I don’t use bookmarks when I read and I don’t turn down pages because I never have. I have always been able to zone in on where I stopped reading. I have bought them for other people because of the appropriate message – for instance, right now there is one on the windowsill that pictures Maxine; I’m going to have to get a picture of it, but not now because that would involve getting up and taking three or four steps.

This sucks swamp water. I actually got up and went over to  get the bookmark because, hey, sometimes lazy just gets too darn embarrassing. It wasn’t there; I don’t remember picking it up and moving it, so, rats, maybe I am getting to the age when I need a bookmark. I did hit my head on the old Indian yoke my grandfather unearthed.

I came back and started writing the above paragraph and by the time I reached the final period, I had decided I needed a picture of the yoke. Eight steps over, eight steps back.

See, here it is. That’s Lydia, our piano player to the right (apparently she has taken off her trapper hat) and the Thomas Bickle light to the left.

But I was talking about bookmarks, and I had intended to say that I didn’t use bookmarks for books, nor on the computer. I do bookmark esoteric pages, such as “how to replace your power adapter chip”, but that is a stress I don’t need to remember here. However, my browser thinks it should remember sites I have been to and automatically offer up some choices when I venture into the address bar. Of the times I have scrolled down to click on where I want to go, a good percentage of those clicks have hit the address above or below . . . and I wind up where I don’t want to be. So, I went into my preferences – always a scary journey – and deleted some sites without deleting others.

This is no big deal, but you gotta remember, I am of the age when I have to learn to move beyond the eraser on the top of a pencil, which used to be my very best friend.

I could ramble on but Lydia is suggesting that I don’t . . . that I just scroll up to the sleep choice and click on it. Sometimes she treats me like I am such a child.

I’M DOING IT, LYDIA!!  . . . . Oh, was that a little temper tantrum reply?