She nails me with her unblinking, well-practiced look of reproach until I ask what's wrong. Minuet thinks she's my conscience. I went out for awhile yesterday for a meal at the Black Walnut and a quick stop at WFM. She's given me this stare since our return. JC is spared, mind you, although he's the one who drove. I think she sent her jinx ahead for good measure because the food was a failure.
Our Whole Foods shopping experience wasn't much better. There were gaping holes in all the shelves, the seafood department was shameful (I promise you the faux sea bass covered its eyes in shame), and the vegetables were pitiful and pathetic. We bought so little we could have carried everything home in two hands.
The good always outweighs the bad so here's some good:
This notice is posted on TBW's patio. I took so many shots JC asked, "How many more are you gonna take?" He was embarrassed. Should I have told him the first few were taken in video mode? I was so excited my finger slipped from photo mode to video. Poor old thing. JC, not me.
Wait. Do you think smokers should have a designated smoking space? Should it be closed in, since we 'd tend to get a lungful of secondhand smoke on our way from the parking spaces to the cafe. Do smokers have rights? But if they had equal space, what about the rights of the wait staff who would be exposed to secondhand smoke? Carrabba's Italian restaurant got rid of their patio space all together, hence, no problem.
Graphic designers make my heart light up. There's so much right here, but the wrong shakes it up. It feels like three different artists worked on the same poster, and got it wrong where it counts. And there's something wrong with my brain or my eyes lately. The poster caught my attention because I thought the ad was for water. "Matter" somehow became "water." Of course, Johnson reacted as he would have had I had a stroke. I think I frighten him sometimes. *grin* Like rounding the corner onto the tea and coffee aisle, I asked him something--I forget what--but he said what he always says when he's behind me and I talk: I can't hear you 'cause you're talking ahead of me. *sigh* *eye roll* So I said a little louder, "Come on old dude, you gotta keep up . . ."
He heard me just fine, proving what I've suspected all along. He hears me. If he didn't, he'd walk beside me, right? So he walks up on my left, and I see this big cheese-eating grin splitting his face just as he says, "You need to be careful what you say to me; that man thought you were talking to him." I turn in wonder, and on my right is an employee and an older man with skin the beautiful color of walnuts or Aunt Miss's favorite snuff. He wore a "cap" that would have nudged the Census into classifying him as "other," and it showed off enough gray hair to distinguish him as an old dude too. Very handsome he was.
The gentleman . . . Gentleman? My desktop dictionary defines the word in several ways. One is "2 a polite or formal way of referring to a man: opposite her and old gentleman sat reading." So, gentleman it shall be. The gentleman paid me no mind. I doubt if he saw me as anything more than a blip on his radar because he was in search of what he sought. Perhaps he was hard of hearing women too? Fast forward . . .
I didn't espy these until after we'd checked out and were near the exit. I still wonder what's on the other side, but hope springs that the circle designs are here for a while longer. See? I have good taste. Nanner nanna nanner, you ate a banan-er" to all y'all who laughed at me for liking the WFM circles. My "sewing circles" are still cool!
Tote with Pride. Indeed. I know I would. Would you?
Well, I would if they were better made. Craftsmanship always counts. Always. I never buy a thing if I can make it better, and I can sew these much better. Giving credit where credit is due, I like the idea of them being made with PETE. And while the Honda always has a cache of recyclable bags and totes, JC won't have them in his truck. Men
are can be obstinate odd. Remember, you get five cents off your purchases for each bag you reuse.
The final part of my parting ritual from a WFM is grabbing copies of "edible Houston." Sometimes they're so exceptional that I've mailed copies to Shin and Erin. They wrote about the annual Purple Hull Pea Festival in Shankleville last year!
I am so smitten with this cow. Steer? Moo moo? Does it have vitiligo? Either way it is ab-so-lute-ly beautiful. Looking at it, I smell the sweet that comes from calves, a little manure, and freshly cropped pasture grass. For all I know, this dude could be in one of the pastures I frequent when I need to take in the great outdoors. It reminds me of the George Strait song, about where you'll find him down in Texas if you go looking for him. What a song. What a cow.
I wrote mail last night as I watched Clark Gable on TMC. A single letter.
Drew another page for "As the Werm Turns," aka "The Story of Werm Hole Hill."
Most of my models work for food.
Which brings us to the title of this post.
. . . to be continued