I absolutely, positively, cannot think of a thing to write. My world is filled with barking and howling dogs. And has been since 3:00 this afternoon. The neighbors have evidently, accidentally, left their doodle outside. I say accidentally because this has never happened before. Maybe he let himself out and now he can’t get back, like some sort of wormhole. I don’t know, all I know is he’s been barking since three o’clock. It is now 9:30. That is a LOT of barking. He is tireless. And when he really gets to feeling sorry for himself, he gets to howling. At which time, Chester gets empathetic and pitches in. Several dogs in the neighborhood beyond also accompany them. It’s truly a cacophony and I’m about to pull my eyebrows out, one by one. Yes, I could text my neighbor and make sure everything is ok. But I don’t want to worry them if they can’t get home, or can’t send somebody to check. And I don’t know how to put it nicely, “please come home and shut your dog up, he’s driving us all crazy”. I’m not known for my warm bedside manner. Because I feel certain Chester barks when I’m gone. Surely not nonstop like this, but really, who’s to say? And I don’t have a key, so no, I can’t go put him up myself. Lalalalala…..my aunt just text…

“He was one of them guys.” He looked at me to see if I understood. I did, and I willed him with my eyes to continue. “…one of them guys…you know, one of them guys you can’t get away from and you don’t want to.” There was more, but he didn’t say, because he knew I knew. But probably also because I said, “keep talkin’, you’re soundin’ like a blog post.” We all know “them guys”. They worked a job that required skill of their hands and strength of their back. They wear plaid shirts with snaps and the left pocket carries a small spiral notebook, a Bic pen, and a pack of Marlboro reds. Their dark denim jeans show a little wear in a spot or two, maybe a frayed hole from battery acid, maybe some stubborn grease streaks. The pockets bulge with keys, five dollars in change, a lighter, and a yeller three blade Case pocketknife. These men have arms that are tanned and sinewy, scratched and scarred from countless battles with brush, machinery, barbed wire, and their oldest son, who went through a biting phase. They wear a gimme cap from the feed and seed or tractor dealership without fail, not to cover up the grey but because they always had. They were naked without it. And their boots. No fancy doins there, either. Scuffed, muddy, worn, heavy, and brown. A low heel. No pointed toe. Boots that have…

It is the first day of spring. I hope you found a way to enjoy it outside in the breezy brightness, with the budding trees and the thickening grass. I was running around the picturesque East Tennessee countryside for most of the day, admiring fields of fescue coming in strong from recent rains and 70 degree temperatures, and daffodils in ditches, and cows making the most of it, picking with gusto. But no early spring day is complete without noting the invasion of my enemy tree, the Bradford Pear. But we’re going to overlook that in favor of the productive day spent in the company of a dear friend, a longtime friend, a good friend who needed a good day. And he got it. Do you all sometimes pause and realize that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be in that moment? That maybe, just maybe, we aren’t just floating along, happenstance, and a billion moments have connected and aligned to put us right where we are? Last night when I was up half a dozen times, I tried very hard not to come all the way awake. But I remember praying almost every time that today wouldn’t have any hiccups, that things would move smoothly along, that our plan be His will, as well. And best I can tell, it was. It wasn’t without hiccups, but it was close enough, and it’s kinda like people will tell you on your wedding day…

The Pollening has begun. And it’s all the Bradford Pears fault. I feel itchy and gross. I was told today that people relate to my writing and like it because it’s real. I’m not trying to make it seem like my life is unicorns and sparkles all the time. I’m not gonna just write about the highlights and lead you to believe I’m having this perfect experience in life. No, that’s not my style. I’m tripping, I’m slipping, I’m falling, I’m spilling, I’m making a mess and causing a hazard everywhere I go. And right now I feel like I might have a touch of food poisoning to go along with my allergies. I sure hope not, lots of things to do tomorrow and I need to be in tip-top supportive mode and able to make sound decisions. So speaking of fake, and I may have written about this before, but these books that everybody claims to have read…I’m reading 1984 right now and it’s slow going for me because it’s a mass market paperback edition so the print is small and it’s not very comfortable to hold. I never thought I’d be on the e-reader bandwagon but these things are great for indoor reading when you have low light. I also like the built in dictionary. Very handy. But I haven’t found a way to avoid the glare when…

I don’t know Kim Rogers, but I hate her. Her clothing line for Belk evidently runs small, because I find my “normal” size is a bit snug if it carries her label. So I have to size up, and this perturbs me. Life ain’t fair, I’ve known this all along, but clothing should be! I dated myself today. One of my friends purchased her daughter a car for her birthday and posted a picture on Facebook. It looked like a dern nice one, much better than what my friends and I drove at sixteen. I commented, “Sharp!” After posting I thought, “Nobody says that anymore. Not even Boomers. That’s it. I will never be cool again.” Not there was ever much hope. I love it when people say they like my house. It’s nothing special, but I’m proud of it. I think I’ve succeeded in making it a home. Almost all my possessions are objects I’ve collected around on my travels. Of course the books make it cozy. There’s usually something cooking or maybe a cake under the glass dome. I’m trying to cut back on those, though. I try to keep it tidy, but there is always errant dog hairs here and there. And Amy hairs. But I feel like if you like my house, you like me, because my home is a direct reflection of me. And, it would stand to reason, you probably wouldn’t be welcome…

“Write of what you know,” Mrs Tipton told my tenth grade English class. But what I know is no longer useful to those who lead lives so startlingly different than my own. I know nothing of long marriages, but instead, ill-fated love. I don’t know about securing a career right out of college, and being compensated fairly. It is a mystery to me, the act of raising children, or having a healthy relationship with my parents. I can’t tell you the first thing about iPhones or popular television programs or streaming services. I couldn’t list five current celebrities if you held a gun to my head, or anything about winning sports teams. I haven’t a clue what’s trending in clothes, or how I should be applying eyeliner. I haven’t a clue about diets or workouts. I cannot do sums in my head or use a sewing machine. But I know about true friends, and fake ones, too. I know what it’s like to travel alone, to a destination hundreds of miles away that I’ve never visited. I am well versed in sitting in a quiet house all day, flipping pages of a book and cooking a pasta dish from a recipe I stumbled across online. I understand how it feels to not want to get up and do it again but you have to, because there is no one to bail you out. I’m familiar with being on my knees…

It has been an altogether pleasant day. I slept in, made me half a pot of coffee, and drank it quite leisurely, with my sweet dog at my side. So very much at my side, in fact, that I’m thinking of changing his name to Barnacle. I could call him Barney for short. Then I decided to clean the winter gunk from my patio table and dine alfresco. It was late for breakfast, but I wasn’t having a Bloody Mary, so I hesitate to call it brunch. Food just tastes better outside. I don’t care if it’s just a bologna sandwich, or peanut butter and crackers, there’s just something about the sun on your face and the wind in your hair. I watched a woodpecker sail right into the hole in the dead tree and clouds puff across the robins-egg-blue sky. I watched all the cars race by, people on an important mission to do things they probably didn’t even want to do. People who would probably be bored to death sitting on a porch watching woodpeckers and eating biscuits with their dog glued to their side. I wasn’t bored, but I was procrastinating. Saturday is housework day. But I got everything vacuumed and dusted and swept and scrubbed. I did not strike a lick at laundry or cleaning my furniture, as is my custom on time change weekends. Yes, I am aware I’m a week late on the time…

I have eaten the awfullest mess of garbage today that ever was. Just like I didn’t learn a thing from Thursday night’s escapade. Oh well. It was a rainy, stormy morning here in East Tennessee and I just couldn’t see the effort in driving to work and spending the day with Sniveling Jake. So I didn’t. And I’m glad of it, I’ve had a rather cozy day here eating whatever didn’t eat me. I feel like I stayed on the phone all day, and checking my log, it appears I pretty much did, from 10-6. Not all work, but some. But you gotta keep up on current developments with friends. And I did get my latest Lisa Jewell book knocked out mere moments ago. It was a hum– dinger and I recommend it to those of you who like “what if” type books or books about amnesia. The title was The Truth About Melody Browne. I liked it, I liked it a lot. Some adulting things I’d like to share: stop buying Rice-a-roni, the San Francisco treat. It pales in comparison to Uncle Bens. I know Uncle Bens fell victim to the marketing attack a few years ago, and I also know it’s a smidgen more expensive, but I’m telling you, it’s worth it. It cooks better, it tastes better, and it makes more. Adulting #2: like everybody else and their brother, I have Pyrex…