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One Day in the Sun.

I just posted two sad posts in a row which means that now it would be time for... [drumroll]   Yep, another sad post.  Which is totally not what I've ever been about with the blogging but apparently it's the conduit that got me to start writing again this time, so I'm going with it.  And really, this one isn't sad; I'm just being dramatic.  The nephew in the navy is sad.  The waitress who probably found a better job?  Even that is not really sad, just mildly inconvenient.  But this is at least sad enough to change life as I've come to know it over the last 3 months, so that makes it at least somewhat significant on the sadness scale. I had to drain the pool last weekend. First time ever doing so, given that this was the first summer ever where I actually had a pool.  Lordy, I feel entitled just typing that.  An actual pool.  Like the Beverly Hillbillies, except my pond was not cement, it was inflated rubber or whatever it's made of.  It was so nice to
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In the Navy.

The Village People are hardly appropriate as a title for this post, but there it is.  What's the first thing that comes to mind when you summarize the topic you're about to write, and it's always going to be song lyrics with me.  Fifteen years of frickin' blogging (give or take a handful of extremely extended sabbaticals) and it's always goddam song titles. I'll just put this out there, in the interest of full disclosure.  I've been sad.  It's been going on for months, but not more than a year.  It was, in fact, something that seems to have started the day after the 2016 election.  Because that shit seriously shook my world down to it's foundation, and literally everything changed.  Some of it overnight, some more of it in January, some of it still, more of it to come.  It can never be understated how seriously, seriously fucked up all of that was.  IS.  All these months later and I still cannot process. I'm hardly alone in my suffering, I g

The Way We Were.

The rituals that keep me sane.  All of them.  It borders on OCD, or ADD, or anal retention, or something else, but it probably isn't any of those things because that would actually lend some legitimacy to my crazy and it would all become justified.   Much like chronic back pain, or being left handed, legitimizing it is not allowed.  Just suffer and be weird and shut up about it, thank you. That entire introductory paragraph was a tangent from the thing I haven't even started writing yet. So the real point is this, that I tend to have these rituals all the way down to where I eat lunch, what I order, and sometimes even what days of the week I do each.  I've seen it much worse than me, but I still do it.  I mix it up sometimes, just to prove that I can.  Like maybe toast instead of pancakes, or if I'm really crazy it's the BLT and the waitress will ask if I'm feeling ok because I didn't order breakfast. To drink?  Always Mr. Pibb in a to-go cup, if they