Journal: Fisher Price Eggs, & Other Things of Import

 

I took this picture Saturday on my way to Omaha.  All those black speckles up ahead are birds.  The starlings are migrating back again!

Last Monday, I sent pictures of Kurt and his older brother Timothy to Victoria, writing, “I was looking at some old pictures – and remembered that in picture #3, Kurt was trying to imitate his big brother’s expression in picture #2.  😄  I hunted for these pictures because a recent picture of Willie reminded me of them.”

This was at our 1999 Fourth-of-July picnic.  I first took a picture of Kurt (with his mother apparently screwing his head back on.)

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Next, I took a picture of Timothy, who proceeded to make a funny face:  

Kurt, evidently thinking his big brother looked pretty hilarious, tried to imitate him.  

Victoria then sent a few recent pictures of Willie making a funny face quite a lot like his Daddy had done.

Kurt mentioned that Willie looks like one of the Jackson cousin’s boys, and I agreed.

“That’s funny,” commented Victoria.  “I’ve never thought he looked like our side before.  It must take a hat to transform him.”  (He had on a cute little ball cap.)

“Hats can do all sorts of things,” I told her, and sent this picture:

Tuesday, I cleaned the kitchen, paid a bill, wrapped a gift – and then Larry came home for lunch.

Perhaps you’ll recall, his blood pressure was much too high Monday night.  He was nearly out of blood pressure medicine.  He’s managed to mostly leave off the medication for the last several years by losing weight and eating carefully.

As expected, he had not yet called for a doctor’s appointment.

“Call now, or I’ll do it for you!” I said in my kindly, helpful manner.

“I’ll do it on my way back to town,” he said.

Sherrrrrrrrr.

“Do it now,” I said, “or I’ll do it for you!!!”

He said, and I quote, “Grumm grumm grumm grumm grumm” – but he called.  They gave him an appointment for Wednesday afternoon.

That day, grandson Trevor got his quilt and pillow.  It was a day late, but at least it wasn’t lost!  Brooklyn had to run and get her quilt and pillow so Dorcas could take their picture together.  Trevor made a video clip, too, thanking me, telling me he loves it – “It’s soooo comfortable!!!” – and saying how he plans to take it with him when he goes to ‘The Ark’.  (That’s ‘The Ark Encounter’ in Kentucky.  Their church is planning a field trip for kids from grades 3-5.  It’ll be a year before Trevor can go, but he likes to plan ahead.)

That day, the sky was smoky from two large prairie fires to our west.  The Betty’s Way fire north of North Platte took out some barns and sheds, along with two homes, and quite a number of people were evacuated.

The temperature dropped 50° in ten hours or so, and it starting to snow in midafternoon.  At 5:00 p.m., it was snowing so hard that the trees at the top of the hill could no longer be seen.  By the time it stopped snowing late that evening, we could no longer smell the smoke – but we could smell the large roast and the potatoes that were baking in the oven.  😋

Victoria sent a video clip of Baby Arnold grinning, a huge big, light-up-the-face grin.  Here’s a screenshot from the video:

Some friends and I were (again) discussing grammar (or the lack thereof).  One of my peeviest pet peeves is when people say and write, ‘should of’, or ‘would of’, or ‘could of’.  Can they not tell, that doesn’t make a lick of sense?!

One friend said, “I particularly dislike it when people use the word ‘her’ when they should use ‘she’.  ‘Her is coming with us.’  Just shoot my ears.” 

Haha  ‘Just shoot my ears.’ 

When my children were very young, ages 2 and 3, or thereabouts, they’d sometimes use a wrong word in a sentence, and then, knowing that their mother was going to be telling them the right word, they’d tack that word on at the end of the sentence.  Like this:  “I haven’t went uptown yet, gone!”  Or “I haven’t did that, done!”

Funny kids.  But their mother made them stop that, too.  “Say the whole sentence, and say it right!”  😅

And there’s this:  It’s ‘before’, not ‘B4’.  We speak English, not Bingo.

After putting together eight Crossed-Canoe blocks that day, there was a total of 23 finished canoe blocks.  That left 14 still to make.  

Wednesday was Hannah’s birthday.  She’s our second oldest.  We gave her a Klassé Gold scissor set, a cosmetic bag, a bag of coffee beans from Amana Coffee – and, after asking her if she had one, and what kind she’d like, I ordered a manual coffee bean grinder, which should arrive tomorrow.

It was 31° that day, with a wind chill of 21° – and yet the pollen count was ‘Very High’.

I worked on the Cross-Stitchin’ Gone Fishin’ quilt until time for our midweek church service that evening.

A box arrived – with a 5-lb. bag of dried fruit in it.  It’s a whole lot cheaper per pound to buy it in bulk than in small packets.  There’s kiwi, pineapple, mango, and papaya in this mix.  I divided it up into small freezer bags, put them all into the large bag, and stored it in the freezer.

“Why do you need to freeze dried fruit?” asked a friend.

Answer:  So it will last longer.  1)  It won’t taste stale after being too long in the cupboard, and most importantly, 2) those who might eat it all in one sitting, ... won’t.  😉

Furthermore, dried fruit straight from the freezer is scrumptious.

A little after 5, Larry called, all happy as a lark, because his blood pressure was low enough when he was at the doctor’s office that the doctor said he doesn’t really need to take medicine for it, though he would write a prescription for a bottle of pills to keep in the cupboard if Larry would like.

Larry would not like.  He doesn’t care for the side effects from that stuff.  I think we’d better keep a close watch on his blood pressure, though.

I got all decked out for church... and then I got partially undecked in order to remove the tag at the neck that was apparently made of metal and glass shards.

After the service, I had the opportunity to talk to Lura Kay for the first time since Susan’s funeral.  She likes to hear how Loren is doing, as she is not able to go see him herself.

Hester came along and gave me a pretty bag.  In the bag was a soft, quilted, collared vest from Cabela’s; she’d found it at a secondhand store somewhere.

This very likely happened because of our conversation a few days ago wherein I’d mentioned that I had on a sweater that used to belong to Hannah, almost 30 years ago.  I’d allowed as how a few of my everyday things were about due to be thrown into the rag bin, and she’d suggested replacing them with some of my newer church clothes – “whichever ones are most comfortable.” 

“I don’t have any comfortable church clothes!” I exclaimed, and immediately realized that was the wrong thing to say – or at least the wrong person to say it to – as she would doubtless immediately set about the task of reclothing her mother.  😅

I’m pretty sure I stood and admired an identical vest in Cabela’s one day not so very long ago.  When I thanked Hester, mentioning how soft the vest is, she said, “I’ve always thought being a personal shopper would be so fun.  Comfortable clothes are very important to everyone in my house, so it’s become a priority when shopping.”

She then sent a couple of pictures, writing, “Spooky likes birdwatching.”

Aren’t English robins the cutest little things?  Spooky obviously thinks they look tasty, too.

I have some pictures of Teensy half-on and half-off the keyboard of my laptop, watching a bird-and-squirrel video from England.  A bird suddenly went flapping off, stage right, and Teensy jerked, and quickly poked his head behind my screen to see where it had gone.  Then his ears went straight out to the sides in embarrassment, and he pulled his head back, squinted, then turned very slowly and peeked at me through his slitted eyelids to see if I had witnessed his faux pas.

Hester laughed at my story and said, “Spooky isn’t very dignified, so she doesn’t care when she acts like a goof.”  😂

Here’s her other kitty, Wolfie.  Nobody knows for sure, since they got him from the Paws & Claws Adoption Center in town, but he definitely looks like he’s at least part Maine Coon.  He’s very big, and he has the relaxed demeaner of a Maine Coon.

A couple of months ago, another corporation purchased Prairie Meadows Alzheimer's  Care Center.  Its official name is now Cedar Creek of Prairie Meadows.  

They assured us everything would remain the same, employees and all, and we wouldn’t have to do anything – but on Thursday I got an email with a pdf file to print and fill out so the new owners can extract the rent payment automatically from Loren’s bank account each month.

Here’s a picture that scrolled through on my screensaver.  You can’t see it very well, but there are fingerprints in the butter.  Mine.  I loved butter.  This was taken in May of 1963, so I was 2 ½.

In my baby book, my mother wrote that right around the time this picture was taken, I climbed up into my chair (a tall stool with red vinyl seat and back, and a couple of swing-out steps), surveyed the table, saw that the butter was right next to my plate, and said, “You’d better move the butter, or I’ll get into it!”

I had a home ec class in 7^th grade that I particularly enjoyed.  The teacher was an elderly lady, Mrs. Osenbaugh, who dyed her hair coal black.  She was probably past the age of retirement, approaching 70 years of age.  Some of the other girls thought she was crabby.  I did not think that, and I liked the way she kept an orderly class.  It was so much easier getting work done, when the class was orderly.  Plus, she was an excellent teacher.  

I told this to a few of the girls in my class, and they agreed with me – and soon most all of the class really liked that teacher.  At the end of the school year, Mrs. Osenbaugh said to our class, “I’m going to tell you a little secret:  I’ve been teaching for over 45 years, and I’ve had many classes.  But this class is my favorite, and the very best class I’ve ever taught.” 

We were all quite pleased with that distinction.

The first project we did for our sewing class that year was a skirt.  I was putting on the waistband, realized something wasn’t quite right, and went to ask advice from the teacher.  She showed me the trouble, told me which stitches to pick out, and how to fix it.

I was shy, and rarely added my two-cents’ worth, but I liked Mrs. Osenbaugh.  So I smiled at her, then sighed dramatically and said, “So it’s really true:  ‘Whatsoever ye shall sew, that shall ye also rip.’”  

She laughed.  She’d doubtless heard that saying before; but she hadn’t expected me to say it!  The girls all went around telling other kids throughout the rest of the day, “Sarah made Mrs. Osenbaugh laugh!”

Did you see any pictures of The Dangling Truck (not to be confused with a dangling participle) on the news?  A truck crashed on the George Rogers Clark Memorial Bridge, aka Second Street Bridge, a four-lane cantilevered truss bridge crossing the Ohio River between Louisville, Kentucky, and Jeffersonville, Indiana, and wound up hanging precariously, cab down, from the side.  A fireman was lowered by cable from a ladder truck, and rescued the woman driver.

Once upon a time when Lydia was about four years old, she was pushing a large Tonka dump truck down the hall, hands on the edges of the box, going lickety-split, full bore, as fast as her little legs could go.  She rounded the corner into the living room.  I was standing in the entrance to the kitchen, and, seeing that she was about to plow headlong into a large Tonka road grader, I shouted, “Stop, STOP!!!  LOOK OUT!!!”  But the dump truck was loud, and she was going fast, and couldn’t at all hear me over all the noise.

ka-BLAMM!!!!!  She smashed into the road grader.  Since it was sideways, it didn’t give much, bringing the dump truck to an abrupt halt.  Lydia did not stop so fast.  She flew right over the top of dump truck and road grader both, somersaulting, and landing flat on her back on the other side. 

I was running toward her to see if she was all right, but she was already scrambling to her feet, seemingly none the worse for wear. 

She walked to the dump truck, leaned down, and peered into the front windshield.

Then, “That’s just what I thought,” she announced.  “It’s a lady driver.”

By Thursday night, the 37 Crossed-Canoe blocks were done, and I had begun putting sashing on the cross-stitched blocks.  Two were finished, and there were ten more to go.

Problem:  my fabulous, wonderful Rowenta steam station with the water reservoir that sits on the floor kept randomly putting a brownish drip or two on the blocks I was pressing!  Aarrgghh.

The first few times it happened, I dashed downstairs and washed each discolored drip; but by the time it had occurred half a dozen times, I gave up and decided to wash the quilt after I finished it, something I seldom do.  I hunted online for the best way to clean the steam station, suspecting that the problem was most likely calcium and crystalized salts and minerals in the hose between reservoir and iron and on the heating element.  As expected, the most recommended remedy was vinegar.

After carrying the steam station downstairs, I got out the vinegar.  I had just enough white vinegar to fill the reservoir half full.  I filled the other half with water and turned it on.  When it was hot and had built pressure, I held the iron over the sink and pulled the trigger, spraying steam from the vinegar and water into the sink. 

As it steamed out, I grabbed a rag with the other hand and scrubbed the sink.  Might as well kill two birds with one stone, ay?

The tank was still a third full when my hands wore out.  So I turned the iron off and let the rest of the concoction sit in the tank until the next morning, when I finished spraying it out, filled it partially with water, steamed that out – and wondered what awful thing was going to happen next, after yellowish brown water came bubbling out of the holes on the iron’s soleplate. 

But I kept it steaming until it looked clean, poured out the water, refilled it, and carried it back upstairs.

I sewed sashing on the remaining ten cross-stitched blocks, pressing and steaming each of them – and not one drip of discolored water (or even any drip of water at all) landed on those blocks.

I learned a new word Friday!  A lady from Australia posted a picture on Facebook, writing, “Peeping from the bedroom window, I noticed a bit of a stoush out in the front yard.”

The picture?  Kangaroos fighting, backlit by golden sunlight. 

I looked up ‘stoush’.  The meaning?  A fight or disagreement.  The dictionary offered this sentence as Exhibit A:  They keep getting into drunken stoushes with each other in pub car parks.  (That’s probably not precisely what the kangaroos were doing, eh?) 

This is not the lady’s picture; this is from the Animal Facts Encyclopedia.

In order to look up the story of Lydia and the dump truck, I did a search for the word ‘somersault’.  I found several stories, including this one that I sent to Victoria: 

 

When You Were Five

Early that evening, I was in my room, sitting at my sewing desk, and Victoria was playing on the bed behind me.  Teddy was getting ready for his date.  All sorts of thumps and bumps were issuing from the shower just the other side of the door near me.

“What is he doing?!” I demanded.

“Trying to make a somersault?” Victoria guessed.  hee hee

“Where’s Caleb?” I asked her a few minutes later, looking around for him.

“He’s watering up the ice cube trays,” she informed me.

She likes to page through my songbooks, then bring me the book:  “What’s this song?” she asks, and I read her the title.

She begins humming it, the better to remember it until she gets back to the piano.  Once there, her fingers search out a key that she thinks sounds okay, and then she starts to play.  Sometimes, after a couple of lines, she makes a blunder, and the next few notes elude her.  She hunts for the right note, often losing track of the song she was playing entirely.  When this happens, she pauses momentarily, then launches with gusto into ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’, after which she again brings me the hymnal and asks, “What’s this song?” and the cycle starts all over again.

 

I found one more somersault story, which happened a year later:

 

Victoria tried to ride her bike down the big railroad trestle tie Larry recently set in place between house and little garage, where the south driveway will be someday.  He also made steps with the smaller railroad ties, and we will put brick between them.  Anyway, Victoria slowed down too much, lost her balance, started tipping toward the low side – and there was nothing for her to put her foot on to catch herself.  Over she went, somersaulting, landing upside down with the bike atop her.

I ran fast and faster to the scene of the disaster (a la Miss Clavel from Madeleine), expecting her to have a broken neck, or, at the very least, a major concussion; but she got up laughing.

“I’m okay!” she said, adding, “Caleb does it all the time!”

“What, falls off the trestle tie?” I asked.

“Oh, Mama,” she giggled, and rode away pell-mell.

And I hunted up Caleb and ordered him to quit riding on the railroad trestle tie.  There are limits to the number of heart failures a mother can safely endure in the span of one day.

 

I looked back in the journal to see what might have caused those other ‘heart failures’.  The first was when Caleb, riding scooters with one of the neighbor boys, was traveling lickety-split down the hill, standing – and then he decided to sit down whilst in motion.  As he himself used to say when he was only two, “It doodn’t wolk so bewy well.”

He crashed and bruised and skinned up his side so badly it hurt to walk, and especially to climb stairs.  It looked like a bad burn about the size of a credit card.  Hester doctored him up with triple-antibiotic salve and a big Band-Aid.  (It seems I may have been at the store?)  That night, in order that he wouldn’t have to go up the stairs to his room, I let him sleep in the big brown velour recliner, and for a while I disturbed him often as I refolded our quilt and put it back into the dryer until it dried. 

Caleb & Victoria at Pioneer Village, Minden, Nebraska

The next was this:  Hester came upstairs to ask me something (I was in my little office – also a sewing room, back then), headed back down – then slipped, sat down hard, and clump-clonk-clunked down several steps, giving me a minor heart attack.  I leaped up and ran to peer over the banister.  There was Hester, sitting on the steps, looking up at me, laughing, telling me she was fine, not to worry.  Whew.

Victoria responded to the stories I sent her, “I must have done something to my head because I don’t remember.  😂 ”

“Or it happened so often,” I countered, “you can’t pluck one incident out of the dozens!”

The bald eagles Shadow and Jackie, who have a nest in Big Bear Valley, California, have become increasingly famous.  Any day now, the eggs should start hatching.  That first tiny hole a chick makes in an egg is called a ‘pip’.

One of the moderators of the live stream wrote the following:  “Pip Watch Itch manifests as an urgent need to study all egg rolls frame-by-frame and pronounce every dirt speck or fluff a pip.  Highly transmissible, occurs seasonally.  No known cure.”  🤣

Someone wrote a caption for the above shot:  “Do you hear something?!  I think I hear something!!”

Squirrels were having a rip-snortin’ fuss right outside the dormer window of my quilting studio, out on the eave.  I opened the window to scare them away – and discovered that the sky was full of thousands of snow geese.  They are migrating northward to their nesting grounds in the Northwest Territories and northern Alaska.

I forgot all about the squirrels and dashed for my camera.

75 photos and videos later, I called it good and got back to sewing.

A little before 7:00 p.m., I received notice that my large order of groceries was ready to be picked up, so off I went to Wal-Mart.

I pulled in, clicked ‘I’ve Parked’ on the app on my phone, and waited, listening to the Old Fashioned Revival Hour Quartet. 

I waited... and then I waited some more.  And some more.  There were a lot of cars, a lot of people waiting, and, for quite a long while, no one bringing anything out.  45-50 minutes later, someone finally came to my window, verified my name, asked where I would like my groceries, and then loaded them into the back of the Mercedes.

I did not get home until a quarter after 8.

I opened the back hatch – and looked at three gallon jugs of spring water.

We already have spring water, comparably.  It comes straight out of our faucet, from our well.

I started gathering up some things that had spilled from the bags, thinking they were yogurt containers.

Nope.  They were cans of Fancy Feast cat food. 

Furthermore, there weren’t nearly enough groceries back there.

They’d given me the wrong order. 

It had already been dark when I picked up the groceries, and the girl had them in bags in enclosed totes on a utility cart.  She took so long putting them in the back, it sho’ ’nuff seemed like the right amount of time to load all the things I had ordered!  I had not been able to see them in the rear-view mirror, either.  I guess I should get out and look.

I called Wal-Mart – and was on the phone long enough that I got their canned music memorized.  For a good 35 minutes or more, two managers, one male and one female, tried to connect me with people in the pick-up department.  

Once, the man picked the phone back up after it had gone unanswered for several minutes and asked, “Are you the lady who called about the OGP problem?”

I said, “Yes!” and then, “I don’t know what ‘OGP’ means, but whatever it is, I’m sure it was me!”

(It means ‘Online Grocery Pick-up’.)

At one point, I asked him if he thought it would be easier if I just drove up to the door at the pick-up area and laid on the horn.  😅 

The managers were getting a whole lot more agitated over the matter than I was before someone answered the phone – and that person answered only after the male manager used the store’s main intercom to tell someone to pick up the phone. 

When a lady finally answered the phone, she told me my groceries were ready and waiting, and I could come right away to get them and to return the other lady’s groceries.

It takes 15 minutes to get there, as we live 7 miles west of town, and Wal-Mart is on the far east side of town.  (And yes, I realize that doesn’t sound far at all to those who live in big metropolises.)

Larry had gotten home by this time, so he went with me.  We pulled in... waited... waited... and eventually someone came out, looked at the groceries in the back of the Merc, then walked over to another waiting car and asked the lady whose groceries had wound up in my car to drive over beside us so he could transfer the things to her car.

She pulled around to the spot next to us, got out, poked her head into the back of the Benz – and I very badly wanted to suddenly crank up the music, just for the fun of it, you know, because her ear was right next to the rear speaker, and Rudy Atwood was thundering through Hail to the Brightness of Zion’s Glad Morning, with the Old Fashioned Revival Hour Quartet singing with all their might and main.  I didn’t.  But I wanted to.

The woman departed with her spring water and Fancy Feast and various other things.

A few minutes later, they brought my groceries out.  I had a whole lot more groceries than the other lady did.  The mix-up wasted over two hours of my time.  I needed to write the Saturday Skim, and I’d hoped to have gotten some of the blocks for Ian’s quilt sewn together.

Ah, well.  Nothing calamitous happened.  I had my groceries; the other lady had hers (and her cats had their Fancy Feast; that’s important), and we had a good (though late) supper:  chicken with broccoli and noodles, Martinelli apple juice, and red grapefruit.

People make mistakes, and they were trying their best to set things to rights again.  They have a shortage of workers, just like so many other businesses do.  So we said nothing that might’ve made someone’s day worse than it already was. 

(But I did want to crank up the volume on that speaker.)  😄

Actually, in addition to their first error, the workers also should not have given someone food items that someone else had driven off with.  And they should not have had one customer poke her head into another customer’s vehicle.

But the workers in that department are very young.  The supposed ‘manager’ of that department sounded quite young, too.  They were probably pretty worried about what they should do, how they should go about it, what the Big Boss(es) would do when they heard about it, and if they would lose their jobs.

Our Walmart has never gone back to being open 24 hours, ever since they severely cut hours in 2020 during Covid-19.  Of course it made a lot of sense, didn’t it, to jam the population into the store as densely as possible during a narrow time frame, when there was a highly contagious bug going around that everyone was deathly frightened of.  ((eye roll))  The store only stays open until 11:00 p.m. nowadays, and opens at 6:00 a.m.

Saturday, I went to see Loren.  It was a pretty day, 57° here, and 65° in Omaha, on its way up to 71°.  I found him in the commons area, and he spotted me the minute I walked through the door.  He has a steadily more difficult time trying to stand up from a sitting position.

We walked to his room, and had a nice visit while he looked at the magazines and newspapers I’d brought him.  He got stalled out on a page of the Car & Driver featuring a yellow BMW M4 coupe, practically drooling all over that car.

We talked about Larry’s 2002 BMW... about the new tires and wheels on my Mercedes... and then I walked with Loren to the dining room, told him goodbye, and headed for home.

Last week when I sat with him in the dining room, a man on the other side of the room would take a bite of his dinner at the urging of one of the staff, then shout, “MARIANNE!!!” at the tiptop of his voice.  Another bite... and then, “MARIANNE!!!”  The worker assured him that they could talk to Marianne as soon as he finished his dinner... that Marianne would soon be visiting... but it didn’t stop him from shouting, again and again.  He was getting angrier as the minutes passed and Marianne did not materialize.

I wouldn’t want to materialize, either, if I were Marianne.  Yikes.

At the truck stop in Fremont, I bought yogurt/strawberry/blueberry/raspberry/granola parfaits for our dessert.

When I got home, I made venison meatloaf.  We also had kale/cranberry/vegetable salad, cottage cheese, and kiwi strawberry juice.

Malinda and Eva were sitting on a pew in the front vestibule after church yesterday morning, looking at each other’s cute little notebooks and fancy pencils and suchlike.  Malinda, 6, started to write something. 

Eva, 3, said in her no-nonsense tone, “Let me show you how to do that.”

Malinda turned her head, looked at me, grinned, and willingly handed over notebook and pencil to her younger cousin. 

All that rigmarole with Wal-Mart Friday night, and I forgot to order eggs.  So I placed an order Sunday afternoon, and we picked up our things last night after church.  If an order is $35 or more, pick-up is free.

Speaking of eggs, I am somehow reminded of a nice old man who was tending the front desk one morning at a motel in Iowa where we once stayed overnight.  He came into the breakfast area and offered the guests eggs and/or potatoes.  I chose eggs, sunny-side-up. 

He went off to make them.  Several minutes later, he came out and apologized for the delay, and inquired again into exactly how I wanted the eggs.  Five minutes later, he repeated this performance. 

Directly he came back out the third time and reported that the eggs would be done shortly; he was having trouble with his skillet. 

“I have to ‘sneak up on’ the eggs,” he explained.

He meant, he couldn’t heat the skillet too quickly, or the eggs would burn. 

I assured him all was well.

Feeling certain that eggs were forthcoming, I toasted a piece of bread and buttered it in anticipation of an egg sandwich.  I waited until I thought the toast would soon be unpalatably cold, put jelly on it, and ate it, sans eggs.

A couple of minutes later, the man brought one egg out; it had gotten done sooner than the other.

Now, I’m not sure, but I think he got it mixed up with those cute little rubber Fisher Price toy eggs.

I valiantly ate it, and washed it down with orange juice.

Soon he brought out the other egg.  It had its own little plate under it – well, unless it was just burnt on the bottom.   The top was still runny.  Neither egg had more than a speck of salt or pepper, and there was none to be had in the breakfast nook.

I downed, uh, most of it, leaving the cardboard(?) bottom behind.  I washed Egg #2 down with milk, since the orange juice/egg combo had already given me a stomachache, and I threw the burnt part away when the nice old man wasn’t looking.

Meanwhile, Larry happily ate a waffle that he had made himself.  Now, that’s cruel and unjust punishment, to eat a scrumptious waffle right in front of someone who has just been served a rubberized-and-burnt-but-nevertheless-uncooked egg.

Oh, well.  It’s fun to tell people, “I had Fisher Price eggs for breakfast!”

Plus, we’ve been ‘sneaking up on’ eggs, waffles, and pancakes ever since.

It was another pretty day here, 52°, bright and sunny.  I’ve done a bit of cleaning, and the last load of clothes is in the dryer.

At 6:30 p.m., I heard a motorcycle – Larry was home from work.  By then, the temperature had fallen, and it was only 40°.  Larry came in, informing me that he was cold!  He’d ridden his KTM dirt bike, and, unlike the bigger BMW motorcycle, it has no windshield, and no heated seat.  But he likes that dirt bike.  It GOES.  😉

Bedtime!

,,,>^..^<,,,          Sarah Lynn          ,,,>^..^<,,,