Oh, We're Going To Talk About Me Again, Are We? Goody.

Golden years: noun, plural; the years of retirement, normally after age 65.

Perhaps I am the most gifted person on the planet, leading the most charmed life. Perhaps I’m an utter failure at everything. Of course the truth lies somewhere in between, but some days that needle leans closer toward utter failure. As we grow we hear proverbs . . . some so old that they’ve become adages:

• For better or for worse . . . .
• Where there's smoke, there's fire.
• A stitch in time saves nine.
• The early bird catches the worm.
• Slow and steady wins the race.

Adages come from many sources, but what they all have in common is that they’re now accepted as truths in life. Today we’ll address not merely the adage, but a very silly idiom, golden years, and the beat-to-death idiom, bucket list.

I'd Make You Most Unhappy, Most. That Is, I'd Do My Best

Let’s stroll back in time. Our darling neighbors are back on the mountain. We stopped by their home yesterday, and up for discussion came the Texas flag that we’re proudly displaying to welcome them. To welcome them, and for the celebration of Sam Houston’s birthday on the date of their arrival last Tuesday. Rusty said, Honey, it’s wasn’t Sam Houston’s birthday, it was the birth date of [insert name of some other dead Texan here]. I said, No, it was Sam Houston. Rusty said, No it was . . . blah, blah, blah. Okay, dear, I replied.

Well our neighbor (who is Scottish) jumped all over that noting how quickly I acquiesced to my husband’s brilliance. I assured John that if I had my calendar with me, I would at that very moment be flipping to the November 3 page to prove Rusty wrong. But John’s point was made . . . wives should all be happy little ladies, such as myself, and support their husbands, if not in silence, then with a smile, a cocktail, and a wink-and-a-nod. Actually, John implied almost nothing of the kind. He’s Scottish . . . therefore way too smart for such talk among the lassies. Way too smart.

Moments ago my computer popped up with a window saying that Your Sarcasm Is Not Responding. Now I ask you, is that the ultimate in irony? Is that truly mind-blowingly ironic? Yes, in order to have a Sarcasm Not Responding prompt, one must have a Sarcasm folder, and I do . . . oh, I do.

Define Everything

I nearly burned-down our Texas home this morning. I'm still shaking.

Our day began with temperatures in the low 30s, so it was definitely a fireplace morning. As the fire dwindled into only a few embers, I thought it would be a good idea to just burn most of our got-to-go paperwork. Reuse, reduce, recycle. This was my reduce plan, and it led to removing photos from frames in order to burn the wooden frames. Thrifty me . . . every frame burned meant a dollar saved on firewood. One problem: sometimes I can't tell real wood from a man-made product . . . a product that burns very hot giving off possibly toxic fumes, and really black smoke. Perhaps my thriftiness was misplaced.