I did not sleep well last night. No. I meant to say that it took me a really long time to find sleep last night. That citation got to me. I finally called my mother, and guess what. She knew exactly how I felt. Even she found it hard to believe that it was my first ticket. Seems "everyone" gets a ticket. It's a rite of passage to some, but not for me. I want to fight it, but I have better things to do. I suppose. Not letting fear stop me from getting behind the wheel is one of those, so I went to the post office. I forgot to mail two important letters yesterday, and again, that little voice kept urging me to go-go-go.
Right before I left, JC sent me a text that said, "The man is still handing out tickets in the same spot. His job must be on the line." It's supposed to be a speed trap, because the second you cross the road you are no longer in the 45 mph speed zone. You are in the 30 mph zone, but the sign is a block ahead of you. No matter. Maybe you can fight city hall, and maybe I will, but I want to show you another elephant that sits on my desk. It's much more fun. Cute, huh? It's a pencil sharpener and a paper shredder. For real.
Remove the top for closer inspection (I always want to know how things work.) and it looks like a mouse on its back.
Without its top it reminds me of Mr. Snuffleupagus. With tusks.
Here, it looks like an insect with shiny eyes and a hole in its forehead. A third eye maybe? I haven't tested the pencil sharpener yet. But . . .
The shredder works! Do you have top secrets, receipts, or love letters that you need to destroy? Well, if I were you, I'd eat them, because this shredelephant shreds in small bites. I tell you it's like eating an elephant. My friend, Lisa joked, "You need to cut the evidence before you shred it." I wish I had a kid. Or even a grandkid. They would love me more than their other grand for sure. Since I don't, I get to play by myself.
Oh! So I drove to the postoffice and there was mail! My box was stuffed. My niece sent her uncle and me tees, with her university's logo on front. She wrote to me, "You can rock this!" Hahaha! And for sure I will try. We have been writing to each other since her mother passed. Such great letters. I know she'll be an amazing teacher. The uni isn't that far from Katy, so we're planning a weekend here. She gets to sleep in Erin's room, and if all goes well, I'll do a real English tea for her and Erin, if she, Erin comes home for my birthday.
I'm saving the mail that came with, for the morrow. I love kids! Sitting here writing, I looked up and saw a repeat of yesterday's "trail ride." Alex loves his horse, his um . . . cowboy hat, and whip. Since today was "buy someone a cupcake day, I bought three. One was for my friend at Aaron Bros., and I'm glad that I did. She wasn't feeling so hot. Said she was tired. She was as pale as a person can get and not have leukemia. Her eyes lit up, color bloomed in her cheeks, and she grinned when I handed her the little box in a bag. She asked, "For me? Why?" I really must write to Ohh La La and tell the not-so-kind owner how her sweets put smiles on people's faces. Once, I bought a dozen for the guys at the local sandwich shop. Those guys are something else. They huddled over the big box, and as I slipped away, I heard choices being made. Only one guy stopped to ask, "Do you work there? Is that why you gave us . . . Oh! I want a German chocolate."
Back to Alex, from next door. I gave him a red velvet cup cake just minutes ago. I saw him over the top of my MacBook. Unsure as to how I'd get it over the fence, he pulled back a slat, and presto! There he was. When I said, "How did that happen?" he replied, "It broked." His lips were Kelly Green. He explained that too. He'd eaten a green candy. Here's how it went from there:
Me: Do you like cupcakes?
Me: Run and ask your mom if you may have a cupcake.
Him: She's not home.
Me: Who's home with you?
Him: My dad.
Me: Ask your dad if you may have a cupcake.
All I saw was his "cowboy" hat flying behind him. In the end I got a hug, a thank you, and a "yum" when he licked a fingertip worth of frosting.
You may wonder what all this has to do with mail. Well, my posts are like open letters. Blogging sure saves on postage, huh?
Then there's this. Remember Richard Dawson? I liked Richard. He's one of the first Brits I genuinely didn't mind invading America. Well, I'm taking a survey here, and at the end I get to say, in Richard's voice . . . What? The right answer gets you something in return. So here goes:
Do you recall the episode from Roseanne when she asks her mother how old she feels, and Bev answers, "I'm 62."? Roseanne wants her to say she feels like she's mentally younger, but Bev insists she's as old as she is. And she asks why she should want to be anything else. Well, will you answer this question for me? Simply leave your answer and share with us why you feel you're that number. The best answer deserves something good. No, it won't be a "You're simply the best!" tee shirt. So, game on?
Then, if you can guess my "brain age" you get an even greater prize. That Satchel was a thinker, was he not?