Eenie. Meenie. Miney. Moe.....
I am headed down to West Palm Beach to see my sister. Will be back for Sunday's post.
---Ed
Nothing is cut and dried in race relations, is it? It is very complicated on so many levels. I accept that... grudgingly. What really gets me wrapped around the axle when I ponder it is this: Are the complications necessarily so or unnecessarily so?
As I work on my "screen play" I realize that the stories in my head are easy. It's getting them written down that's hard. I mean written down at all. If I could just do that I could sweat the formatting later. I do not have the disciplined train of thought, or maybe it's concentration, required to take a story from beginning to end. I think that's why I write like I do. No real beginning or end, just ideas.
I have a second interview at Albertson's warehouse on Tuesday. I applied for the night shift. A) I figured less people asked for it and, B) I think it'll buy me some alone time to work on my projects. It had better work out as I kissed AOL off. It was politely done, but a kiss off nonetheless.
Timers and auto-on features on coffee makers was one of the best ideas to come down the pike in a long, long time. I have mine perfectly timed so as I walk in to the kitchen I hear the skooooshhhh skooooshhhh skooooshhhh sound of the last of the steamed water running through. All of the freshness, none of the wait.
I know what you are thinking, too. If he has such fresh coffee and has it so quickly... and if, as he claims, he drinks the first pot all by himself... why the heck aren't his posts better than they are? Good point. And I blame it on me.
I blame it on me so you don't have to. You need to blame it on the man. Or on whitey. Or on the voices in your head. Somebody or something. I am thanking you in advance.
(The Man)
Today is a red letter day. We are going to haul that King Size comforter on our bed out to the laundromat and wash it. That's right. While y'all are trudging through another work day, I'll be hanging out at the coin laundry, puffing a medium sized stogie, listening to homogonized country radio, and keeping an eye on my back. That last part is very key. Some folks are scared of clowns. Others of carneys. I am frightened by coin laundries. I don't know. I just am.
I finally figured out that my boy cat, Pepe, is a dog trapped in a cat's body. Now it all makes sense. Goofy feline.
Don't know what else I've got to tell you. I bought this great maincure product from an Ethopian guy. I know, too weird. That he was here from Ethiopia. That he sold manicure stuff. That I was inclined to buy it. The planets aligned or something. But yet, I wander off subject.
It is basically a very fine sandpaper followed by two different textured buffs. All are affixed (affixed-- such a great word) to a small foam rubber block. So I sit down, sand and buff my nails for around 4 to 6 minutes, depending on how often I look back up at the TV, and they look all clean and polished. And shiny. It lasts a few days and there's none of the goos and creams and crap associated with a traditional manicure.
I know a lot of people don't think men should get manicures, but I don't care. There's nothing wrong with looking like you have a bit of culture. Especially if you have dressed up. If you have on a nice, well cut suit, a good looking shirt and tie and chewed up nails with dirt under them... well, you get the picture. It's like the guy I worked with one time that was such a natty dresser but would never polish his shoes. So it made it like like he was a poser. That he blew all his money on a set of clothes but couldn't afford the nice shoes to go with them. It ruined all the time, effort and money he'd spent on the clothes. And polish is what, $1.79?
Soap boxed out, out
Ramblin' Ed
---Ed
Nothing is cut and dried in race relations, is it? It is very complicated on so many levels. I accept that... grudgingly. What really gets me wrapped around the axle when I ponder it is this: Are the complications necessarily so or unnecessarily so?
As I work on my "screen play" I realize that the stories in my head are easy. It's getting them written down that's hard. I mean written down at all. If I could just do that I could sweat the formatting later. I do not have the disciplined train of thought, or maybe it's concentration, required to take a story from beginning to end. I think that's why I write like I do. No real beginning or end, just ideas.
I have a second interview at Albertson's warehouse on Tuesday. I applied for the night shift. A) I figured less people asked for it and, B) I think it'll buy me some alone time to work on my projects. It had better work out as I kissed AOL off. It was politely done, but a kiss off nonetheless.
Timers and auto-on features on coffee makers was one of the best ideas to come down the pike in a long, long time. I have mine perfectly timed so as I walk in to the kitchen I hear the skooooshhhh skooooshhhh skooooshhhh sound of the last of the steamed water running through. All of the freshness, none of the wait.
I know what you are thinking, too. If he has such fresh coffee and has it so quickly... and if, as he claims, he drinks the first pot all by himself... why the heck aren't his posts better than they are? Good point. And I blame it on me.
I blame it on me so you don't have to. You need to blame it on the man. Or on whitey. Or on the voices in your head. Somebody or something. I am thanking you in advance.
(The Man)Today is a red letter day. We are going to haul that King Size comforter on our bed out to the laundromat and wash it. That's right. While y'all are trudging through another work day, I'll be hanging out at the coin laundry, puffing a medium sized stogie, listening to homogonized country radio, and keeping an eye on my back. That last part is very key. Some folks are scared of clowns. Others of carneys. I am frightened by coin laundries. I don't know. I just am.
I finally figured out that my boy cat, Pepe, is a dog trapped in a cat's body. Now it all makes sense. Goofy feline.
Don't know what else I've got to tell you. I bought this great maincure product from an Ethopian guy. I know, too weird. That he was here from Ethiopia. That he sold manicure stuff. That I was inclined to buy it. The planets aligned or something. But yet, I wander off subject.
It is basically a very fine sandpaper followed by two different textured buffs. All are affixed (affixed-- such a great word) to a small foam rubber block. So I sit down, sand and buff my nails for around 4 to 6 minutes, depending on how often I look back up at the TV, and they look all clean and polished. And shiny. It lasts a few days and there's none of the goos and creams and crap associated with a traditional manicure.
I know a lot of people don't think men should get manicures, but I don't care. There's nothing wrong with looking like you have a bit of culture. Especially if you have dressed up. If you have on a nice, well cut suit, a good looking shirt and tie and chewed up nails with dirt under them... well, you get the picture. It's like the guy I worked with one time that was such a natty dresser but would never polish his shoes. So it made it like like he was a poser. That he blew all his money on a set of clothes but couldn't afford the nice shoes to go with them. It ruined all the time, effort and money he'd spent on the clothes. And polish is what, $1.79?
Soap boxed out, out
Ramblin' Ed
That's what I'm about. Ramblin' Ed at 7:05 AM
2 comments:
For me it's clowns and folks with wraparound, industrial style sunglasses. Not the major league baseball player or NASCAR driver type shades, but those ones with the smoked blinders on the side, kinda rectangleish style.
Oh, I forgot... sorry... have a safe trip, "Hi, Sis!" and we'll see you when you get back.
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