Are you kidding me?

Okay, I'm ticked.

We are ticked.

One of the daughters stopped in for a visit and we are grateful for that.

But.

During the course of the evening she casually mentioned that we should consider moving into assisted living quarters.  "This place is just too much for you," she said.

Oops.

Okay, so the vacuum cleaner has not been run in over a week, the layer of dust on the horizontal surfaces is less than an inch thick, and the cob webs sparkle in the light hither and thither.

But.

The lawn is mowed and edged, the gutters are clean, and from the outside no one can see what is inside.

And.

Darn few people ring our doorbell.

Actually, the woman may be right.  But please allow us a few moments of disgruntlement.  I mean, we thought she would be the one that would want us to move into her home when we reached our dotage.

(While the above is true, I share it in fun.  No one is mad at anyone.  I think.)

From a Year ago Today

Fair Exchange

Verily he shall do the dishes whose spouse prepareth the meal. 
--Duderonomy 3:17

 

And I still do the dishes after consuming the delicious meals.

Bureau of Artifacts

Leave it to a woman and this is what happens.  I have maintained my bureau drawers for a few years now.  The drawers were carefully lined with newspaper, Kokomo Tribune actually.  The papers were even trimmed to fit the bow front drawers.

Now for whatever reason the lady of the house decides it is time to update the linings so she rips the papers out.  How can I be upset?  What a stroll down memory lane.

For starters we have "The Boys of October" all set for the Dodger/Yankee World Series of 1956!

And we find that the President of the United States on his first-ever visit to a WS game throws out the first ball.  

More to follow.

Watchamacallit. #T

Monday's story at one point featured a thunder mug.  Pictured here is our chamber pot, complete with lid, unlike the one sold by Eli.  Yes, we have one.  An unused item, to be sure, but there it is nevertheless.

Writing about this appliance sent me on a trip via the Wayback Machine as my friend Chuck calls it.

In 1942 we were living in Canon City, Colorado.  We had all the conveniences of running water but the flush toilet was situated in its own building at the alley.  Generally speaking I believe it was the rule that one relieved himself before bedtime and he was expected to perform next in the morning on rising. This would not work for me now.

In June of that year my parents made a trip to Owosso, Michigan where the father was a delegate to the Quadrennial General Assembly of his church.  They boarded us with their close friends Eldon and Leah Bolander whom we referred to as "Brother and Sister Bolander."  Kiddies did not under any circumstances call their elders by their first names, nor did they refer to them that way.  The Bolanders had a daughter, Grace, who is three years my senior.  My sister Vee is three years my junior.

A distinct memory involves doing dishes after the meal.  I recall a chastisement I received from Sister Bolander on one occasion when it was my turn to dry.  I had set down a plate in the stack of dried dishes when the hostess stepped beside me to inspect the work.  "David," she said, "this won't do.  This dish is crying.  See, there are still tears running down its face."

And now to the chamber pot.  There was a slop jar in the guest room.  It was kept under the bed and its use was explained to us.  Yet we were strongly encouraged to avoid the necessity of availing ourselves of its use, for if it were utilized it should have to be emptied properly and scoured clean first thing in the morning.  I think I never used it.

Doing Laundry

We have a little washer,
Load the clothes at top
Then swishy, swishy, swashy,
Makes the colors pop!

But this washer is an inside-outer
Now hear my tale, don't be a doubter
We load the T-shirts, wash and spin
Open the door and reach within.

The shirts are outside in!

Simple solution you might think
Turn shirts inside out and drop in drink
Voila! the shirts will be turned
Not a chance, your theory's burned.

This appliance is an outside-inner
Won't turn shirts inside in
So nevermind, your chore is set
On this certainty you can bet.

Before you fold that shirt to fit in drawer
You'll turn that sucker
Sleeve, sleeve, bottom through the neck
Or you could wear the seams outside, look like heck

Thursday is washday.  BZZZZZ!  Dryer's done; gotta go fold clothes.

Another laundry story here.

Fair Exchange

Verily he shall do the dishes whose spouse prepareth the meal. 
--Duderonomy 3:17

Spring Chores

Sunny and eighty, so we get nuts and mow the yard.   Plant a few seeds.  Then we really go crazy: wash all (14) floor-to-ceiling glass panels in the sunroom.  Inside and out.

We're tired.

But blessed in that we are able to do this stuff. Slowly, we admit, but we get 'er done.

Double Aggravaton

When a shirt is placed on a hanger the top button must be fastened.
--Rules of the Laundry According to She Who Must Be Obeyed.

I do not fasten the top shirt button when I wear the shirt, yet I must follow this protocol which inflicts double aggravation upon me, to wit, the aggravation of buttoning the button when the shirt is hangered and the further grief I experience when I want to wear the shirt and have to unfasten the thing.

One might think, quite incorrectly as it turns out, that the fact that I do laundry, fold clothes, and hang shirts and trousers would be quite enough.  No-o-o.  I must do it according to the rules as established by SWMBO.

Really, I have no room for complaint, for even as I record this little diatribe, she prepares my dinner. Were it not for her cooking, I'd pretty much be reduced to canned soup and cold-cut sandwiches. And her cooking is well-worth the effort it takes for me to button a couple of collars.  And then some.

Thank you, BBBH!