Our kitchen is done, and as promised, here’s the evidence.
Seven days, baby. Have you finished your shopping?
A friend gently hinted I’d gone a bit overboard on Facebook and Instagram with kitchen photos, to which I responded, “Well, if you can’t have fun with social media, what’s it even for? Oh, right … handing your personal information over to faceless corporations to use in targeted advertising.”
When I drove handicapped patients for the Tucson VA Hospital, I had one skinny old guy who took three trips a week to University Medical Center for radiation treatment.
Friends are sharing kitchen stories with me, and no wonder, since that’s all I seem to have been writing about lately.
I don’t know if Trump will resign (even if he’s impeached, he certainly won’t be convicted, so giving up à la Nixon is the best we can hope for), but if he does we’ll have Pence, and if Pence has his way we’ll have Gilead. Atwood is a timely read, to say the least.
The salesman told Donna not only will we not have to rinse dishes before putting them in the new unit, we shouldn’t, because the dishwasher it’s to work best with dirty dishes. Uh-huh. Tell me another one, appliance salesman.
I know from Facebook that many of my friends are also members of local and neighborhood book clubs, and it gives me hope. We are smarter and more intellectually curious than you might assume from the crap we normally post on social media. Now if we can just get off our asses and vote, eh?