This Was, Perhaps, My Third Strike

Sometimes, the news headlines you read on the internet are quite intriguing. There you are, browsing away, never intending to actually click on an article, when the headline grabs you by the throat. Makes you hover that little index finger over it until it turns blue.

This morning, I was intrigued to see that "Men who take care of their guns are more likely to enjoy better sex, have fewer issues with erectile..." Yeah. Who knew? Such a timely issue, what with the recent firearm frenzy preoccupying the media 24/7. Those dudes must be really in tune with themselves. It made me think of that scene in Full Metal Jacket, where Joker and the other private-grabbing privates chanted, "This is my rifle, this is my gun, this is for fighting, this is for fun." There must be some connection, I surmised. It made me curious as to what kind of study had been done. Ever the scientist, desiring to check out the experimental design, I hovered my cursor-finger over the title. What do you know! That connection was actually about men who take care of their gums!

A few weeks ago, I was perusing Amazon for new titles. One caught my eye. Saturday Night Windows: The Adventures of Six Friends Remaking Their Lives, by Becky Aikman. The cover was kind of a dark blue, with what looked like snowflakes falling. "Hm..." I thought, "that looks interesting. Maybe it's about somebody looking in windows and watching people live their lives. Some kind of meek lonely person, not a creepy Tom-peeper." I clicked on it. Read the description. Well, I'll be hornswoggled! That book is about widows! Not that there's anything wrong with that. Just not my cup of vicariousness.

Friday evening, The Pony and I did the weekly shopping on the way home from school. We pulled out onto our usual outer road for the trip home. It takes us past a propane tank business. Earlier in the week, The Pony told me he saw a tank with the end taken off, and a man inside. Like he was cleaning it or painting it. I was driving, so I took his word for it. Now it was near dusk, and we were going the other way. "Hey, Mom! Now you can see that tank."

"What in the world...? Look at these two fools. I get SO sick of roadwalkers!"

"See? The end is open."

"I can't look. I'm going to run over--hey! They're on bicycles! That's all I need. Two idiots on bicycles in front of me, riding across that bridge!" The bridge is barely two lanes, and is supposed to be closed down this month for replacement. It is made of rusty iron beams that have been hit at the 12' 6" Clearance sign by the top of a semi. Trucks are no longer allowed to cross it, but school buses are. Go figure.

"Right there, Mom! Did you see?"

"No, honey. I'll have to look another time. It's all I can do to avoid these...ROAD SIGNS? Those weren't roadwalkers or bicyclers! They're ROAD SIGNS!"

"That's really bad. You're even wearing your glasses."

Yes. With my glasses that I got in October, I could not tell stationary road signs from moving people. I'm starting to suspect that my optometrist ripped me off for two pairs, bifocals AND regular glasses that I use for driving.

I'm glad that I stopped short of honking at those signs to get out of the way. If you ever drive through Backroads, it is probably good advice to fear the beeper.