Sunday. You'd think, well, to bed early, up early, that works out to a good night's sleep, right? Why the hour's nap in the late morning to make it work? Rain today, by the way. Rain last night. Rain this morning, clouds now that noon is approaching and I'm thinking breakfast at seven doesn't last, what's for lunch? What, located near by, provides food that feeds the soul yet doesn't cause your doctor to blanche when he asks about your diet. Not that you'd mention it to your doctor, of course, but it's hard to hide it from yourself.
Ah, better. We've had a couple of hours pass since the last paragraph and I have just consumed a bowl of spaghetti with red clam sauce and Parmesan cheese. One should always have a can of red clam sauce, a package of spaghetti and Parmesan cheese in your cupboard. I have a list, nothing formal, but a list of things to watch for, indicators that perhaps my attention is wandering, that perhaps my days are not going well. Not cleaning up after Ms. Emmy, for example, when she throws up on the rug for a period in excess of 24 hours. Not doing the laundry unless, well, you just have to do the laundry. Not restocking the cupboard with spaghetti and red clam sauce. I am on the edge, skating alone with but one can of clam sauce remaining in my cupboard. Nothing to worry about, but the laundry is overdue and I am in no condition to spend the minute required to walk down the hall to throw it in the machine.
This came to mind when I noticed how clean and polished MRT's place was Friday evening when we dropped by to test the latest batch of home brew. The bathroom. My, my. Clean and polished and presentable. I have wondered if my own habits might improve if I were to retire (MRT retired this year and his attitude and health seem much better) and my suspicion is they would. Just a passing thought, you understand, here in Oakland.