Lock on the side gate: busted.
Latch on the kitchen door: busted.
Nails on both index fingers: lifting off their beds. Hurts.
Drag my computer into the bedroom, so at least I can put my feet up while playing at blogging and waiting for the locksmith: the phone’s gone.
Search search search around the house. Finally find a phone extension. drag it to bedroom; drop it in its cradle.
Phone jangles: repairman. Says he’s on his way.
Coffee: stone cold.
*****
Adorably handsome repair-dude shows up at the front door.
{sigh!}
Can I carry your tool kit for you all day?
<3
***
He charges off to Home Depot, there to do battle in the hardware department. He apparently imagines I’ll be irked because his bosses charge me enough to cover his gas and his time.
DUDE! If only they knew how much I’d be willing to pay to get you to do this job!
Fortunately, they don’t…
Spavined hip: EXCRUCIATING!
Don’t get old, whatever ya do. When you’re old, you hurt all the time.
Hmmm…
Y’know, another little pain that afflicts you in your old age is sentimentality.
Yesterday, I left the Dog Chariot off at the repair shop up on the corner. Getting home, then, required me to walk through the neighborhood of aging 1950s tract houses that stands just to the north of the ‘Hood.
Gosh, but construction was ticky-tacky in the Good Ole Days!
Prob’ly no worse than it is today, when you come down to it. Tract housing is tract housing is tract housing: is, was, and ever shall be. 😀
Walked past the former home of a favorite old neighbor. WHAT a nice man! He and his equally pleasant wife moved out generations ago…I wanna say they moved into an old-folkerie. But don’t recall the details.
Sure do miss them, though. They were as nice as you could get.
****
Something there is about the modern American custom of locking up the elderly in old-folkeries. Ugh! What a fate to look forward to!
For what it costs to live in an old folks’ prison, you could hire someone to come in every day, pick up after you, fix the days’ meals, drive you to the grocery store or the quack… Why lock yourself up to get those privileges?
Learned this from The Cleaning Lady from Heaven, who (it develops) has done exactly that kind of thing.
So…I sit around wondering about my father: could he have stayed in his cute little Sun City home until he arrived at his last days and hours?
Hm.
Possibly. But we have this huge difference between him and me: he went to sea all his adult life. Ran away from home at 17, lied about his age, and joined the Navy. From there on, he shipped out by way of making his living.
Hence, two major differences, temperamentally, between him and me:
* He did not mind institutional living. For him: bad food, annoying noise from fellow inmates, daily schedules determined by someone else: those were just normal life. For me: that kinda stuff drives me nuts.
* And he had a wife (until she smoked herself into the grave). She did the shopping. She did the cooking. She did the cleaning. She did the budgeting. She organized their social life.
Hm. As for moi…. I have no problem with cooking — actually, I rather enjoy it. I hire out the cleaning, the yardwork, and the bookkeeping. As for a social life…whazzat?
****
Ah hah!
Here’s part of my social life, right now: An adorable young workman.
He’s here to replace the worn-out deadbolt on the back door.
That’s good.
Also good: he’s more than adequately scenic.
*********
The gorgeous creature replaced the kaput deadbolt — and did so with a piece that matches the rest of the kitchen hardware in color and finish. To accomplish that, he made a trek to Home Depot, one of my very least favorite activities.
Came back with a new lock set, took out the sad old one, installed the new one…et voilà!
So…hmmmmmmmm…
Maybe we don’t wanna make it ALL stop, Dear Lord…
😀
