Sunday. Pulled the bed well away from the wall for a thorough look for the glasses. No glasses. OK. Unless they're under the covers somewhere, doubtful as I've checked more than once, they're not in the bedroom. I would have thought the bedroom as, well, that's where I usually do my reading. Same now with the computer area and the living room. And the car. Nothing left but to do a lift this, move that, turn over the apartment session or - and this one's probably already subconsciously decided - skip the damned thing and get the prescription updated on one or two of the older pairs.
Most of the older pairs work well enough as they are, but I seem to recall it's best to use a current prescription lest over time the eyes be damaged. Of course it wouldn't surprise me if “best to use the current prescription” was something promoted by the eyeglass makers, but this is America where nothing should be surprising.
It would get you out of the house, down to the local shop where you bought them in the first place. You do have insurance, after all.
All of that is true, none of it seems to get my ass in gear, though, so we'll leave it here. Dear oh dear.
Breakfast at the usual place eating the usual breakfast over the usual paper, my waitress relating a story of a phone call she'd gotten Thursday from a customer she knew who ate there often and they had his card with his home address and phone number, the customer on the phone suddenly saying he needed help and hanging up. Call the customer at his number, no answer. Call 911. Yes, they'd send someone to look.
Later, since the customer lived just up the way, she and her manager walked the mile or so to check. The customer answered the door, said it wasn't he who had called, but thanked them for their concern. No sign of anyone from 911. The gist of all this for me was her saying this fellow (she was pretty sure it was he who had called even though he denied it) was getting old and shouldn't be living on his own up on the third or fourth floor of a building without an elevator. Getting old? Oh, she figured sixty.
Hmm. Sixty. Five years ago. We'll assume she meant eighty. At least eighty. You're distracted at eighty, the mind wandering, the world fuzzy. I know this to be true because I've read such online, in serious books and newspapers. I've seen it in family members. Eighty. Not sixty. Certainly not sixty.
Where did all that come from?
Oakland, near Lake Merritt.
The attitude seems good, the head fucked up, but the little pills take care of most of that. Not sure what the day holds. Probably wander down to Jack London Square again if only for the exercise. I need toothpaste and toilet paper, two of life's more necessary items, so I'll make another exciting journey later this afternoon. Can't go without toothpaste and toilet paper. Not in Oakland.
You sure you weren't the guy who called your waitress?
Don't go there. Not for another twenty years. OK?
Later. To the pet shop and Safeway: the pet shop for a three month supply of Frontline; Safeway for, well, tooth paste and toilet paper. And four cans of white clam spaghetti sauce, all that they had, when I saw it in stock. Oh, and some Right Guard, another of those items it's best to not go without.
Frontline, by the way, was just short of sixty bucks for a three month supply. I remember it being expensive, but I don't remember it being twenty bucks a shot to keep your cat (who sleeps within biting distance on your bed) comfortable. Now that I'm retired I think I'll need to be more strategic, smarter, perhaps even rational in my shopping. Yes, yes, such changes would suggest a change of habit, a modification of rut, but shit: sixty bucks for fleas?