Crusty And Not
Sunday. That's one large tabby with, one must say, an active hop up on your lap scratch me on the tummy hi ya guys attitude. All eighteen pounds of him. Am I comparing him to Ms. Emmy? Certainly not.
Slept in an hour or so later this morning, it being Sunday with a party last night. No complaints. They're saying it will get up into the seventies today which does happen around here in February I guess. I think. We're clearly in the third year of a drought and it seems to be much warmer than the norm, although again, weather in the Bay Area can be all over the place and droughts have been common enough. Still, who knows what any of this portends? Could it be my buying my (albeit small with the decent gas mileage) SUV has been contributing to global warming? Global warming that may bring the walls down around here in my lifetime? I certainly hope not. Yours, of course, but certainly not in mine.
Later. A drive down to Jack London Square well after the Lion Dancers were scheduled to perform with some vague idea of getting out and shooting pictures deciding instead to drop by Beverages & More to buy sake, crackers and cheese (noting their miserable selection of sakes is getting ever worse), a drive back home feeling crusty. Crusty? Crusty about other people's driving. Crusty about people in line in front of me forever fumbling with their credit cards and holding up the line, none of which adds to my quality of life. My feeling crusty, that is, not adding to my quality of life.
Is it something that happens as you get older? Do the synapses shrink? All this along with a lessening in my ability to think on my feet quickly in some circumstances such as occasionally fumbling with change. Nothing too bad, too often, but often enough so I notice. Well, I'll be sixty-six in March. A serious number, particularly when you notice the check out dates noted for men in the news. Fifty this, sixty that. Be happy you're still walking, my bucko, crusty and kicking is better than crusty and not.