Our 45-year-old daughter Polly now drives a Lexus. That we paid for.
It’s a 1999 with more than 120K on the odometer, well cared for and maintained. It was recently serviced and has new brake pads and tires, so we didn’t need to put money into it right away, as we had to do with the last used car we gave her.
That’s the news on the automotive front. Peripherally, I joined an old car group on Facebook and my feed was immediately flooded with crappy out-of-focus photos scanned from old magazines, with a bonus helping of inane commentary. Couldn’t quit fast enough. Hell is truly other people, and how have we managed to survive as a species anyway?
Outside activities: I had my teeth cleaned Thursday, followed the next day by a visit to the dermatologist, then, this morning, a haircut. It was my first dental appointment in a year; my first skin cancer look-over since before the pandemic. My teeth are good, although I’m going back soon for a crown on a molar with old, cracked fillings; the dermatologist froze a tiny spot on the crown of my head and discovered I have a birthmark on my left cheek — which was news to me. Note to self: examine my butt in the mirror more often!
Do I need to say that during all three outings the full range of coronavirus precautions were observed, giving and receiving? I shouldn’t, but feel obliged to let you know I’m not letting my guard down. Especially now, as the nation observes in real time how easily and fast COVID-19 spreads, dominos falling left and right at the highest levels of power.
With regard to Trump and the ongoing #RoseGardenMassacre fallout, there are so many conflicting versions of what’s going on, it’s probably best to shut up and watch what actually happens. If I was an observer on Mars, interpreting television signals from Earth, about all I could say with certainty right now is “something’s up, and I don’t like the looks of it.”
© 2020, Paul Woodford. All rights reserved.