Here you have a perfectly lovely photo of some roses and some chickens. It is a rather meaningless picture and I have had a rather meaningless day.
I have done something which seems to have solved the problem of my phone constantly dropping the internet connection. Don't ask me what I did because I do not know. But I did something. I have not solved the router problem because I looked that situation up on Google and the instructions seemed insurmountably difficult to me but I'm sure if I set my mind to it, I probably could figure it out. Mr. Moon's phone also reports that his security is weak and he gets the same message about refiguring the WiFi but he says, "It's been like that forever. I don't care."
There you go.
I suppose the high point of my day has been ordering a new nightgown from the Vermont Country Store. I actually made a list today of things I need to purchase. I decided that I am going to be more organized in all ways.
That's a lie.
I decided that I might as well make at least a tiny stab at it. And what's the first thing you do when you need to organize? Make lists, right? Nothing says determination like a good list.
Hell, I even went to the shelf in the kitchen where I keep random things that I have no idea what to do with and dug out an old notebook that I'd bought at Old Navy, believe it or not, years and years and years ago. It's such a cool notebook that I've hardly ever used it but I'm not going to live forever so why not?
It looks like this.
The pages are heavy duty paper and are lined. Inside the notebook interspersed between the blank pages are beautiful photos like the covers of vintage Mexican postcards, posters, and so forth. I have used a few of them for card-making. Well, back when I did things like that.
It turns out that I had used at least a few of the pages of the notebook. There are lists in my handwriting, a wretched poem or two. The lists gave me pause. One of the pages' list went like this.
It would appear that perhaps I did. Here's another list I found.
When Kathleen coerced me into doing this with her, I didn't know a Foley artist from a Foley catheter. I knew a lot more about Foley catheters, actually. But I learned and oh, we had so much fun! The productions were not real radio shows, obviously, but we used authentic old radio show scripts and the actors all dressed in costumes of the era and sat in a semi-circle of chairs until their turns at the mic came up. Kathleen and I sat on tall stools behind our table with all of our sound-effects-making props and we knit and crocheted onstage, waiting for our services to be needed as per the script. I would bring a thermos of what we made quite clear was whiskey or some brown liquor but which was, in reality, as fake as the tiny door we used to open and shut when that was called for. It was red bush tea in that thermos that we sipped throughout the performances. We called ourselves The Miller Sisters because oddly enough, "Miller" was both our maiden names.
Oh, god. I'm feeling so nostalgic.
We did everything completely straight-faced and no matter what happened, we showed no reaction. And things did happen. Trust me. But it turned into a beautiful bit although once I did break my toe while kicking a trashcan across the stage.
One must suffer for one's art.
Fuck that shit.
I had a Virgin of Guadalupe car deodorizer hanging from my rear-view mirror for years because I loved it in the ironic sense that I love that goddess and never once did I worry that a cop would pull me over for it and of course, they never did.
Erased. Completely and utterly. Shot and killed. Dead and gone.
You want to talk about cancel culture? There you have it.