed, but you’ll never be Freddy on the stairs below my yoga bag relaxed:

~~ A good friend received a new knee and I’ve been trying to visit her. I came really close on Saturday, until the health aide announced, “I’m leaving.” And so she did.

~~ When it comes to aromas, I am hypersensitive. I can Princess & the Pea scents from quite a distance, but except for gasoline and other petroleum-based products, they don’t make me ill. A new aide arrived after Ms. Leaving left, and soon after, she commenced cooking an onion, tomato, meaty meal for herself. From three rooms away, I started to gag. My eyes burned and I am only slightly exaggerating when I write that the wallpaper was peeling. Tears were running down my face and I was short of breath.

I removed my contacts and doused my eyes with drops. Even after cleaning and disinfecting them overnight, the lenses singed my eyes the next morning. I had to toss them out — along with the money they cost me.

~~ In my refrigerator, there was a sealed carton of alcoholic root beer (called Not Your Father’s Root Beer). It belonged to my son and though I knew it existed, I never gave it a second thought once I moved it away from the shelves designated for the family member and the aide. Until I saw the aide chugging one while watching her patient. Shocked, I tell her that A) That’s alcohol, and B) That’s not yours to take. She replies, “It can’t be alcohol because I don’t feel buzzed.”

~~ I can’t even write about the tuna dumped on the cutting board with more onions or the incessant, atonal whistling. I just got writers’ block again.

~~ Before I go, I recommend reading this story of a middle school cast of Fiddler on the Roof who reunited many years later. It’s just a nice tale:
Have a great weekend!

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