Ouch!

Common Core notwithstanding, my rating on a test of Shakespeare lore was, "Thou art an errant dizzy-eyed neophyte." 

For me...

I came across an envelope, with my name in my mother's handwriting.  It may have included a card, but obviously  a gift of cash because she had written on it for me to "Buy something nice for yourself."   I wonder what I bought. 
   In her later years, speculating what she would do if she ever won a bunch of money, in the lottery or such, she would say, "Sure, what would I do with it?"

Surge of Memories

"And there's nothing short of dying half as lonesome as the sound of a sleeping Sunday sidewalk, and Sunday morning coming down."

Pink Washcloths

      Beneath my bathroom sink is the place where the washcloths are stored, about 20 to 30 of them I'd say.  Most are fairly old and well used; the newest are from one of those packs of 10, and are pink.  Every single one of them is frayed at the edges and here is the reason why:   they get caught in the part of the dryer, above the lint filter.  Each time I open the dryer, almost every day, there is a pink washcloth dangling from the top of the dryer.  Always a pink one out of the many and I'm not sure why.  A  regular load of laundry contains about a dozen washcloths, only some of them pink.  There  are many because, in addition to their use for bathing,  I habitually keep one on each side of the sink:  one to open the bathroom door after applying hand lotion when my hands are slippery, and the other to depress the flushing lever, avoiding any bare handed contact with that yucky part of the toilet, even in my own home. 
      The other day one of the pink cloths was so firmly wedged in whatever crevice retains it that, in order to release it, I used  a scissors from the downstairs workbench  and tried to cut it away from the part that was stuck. The scissors, being old and not a little rusty, locked on the fabric of the washcloth and I couldn't tear it away, not even with the aid of a nearby screwdriver.  The pink washcloth was now left  dangling with  a pair of scissors attached.  I went upstairs and, armed with a sharper scissors and a bigger screwdriver, hacked and pried away until the cloth and scissors separated from the dryer, taking with them  a piece of the molding that was around the dryer door.  I probably will buy a new dryer, and most likely some new washcloths.
       The dryer is not so old, about 8 years.  Its companion washer was replaced last summer, when I embarked on a vigorous pre-surgery housekeeping regimen, and stressed it out by trying to wash everything in the house, including bathroom rugs and mats. The washer was replaced in my absence, and I'll never understand how any appliance engineer could have thought it was a good idea to design a washing machine without an agitator.  Washcloths, as well as socks, end up on the bottom looking like softballs, and, unless individually shaken out, would go like that into the dryer.  And the too-vigorous spinning  possibly caused the above problem---that's my theory anyway, at 4:00 A.M. on a Sunday morning.

GET (It) OFF MY LAWN!

    All gone in just a few days:
        Two weeks ago, 3 old appliance motors, one too heavy to lift that I had to tie with a  piece of rope to wrangle it out of the cellar and into the yard.
       Two days ago, a rusty old wheelbarrow and a vintage playpen.
Cancel the dumpster.

Gender Fashion

   I think Bruce Jenner may have a misguided understanding  of what being a woman is if he  associates wearing a dress with womanhood.  Of course, the woman he will finally become may well spend a lot of time on the Red Carpet and at celebrity functions, where a dress is the usually dictated  fashion.  In his day-to-day life,  he can join the rest of us in our fashion statement of jeans, sweats, and, oh yes, the dread pedal-pushers. 

A New Low

   I can't believe I've spent the morning binge-watching episodes of "Catfish."   I am able to walk away, but find myself compelled to see how it all turns out.  What fools we mortals be.