I've skipped a few Saturday posts (also Sunday thru Friday ones), but I'm here today to share a song with you. This one's been around for about fifteen years, best I can tell, but I'd never heard it until it played in the background of a recent TV show. I downloaded it immediately and have listened to it dozens of time since then. It's a short, sweet song, sort of a little prayer like those I imagine we've all whispered from time to time. Enjoy!
The song is "Don't Let Us Get Sick," by Warren Zevon.
Thanks to This Is Not An Exit for posting the video on YouTube. Click here to read the lyrics.
It seems to be getting harder and harder for me to organize my thoughts and retain them long enough to sit down and work them into a coherent post here. They're too scattered, entering my mind like tabloid headlines read in the supermarket checkout line with no point-by-point stories to clarify them. Here's a sampling, not necessarily in chronological order:
I should put away the folded laundry. Nah, there's no rush. I can read another chapter.
Donald Trump leads in the polls. Is that not the scariest thing ever? Do people think he just landed in the limelight yesterday with pockets full of money? Have they read nothing at all about his ruthlessness in business and in life? About the total disrespect he has for almost everyone whose name isn't emblazoned in gold on a building? I understand that some people rally behind a man who isn't afraid to say what he thinks -- we've all had times when we'd like to stand up and stick it to "the man" -- but isn't diplomacy an important quality in someone who'll be dealing with foreign leaders? The presidency is no place for a hothead.
What is that in my mouth? Holy crap! It's my denture! Why is it in two pieces? I was taking a nap; how did it break while I was asleep?
Why is this towel on the sofa? I'll just pick it up and pretend I didn't notice it's where it isn't supposed to be. Gimpy's wearing his guilty face, and I don't want to hurt his feelings. Oh, no! Another theater shooting! And this one was only an hour away from here. How many died? Two, not counting the shooter? That is so sad! And there's our governor, smack in the middle of the investigation bigwigs outside the crime scene. That's gotta be the fastest trip he ever took. Ha! Listen to how he dodged the question about gun control.
I need to go to the store. But the heat index is over three digits. How can I put this trip off until tomorrow? Peas. I can eat this can of peas for supper. Tomorrow won't be cooler, but I can get an earlier start.
Another murder in Baton Rouge. Another person dead, another family traumatized. How many does that make this year? Hm. This website says 40 already. So that's, what, almost six a month? Not much fuss raised about most of these individuals. Why not set aside one day a year to lower the flag and collectively acknowledge all those who have been slain one at a time? It would at least call attention to the fact that this country has a murder problem.
I should empty the dishwasher. Nah, I'm gonna read for another twenty minutes.
I really want to see the new baby! Look at all that dark hair! She looks just like her daddy, and I know he's gonna be a good one. Her mama will be a good one, too. She's a lucky little girl. They're probably having a lot of visitors now. I'll wait a little longer. Good grief! There's a brain-eating amoeba in the water supply! Not ours, thank goodness, but too close for comfort. They're saying the water is safe to drink, but be careful not to get it up your nose. Seriously? How thirsty would I have to be to drink water that I know contains a brain-eating amoeba? I'd stick with diet soda; the chemicals in that might kill me, too, but it would take them longer to do it.
Why are the dogs scratching at the base of this little table? There must be a ball under there. (Pulling out table.) Oh my goodness, five balls -- and dust bunnies and dog hair. Heh. All three boy dogs are darting in and grabbing a ball. Heh-heh. Lucy's nuts. She's ignoring the two remaining balls and scooping up dust bunnies.
This raisin bread is SO good! How many slices should I toast? That's a lot of carbs and calories, especially with the butter on it, but I haven't eaten yet today, and it's almost noon. It could be breakfast and lunch. Yeah, that's it, that's how I'll think of it. Hm. How can I keep the first two slices warm while I wait for the second two to toast?
Look at this nonsense on Facebook! Why does she insist on posting political videos that have no foundation in fact? She's smarter than that. She is, right? Have I given her credit for having better sense than she actually does? This one is just way over-the-top ridiculous. Okay, I'm sorry, but that does it. Let's see...click to pull down menu...click unfollow.
I really should vacuum. Nah, I'm not expecting company, and it's quiet now. It's a good time to start that next book I've been waiting to read.
It's embarrassing to admit that I've forgotten the basic plots of almost all the books on this list, even though I'm fairly sure I enjoyed each one while I was reading it. I know for certain that I've liked every Barbara Freethy book I've read so far, so Daniel's Gift must have been good, too. In The Sweetest Thing the lead female owned a candy shop, I think. Or regularly visited a candy shop. Or was it a bakery? I don't know, but it was something sweet. The only non-fiction book on this list is When I Married My Mother, and the fact that I remember quite a bit about this one speaks to the wisdom of giving a book a title that clearly hints at its contents. Good planning, Jo Maeder.
by Barbara Freethy
The Virtues of Oxygen by Susan Schoenberger
Watershed Year by Susan Schoenberger
by Christoph Fischer
Out on a Limb
by Carolyn Jourdan
A Thousand Lies
by Sharon Sala
The Sweetest Thing by Lillian Darcy
When I Married My Mother (Non-Fiction) by Jo Maeder
by Barbara Bretton
by Kimberly Vargas
To read a description and reviews of any of these books,
Levi has been wearing my old T-shirts for the last week and a half after I found a small but nasty-looking wound under the curls on his left side. He had apparently sustained the injury a few days earlier, but it didn't bleed enough to discolor his thick fur. I might not have found it when I did had he not been snuggled up next to me on the sofa and flinched when my "skritching fingers" landed on that particular spot. By then it appeared to be badly infected.
We went to the vet the next morning, where a saucer-sized patch of Levi's fur was shaved off, the wound was thoroughly cleaned out and we were given two weeks' worth of antibiotics and one week's worth of doggy pain pills. My canine-trodden floors are not sanitary (there is no five-second rule here), so I asked the vet about bandaging the wound to keep it clean. He didn't want to do that, said it needed some air circulation, and suggested putting Levi in a clean T-shirt instead. So, that's what we've done.
I had no idea that Levi would be willing to wear clothes. He surprised me. He didn't object when I put the first one on him, and he's been as cooperative as a fashion model each time I've changed his outfit, often two or three times a day. He hasn't tried once to get out of a shirt. He wears a loose elastic belt around his waist, which allows me to roll the shirttail once or twice to keep it out of the line of fire when he pees.
The wound is healing nicely. I could probably leave the shirts off by now, except I don't trust our three other nosy dogs to pass up a chance to explore what the heck that thing is on Levi's side. As long as he seems comfortable, I'll lend him shirts until there's no more sign of the injury. Besides, he looks really, really cute!
This morning, minutes after waking, I lay in bed thinking that today feels like the 4th of July, especially because both my daughters have the day off work. But Independence Day is actually tomorrow. Today is only the 3rd. Hm. The 3rd of July. I thought about that date for a moment, then did some mental math.
Fifty-four years ago on this date I married my first husband. Here's a photo of me, 18 years old, looking a little shell-shocked, sipping non-alcoholic, lime-sherbet-and-ginger-ale punch minutes after the brief marriage ceremony:
A week earlier, when I'd told Mother I'd accepted a marriage proposal, I'd expected her to try to talk me out of it. She could have, but she didn't try. Instead, she went into action and pulled together a small but lovely at-home wedding. Here's the pretty table she laid out in her dining room for the reception (note the green candles chosen to match the punch):
Fifty-three years ago on this date, living 200-plus miles away from my parents' home, I took the top layer of that wedding cake out of the freezer and discreetly dumped it in the garbage, probably hiding it under coffee grounds and potato peels. I didn't feel much like celebrating--especially if it involved eating freezer-burned cake.
I can laugh now when I remember those long-ago events. It helps that my two daughters from that marriage have brought so much joy and love into my life. It also helps that I've lived long enough to understand that one impulsive marriage doesn't invalidate all the good decisions I've made through the years. Of course, that marriage wasn't the only mistake I've ever made. True, it remains the shining star of my bad or questionable decisions, but when I lump them all together, it loses some of its luster.
These days I smile and shake my head when the song I once considered "our song" comes up on my iTunes playlist. It's a great song, and I still love it, but how could I have overlooked the warning in the lyrics?
The song is "Will You Love Me Tomorrow," performed by The Shirelles.