Tales from the Front Lines

So, I have/had a goldfish.  He's currently living out his life in an aquarium in the basement of my home. But, he longs for wider areas to roam.  I don't KNOW this as he has not burbled his preference to me, but my son, the fish expert assures me this is so. And, thus, I took to Nextdoor: Below is my entry. TLDR, need pond for goldfish to live. Healthy fish. If you can help, comment or PM me. Y'all. Y'all....I can't make this stuff up. The Goldfish, that you may remember from my previous post is now referred to in capital letters and an honorific, bestowed upon him by me. Sir Fin, of the House Goldfish, is seeking an abode that far, far transcends his practically new 10-gallon aquarium. Do you know of a pond where he may reign? Or, in the way of the circle of life, live out his destiny? He's a good fish, quiet. Very quiet, in a goldfish way. He would not disturb, I would not think. Healthy. Bright, snappy fins. Clear, if vacant eyes. ...

Or let's get real.."Why am I the only one who can find a damn pair of socks in this house?" I am making this a sock tutorial.  Why is it needed?  Because *I*, evidently, am the only one who can match up socks in this house. So, here's how I work the magic that I do:  Pay attention, those of single sock inclination: 1.  Have a home for the single sock.  I do.  It's a drawer.  I get laundry, there's a sock...where's it's mate?  I have no earthly idea, so I swing the sock into the "single drawer".  But, here's the thing...it is implied..hoped..strived for...that someone.other.than.me will look into the single sock home and work a little "match.com" or "tinder" or "Christian Mingle" magic with these soulful wanderers.  Let's look, shall we?   Behold the single sock in it's singularity.  Is true love possible? Hmmm.  No.  While I approve of diversity in marriage and life:   these. DO. ...

Recently, I wrote a status on Facebook.  "Buy the shoes" was the sentiment from the picture.  I added:  "I'm not eating burnt toast, anymore" or words to that effect.  On reflection, I think I'd like to say more. When I was little, I ate toast all. the. time.  Now that I am older, and heavier, toast is a celebration. It's a carb, carefully and judiciously smeared with the tiniest schmear of light butter and savored quietly and slowly with my coffee.  It's often cold long before I'm done, but I dip it into my coffee.  BTW, people are discovering or have discovered the delight of a small amount of butter in coffee.  While you may wince, don't knock it, til you have tried it.  What makes me giggle, is that my daddy did this 50 some years ago.  That man was constantly ahead of his time.  Bless him. Back to toast.  It's so easy, in the early years to eat burnt toast:  you're learning to make toast, you are 6 years old....

Did you know... I always enter your home fearing the worst, praying for the best. I make your bed for you, sometimes I kiss your pillow before I fluff it for the last time. Your bedroom and clothes smell like Moonlight Path, it's a perfume that we shared. It's not your imagination. I spray it before I leave. I clean your bathroom, I muse over your new collection of toiletries, signs of the woman that you are becoming. I stock your pantry and your refrigerator. I pray you are never hungry for food or happiness. I vaccuum, not everytime, but when I do, I wish our past could be as easily erased. I never ever leave your door without locking it and laying a hand on it and praying hard that God will keep you safe.