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Monthly Archives: February 2017
This is the first time in many years the thought of spring doesn’t fill me with dread. Spring doesn’t mean EXACTLY the same thing in Co-op circles as it means for most people. For the majority, spring means warmer weather, maybe thinking about planting a garden, or putting in a pool, going to the lake, planning barbeques. Spring at the Co-op means an absolute onslaught of people, demanding grass and vegetable seeds, fertilizer, herbicides, pesticides, you name it. Spring means a season of calves brought in thunderstorms by heifers, the constant nuisance of flies, and the persistant worry of when the rain’s coming-will it be soon enough? Can it hold off till you get this last field spread? Old men and new farmers haggle over buggies and sprayers and sod drills. They raise Cain that the price of chemicals are cheaper by three dollars the next county over. They gripe and complain about being subjected to “all these changes” and “you about can’t make a livin’ anymore, with you a-robbin’ us blind!” Yes. Clearly, I’m the one to blame. There’s the warehouse screaming on the radio to quit sellin’ Kennebec seed potatotes, how many times do they have to tell us we’re out till Houser gets back from Tenco? The phones are ringing with people wanting to know when…
I love American Pickers, in case you didn’t know. I hope they stay current on their tetanus shots. We watched the entire season (except the season finale) of Alone yesterday. The History channel makes this cable business worthwhile. If we forget to DVR the last episode of Alone Thursday night, I will potentially inflict harm to something. I don’t know what yet. There is a bottle of Texas Pete on the coffee table. Johnny has forgotten about it, but will remember when he reads this. Why are they called coffee tables, reckon? I googled a lot of stuff today. It started with Excel taking my numerical data out of cells and replacing it with the date. I was all for blaming a poltergeist but turns out it’s programmed that way. Weird. Then we came across a social security number that started with “003”, which sounds fake, or George Washington’s social, but with the aid of Google I learned that that is what people who are born in New Hampshire are branded with. Also, the 000’s, 666’s, and 900’s are not used. Neither are some 700’s, because they were retired after something happened with the railroad. (??) I mean, you just never know what you’re gonna get with me. I celebrated 8 months at my current job today. That’s quite the feat, considering I didn’…
I’m sitting at Food City waiting for my first ever swap meeting. I’m a bit skittish. However, I have Annie safely tucked in beside me. I’m sure there are some perverts or sex trafficking conartists who seek out especially girly Craigs List ads to prey upon young women. My social media adept cousin set up this rendezvous for my sunny leggings I had aimed to wear with my UT orange. Turns out the only color that looks worse on me than white is yellow. We’re meeting at the grocery store because, for my part, it’s well lit and busy. I reckon the lady’s son works here and she gave him the cash for the goods. He sounds young, pimply, and harmless. So I backed in out here by the highway by an old red Ford pickup. I’m early. Before long, here comes this stocky teenager loping across the parking lot towards me with purpose. This is it, I think, ready to hop out with my reject lularoe and a winning smile. I bet he embarrasses easily, and it’s probably a pain for him to pick up his momma’s purchases all the time (I could tell she was experienced from the way she made arrangements via text). Maybe he gets a dollar or two to do her bidding. Maybe she upped the ante since it’s Superbowl Sunday. Just…
My black cashmere sock has resurfaced after a good year and a half. You are perhaps wondering what would possess me to hang onto one mismatched sock for so long. Well, the reason is threefold. One, it’s cashmere. It was expensive, as far as socks go. And I knew that if I were to ever buy a replacement pair, I would undoubtedly, at some point, lose one of them. So then I would still have a complete pair. But look at THESE. So cute and affordable. Secondly, things have a way of disappearing and reappearing around here at a somewhat alarming rate (as you may have noticed). I’ve learned to roll with it. Usually they don’t stay missing for long. This particular sock must have been having a really epic adventure. I guess the rich really do have more fun. And no, I have nothing to do with these possessions that come and go like mosquito bites. It’s merely a hazard of living with a scatterbrained writer. And finally, I mean, how much room does one sock take? Hardly any. It cost me nothing to leave it when I organized my sock drawer last weekend (no, really, it’s true. Don’t envy my crazy rockstar lifestyle). So anyway, it magically appeared tonight when I went down to the laundry room and gathered up some odds and ends from the table. I know my darling husband didn’t have…
