School is back in session in most places. As a way to ease the students back into the education groove, many a teacher’s first homework assignments used to be: “Write an essay on what you did last summer.”
The teachers cautioned their creative students about using an optical illusion to fill the page. “Your essay should be at least one page in length. Single spaced. And do not try the old double spaced, wide margins trick to make your assignment appear longer than it is.” Insert a collective groan as the teacher smiles.
What if you received this assignment at this point in your life? What would your essay contain? In case you are unsure of how to proceed, your humble writer will start the ball rolling.
As April and May rolled through our lives, the COVID pandemic took center stage. The fear-mongers shut down the country, with the aid of the breathless and frequently uninformed media. Although the hermits had little difficulty adhering to the drastic measures, the more antsy folks chaffed at the restrictions of staying at home and social distancing.
People rushed to “social media” to whine or express their coherent thoughts about what was going on and how mad they were about it. Then the predictable happened, over and over again. If someone’s post happened to hit the truth and common sense nail on the head, the peanut brained folks running Facebook disabled the posts.
Whatever happened to freedom of speech? Oh wait, it no longer exists in the peanut brains’ world. Their truth is the only thing allowed.
On a personal note, this lady became a bit lax about a few things. She no longer rushed around, cleaning the entire house like a whirling dervish. Instead, she took her time. Oddly enough, the job still got done, but she was less stressed than in the past.
She must confess yet another failure to perform. Hubby and his wife agreed long ago, whoever got out of bed last had to make the bed. There were a few times over the years when the wife heard him begin to awaken. She jumped out of bed. Surprise, surprise. Hubby had to make the bed.
Nowadays, this writer confesses the urgency to make the bed every day has lost its luster. And the curious thing is the world keeps turning despite her laziness.
Her bouncing baby boy stopped making his bed once he became a teenager. That practice may very well have continued throughout his college years. But karma came full circle since he and his wife moved to the tropics. They make their bed every day because if they do not, the geckos drop their continuous emissions on the sheets and pillows. Will wonder never cease?
To pass the time, this lady reads countless books. As much as she loathes the F-bomb, she not only hears it fall from people’s lips, but today’s authors feel compelled to fill their books with it.
Both male and female characters say it often, even during copulation. Yes, we understand the word describes the action, but the F-bomb appears in the most incongruous circumstances and conversations. For some reason, authors believe their male characters are incapable of verbalizing thoughts and feelings without profuse use of the F-bomb. To borrow a southern lady expression, “Bless their ignorant hearts.”
Another less than fruitful pastime is watering plants and hoping the summer heat will not kill them. Honestly, it is a losing battle, but we continue to pour gallons of water onto those ungrateful plants anyway.
For weeks the cracks in the pasture widened because it did not rain. Often a few dark clouds, thunder, and dark skies appeared, but no rain. Then it rained. The grass grew. Out came the riding mower.
As this lady whipped the lawn back into shape, grasshopper kamikazes bombarded her face and body.
Now her mowing mantra is, “I hate grasshoppers,”