okay, I’m better

The CheerWine worked. I feel better. I had a good heart-to-heart with my friend Spikey

and she got me listening to upbeat hymns. Well, I guess they aren’t hymns – they are more like religions songs: That Old Time Religion, Standing in the Need of Prayer, Count your Blessings.

I can see my husband’s grandmother and two-great aunts – they would be Liddy, Cuba and Venda – standing in the kitchen drying dishes singing Count your Blessings. . . . See what the Lord hath done. Perky religious songs.

Oh, by the way, Spikey was first mentioned at the RED PIANO.

I find I am very irritable

I have not been in a good mood lately, and this early afternoon exclaimed, “I am not going to be your patsy, anymore.” Whoa, big talk for a short, fat, getting older woman. In fact, maybe I should start carrying an old-fashioned Margaret Thatcher type of handbag so I can whop people over the head or in the solar plexus.

How do you spell “whop” as in “to hit”  – It doesn’t look right. Maybe I should say wallop.

Oh, what the heck.

I think I will apply for a drill sergeant job so I can yell at someone up one side and down the other, give them a good dressing down and make them run five miles real fast right after having fed them spaghetti – spicy spaghetti . . . and then I will run over and perform the Peter Finch role is the post’s play . . . I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.

Perhaps I need drugs . . . I kid.

I am going to shower and then drink a Diet Cheer Wine.

My shirt is dirty . . .

Today is a work day, inside and out, though I don’t know what jobs I will be tackling. Well, painting the fence, I think and maybe the deck floor – the little one right outside the porch door to the back yard. It’s an old-fashioned deck, grey, dontcha know, and one I put together myself because I was tired of the mud.

I need to declutter this porch, get it down to the bare bone – my kind of bare bones . . . in other words the clutter is hidden away. I don’t know what else I will be doing, but I suspect it will be dirty stuff, so I am glad my shirt is already dirty.

Cameron has got me reading The Idiot; I think again. But the first time was so long ago, I just don’t remember. I am not a fan of Russian literature. I keep thinking, “Will you get on with it . . . ” I have no idea how much the factor of translation influences my opinion, but I suspect it is significant. Of course, I often confuse literature and writing, the latter being, in the end, the words, the words that first linked you to others and thoughts. I guess the literature is the story and the symbolism – and crap – I sure do hate symbolism. Why don’t these high level authors write their own Cliff Notes: this is what I meant in three sentences instead of 500 pages? Essay exams would be so much easier.

Ha! Maybe an honest one would say, oh, it was just a story and people are drawing conclusions or hey, I was free associating.

Got to go – here comes Frank for his morning cola and foldover.