The Way to a Woman’s Heart?

There’s been a suggestion that I write more often. So, that’s nice feedback, and I guess I’ll try to do it. Since we got a decent rain finally, I’m not spending quite as much time watering. All the Rose of Sharon popped back like it had never been withered on the edge of death. The magnolia has some new little leaves, which has to be a good sign. I’m still concerned about the dogwood, but I guess we won’t know until next spring on that.

I just spent some time with another kind of spring – the one in the oven door. Everything’s okay now, after a set back the first time I tried to repair it. I was getting used to working around the little step ladder I had to use to prop the door closed, but it’s a lot more efficient without it. And my wife says the absolute last thing I need is to be any more inefficient.

She wasn’t at all alarmed when I told her two women had proposed to me yesterday. She said, “They must know you’re already married. You’re wearing a wedding ring.” Then she asked how old they were, what they looked like, what they were wearing. Then she said she bet they were with their husbands when they made these proposals. Which was true.

She just had the first day back at school. I always pack her a nice lunch.

Hot Sun in the Summertime

Well, here it is, August already. Summer’s on the downswing. The heat and drought have certainly taken a toll this year. Especially in an un-air-conditioned home. My wife is oddly proud of the fact that she has never lived in a home with air-conditioning, but there were a couple of times she suggested sleeping in the restaurant. Still, we persevered through a record high of 97 — that’s inside, downstairs. I’ve had to stand the heat even when I’m out of the kitchen.

My wife tells me today is Chic-fil-a Appreciation Day. Her one sister is planning to go over to Indy and show her support. Her other sister is going on Friday when apparently there’s the Chic-fil-a In-your-face Day.  I doubt either of these events will have any impact on business at Harry & Bud’s.  For the record, we don’t give big donations to anybody. In order to do that, we’d have to have some leftover income at the end of the month.  My wife says I have hit on a business model that’s 100% franchise-proof.  And one that uses an extraordinary plate and utensil to customer ratio. She brings this up mostly when she’s helping do the dishes, so she’s got a vested interest.

Father’s Day

Spent part of Father’s Day at the Indianapolis Museum of Art. They have a really good exhibit up on French painters and printmakers and their use of photography. It almost makes up for the stupid show the IMA sent to the Venice Biennial. Gymnasts doing routines on cheap looking copies of airline seats — what the hell was that all about? I’ve got nothing against gymnastics, I was once a gymnast myself. But simply juxtaposing two disparate elements doesn’t rise to the level of art. My wife refused to let me renew our membership last year. She took the whole thing as a personal affront.

Anyway, she went for getting a membership again, strictly on an economic basis. (The cost of three tickets = $36, and she knew we’d have to go at least once more because we got a late start. If we use the parking garage while we’re there next time, we’ll already be ahead by three dollars. She’ll still rail about the director and his zatsky wife, but feeling like she’s getting a bargain mitigates the anger.)

I didn’t get through even half the exhibit. My wife and daughter went through the whole show, but didn’t read all the curatorial explanations and historical information. That doesn’t count as a complete visit in our house.

Of course, I had to take fifteen minutes off before the museum closed to go view the Caravaggio. It’s small compared with most of his works, a single sleeping Cupid. My wife says, “How can it be a genuine Caravaggio? Why would Indianapolis have such a rare work? Why isn’t it featured in a more prominent place? What is it, something looted by the Nazi bastards so they need to keep a low profile?”

She tells me to keep a low profile too. Last time we were there, she was watching me look at the painting, and noticed a woman passing by take a protective hold on her child. Now she’s convinced I was mistaken for a pervert. “There you are,” she says, “in your plaid shorts and non-matching plaid shirt, wooly socks and work boots. You’re gazing in rapture at a little naked boy. Think how it looks to people who don’t know you.”

I guess the good news is that she doesn’t think I need to worry about how it looks to people who do know me.

Okay so I’m on this WordPress now.

Am I doing this right? It was already filled with some words here, but I deleted them and I’m typing this instead. With advice from my volunteer webmaster, the plan is to link this to the web page and or Facebook page. I tend to use the two terms interchangeably. But speaking of Facebook, why did people think that was going to make money? Isn’t it just like the dotcom bubble? I only know how to make money (and not much of it) the old-fashioned way: with a product. A physical item (in my case food) that you can see and smell and taste.

Memorial Day is coming up. Have to go to the cemetery with my wife to put flowers on her ancestors graves. Harry and Bud are among them, so I guess that’s why we got the job. My wife is fine, almost cheery, with the visit to the cemetery. She drinks a beer at her dad’s grave. One time we saw where somebody had left a beer for a departed loved one. My wife says her dad would think that’s a waste. And she has to get ordinary beer like Budweiser. Because her dad would not have spent extra on some import or microbrew.

Since the peonies (transplanted bushes that were at her grandmother’s) bloomed early this year, she bought some little bedding plants (drastically on sale because of not being watered at Lowe’s — and how she criticized them for stupidity in spite of taking advantage of the low price), but since she watered them, they look pretty good and she is having second thoughts about putting them out in the merciless heat of the cemetery to die.

Who knows what we’ll end up with. You know Jews put a stone on the marker to show someone visited. My wife is happy with that custom, but in a goyishe cemetery, she feels some pressure to conform to foliage at least.

So, there are all these buttons to the side here about format. No idea about that. But here we go sending this off.