Writing prompt: “What could you do less of?”
Well, overthinking, for one. Reading comments on public posts, for another. Neither one do me a bit of good and I become pretty short tempered and disgusted with humankind (and myself). So maybe I’ll start this next week by limiting myself on Facebook. Although, I have had the timer set for an hour for several months now. That’s not very much. It only takes one comment section to aggravate me, though, so I don’t think a timer is the answer.

I finished The Magnificent Lives of Marjorie Post. My favorite quote that sums up the entire book was buried in the acknowledgements: “She lived through four very different and very passionate love stories, taking on four different last names, only to return finally to the very name that had been hers all along. In my opinion, this is ultimately the story of a woman finding her own indelible strength and identity, and embracing a power and a life force that set her apart. Is this a love story? Yes, it is many different love stories and I believe the most powerful one of all is the love story that Marjorie Merriweather Post ultimately found with herself.” The book irked me a little. Despite all her philanthropic work, and her travels, and the ability to sail through the Great Depression and two world wars, the book concentrated primarily on her husbands. Another book was suggested by the author at the end that I plan to look into because Miss Post seems to be someone to be admired and studied: American Empress. She really was the Cereal Queen, but so much more.

I went out to my aunt’s a little after three, as promised, to work on the closet and her tree. That closet!! Lord help me. But of course she wanted to put it off till we started to pack everything up. I’m usually not involved in that, and she knows it, so I suspect this was her way of trying to get out of it. I’ll out a call in to Kevin if she delays much longer.
Speaking of Kevin, he didn’t call or send any pictures from over the weekend, as he said he would. I didn’t really miss them, but it did wound my feelings slightly. I like seeing pictures of the food, I don’t really care about the people. I was thankful he didn’t want to Facetime. Maybe I hurt his feelings when I said so.

Anyway, I got the tree situated with Uncle Dale critiquing from the mantle. I could just hear him. “Pilgrim, that bow ain’t straight. There’s a hole as big as your head, you need to do something there. I see you eyein’ my pinecones! Don’t you be carryin’m off!”
I miss him so much.
Brenda got his shirts folded up that were in the big closet upstairs. I couldn’t imagine taking them out of the regular closet just to relocate and deal with three years later. But at least she has a plan: she’s got them promised to the church for a mission. She also pulled out empty shoe boxes to throw away. That was as far as she got on the closet clean out.
Sigh. I guess it’s a start. A very pitiful one, but a start. I can’t tolerate all that clutter.
She’d sat down to “take a break” and of course, conversation predictably led to food. She mentioned she’d like to have some hot, greasy Krystals. “Mmmm,” said I, just out of habit.
“Let’s go!” she took my mild agreement as full endorsement.
“I don’t know…” I hedged.
“It’s just six thirty!!!!”
Like that was the problem. “I’ve got that roast to eat,” I reminded her. I knew I’d get roped into an all evening affair, that’s why I didn’t come out at 1:30 as she’d initially suggested. I had already signed on for two episodes of Yellowstone. I was looking at 9:00, as it was. I was spared from making further excuses as Howdy pulled in, returning her car. He took his shoes off, sat down, and crossed his legs so I knew, despite what he said, we were in for a lengthy visit. I got to hear, for the FIRST TIME, about his ’76 Corvette. I was like, “Here all this time I thought you were smart, but now I’m finding out you had a Corvette and sold it??!?!!”
“I had to work on it all the time. I was working for Coke, and I’d drive it Monday through Friday, then spend the weekend working on it.”
I never did learn the source of the issue, something about it had ten of something. I guess most cars only have two and they last a lot longer. I don’t know, all I know is they’re beautiful and I have always loved them. “They’re not like a regular car,” Howdy told me.
“Oh, I know that!”

Brenda went and got her purse to edge him on out the door. You know how it is once you get Krystals on the mind. Plus, Donna had called and said she was ready to go eat, too, so he was fixing to be in the doghouse if we didn’t all get a move on.
We deduced that Strawberry Plains is quicker than Sevierville, so off we went. “Are we going inside or taking it back?” she asked me when we pulled in.
“Lets just eat here so they don’t stink up your car.”
I have not been inside a Krystal in years. It was very bleak. There are no extras whatsoever: no decor of any kind, no self serve drink and ketchup station. It is bare bones.
I couldn’t help but snicker. I wanted to take a picture to commemorate the occasion, but my hair was greasy and I didn’t have on a stitch of makeup. Par for the course, really. There was nobody else there, besides the workers. And the best part, I was wearing my “That’s a terrible idea. What time?” Sweatshirt. I really should have just gone ahead with the selfie.
The workers seemed to get along, which was a surprise. The girl appeared to have a very strong attitude. We claimed our booth, still crumb-and-tiny-onion strewn from previous guests, and looked at each other and laughed.
Krystals. A lasting legacy.

A younger couple came in and chose the seats at the bar area, looking out into the parking lot. A middle aged man came at a quick clip around the front. I wondered if the big windows were so that people could see if we were getting mugged or killed in there. And here I was, without my gun.
I decided he was just a hungry trucker after I heard him order. He’d be alright after he got some grub. I bet working at a Waffle House or a Krystal gives you allllll kinds of life experiences. I wouldn’t make it through the first night of waiting on a bunch of repugnant drunks. And imagine what you’d get right here at the interstate! No thanks. But I need to remember if I ever get tired of the writing prompt suggestions or I hit a wall on what I want to write about. Pull up a stool here and just watch. I guess that’s why Sean Dietrich is always expounding on the Awful Waffle.

We made it back home without gastrointestinal difficulties and got caught up on Yellowstone. That show makes my heart race. And it makes me depressed. I don’t know why I watch it. Nothing good ever happens. And now it’s clearly the end, and it’s not the end I wanted. Imagine that. Taylor Sheridan, you’re the debbil.