Denial is a river in Egypt. It’s also pretending the throbbing ache in the ball of your left foot isn’t gout, because who thinks of themselves as the kind of dissolute out of shape overweight couch potato who suffers from Dikensian complaints like gout? Jesus, why not catarrh and ague while we’re at it? But there it is, gout, and I guess for a 77-year-old I’m doing as well as can be expected. Tylenol helps. Sorry for the TMI.
This time of year I wait until the outdoor thermometer reaches the high 40s before grabbing leashes from the hall closet. Fritzi and Lulu are always rarin’ to go, but it’s hit or miss with Mister B. If he circles around my feet while I harness the younger dogs, I know he wants to walk. If he stays in his bed or disappears down the hall, I know he doesn’t. I don’t press him if he doesn’t. He walks as if his back half is on peg legs, and I sympathize. When he does want to go out with Fritzi and Lulu, though, he seems to enjoy himself.
Whenever I post photos with just two dogs, someone always asks me about Mister B. Where is he? Is he okay? Yes, he’s okay.
Here’s the rarin’-to-go contingent on yesterday’s walk. Donna says they’re getting fat. They don’t look fat to me, but I’ve cut back on the amount of food I give them because when it comes to which of us is right it’s always Donna. Yesterday, as you can see, the Sonora Desert marigolds were starting to come into bloom. I bet they’ll be popping out all over the neighborhood today, with lots and lots of yellow.
I know I’m supposed to pretend Biden’s age isn’t an issue, but damn it, it is. Of course I’ll be watching his State of the Union address tonight, alert to signs he’s failing. Never mind that the other guy, the unelected former occupant of the White House, is nearly the same age and mentally disintegrating in full view of the world (even though the media pretends he isn’t), but c’mon you gotta admit you’re worried about Biden too.
My thinking increasingly takes an in-case-of-Biden-emergency-break-glass bent. And it’s beginning to focus, not on Kamala Harris, not on Amy Klobuchar, not on Pete Buttigieg, but on Senator Mark Kelly of Arizona, husband of Gabby Giffords. I’ll leave the thought here for now and let it ferment.
State of the collection, March 2024:
These are the “good” ones, a mix of quartz and mechanical watches and chronographs from Japan, China, Switzerland, and the USA. Not included: the four cheap Casios I keep in a drawer but sometimes still wear, especially if I’m working at a task that might result in dents and scratches.
The 13th watch in the display case, the one on top, is the Seiko Pogue Donna bought for me at the Vance AFB BX in 1978 to celebrate my selection to fly the F-15 Eagle. The day I took this photo, that was the watch I was wearing … a different one every day (plus, occasionally, one of the aforementioned Casios), so the box is always full.
Speaking of tasks that might result in dents and scratches, I supervised Polly as she installed a new toilet seat yesterday (what, two TMIs in one post?) and today will take down an old inoperative ceiling fan and install a new one. Unless I can talk Donna into paying a handyman, that is.
More soon!