Okay, I can deal with the fact that I’ve turned clothes into
right-side-out before I wash them and yet they emerge inside-out.
And we all know there’s an alternate
world full of those missing socks.
 |
| The view below my bedroom window. |
There is some risk to setting your
work of fiction in the town where you live. When I started my series, I
thought, ‘Why invent a new town when I have a perfectly good one right here?’
And so I did, with a fair amount of license: rearranging buildings, changing
the name of the roads, moving the middle school, and so forth. My town isn’t a
hotbed of murder, but there are times when reality and the world I’ve made up
blur.
Okay, so soon no one will be able to
read the Constitution – or for that matter, sign their name – since cursive is
no longer being taught.
And I wonder if in a few years anyone will be able to compose a simple paragraph without help, now with all those bots eager to pitch in.
I proved to myself again the wisdom of not feeding the addiction. It’s hard to remember now how it got started again – I just know that I fell deeper and deeper without even realizing it.
What a truly odd day.
After a pleasantly slow start – tea, toast, reading – I put on my yoga togs and prepared to leave. As I opened the door leading to the garage, I managed to bang my big toe – my bad toe that was already having iffy nail issues after stubbing it two days before. Blood ensued, but I slapped on a band-aid, put on my sandals, and headed into the garage.
Ages ago – and I mean ages – and in another life, I was at the local Milton Bradley factory taping a brief clip of the production lines. It was a segment for a small cable children’s show that I produced and shot with a friend.
I have made progress in life, really. I’m no longer spreading newspapers on the kitchen floor, spraying caustic, lye-based, skin-searing cleaner into my oven, and then 20 minutes later on my hands and knees with my bright yellow rubber gloves (and breath held) wiping that cleaner out with 1,000 paper towels.
