feast or famine

Sorry for the days without posts. For some it may be nothing at all, not even noticed. For others, it may bring up abandonment issues. Truth be told, I just had to go back to work in the coal mines.

I am still on a Downton Abbey binge fest. Only now I have hooked my husband. We watch on my iPad at night before bed. He is not a glutton so two episodes are the most we watch at a time. I called the Principal at work “milord” yesterday, partly in fun, and partly because I do identify with the kitchen staff. Admin generally see faculty as dispensable as servants.

There was something I was wondering about and finding rather confounding. I cannot remember now; maybe it will come to me as I write.

How about the incredibly gross commercials on TV aired at dinnertime? People across the continent, young and old, have to hear about vaginal atrophy, erectile dysfunction, and the like. I don’t know what is worse, the condition, or the often life-threatening side effects for the medications. I cannot imagine growing up eating supper with such explicit references to uncontrollable bodily fluids. If we were lucky enough some nights to not have to eat at the table, it was time for a Swanson TV dinner, always the fried chicken. If my mother overcooked it, and that was not unusual at all, the browned chicken crust would stick to the aluminum tray. I can still taste it. Now my grandchildren are subjected to overactive bladders and Depends.

They are discovering that there are some additives to fast food that create addiction. No duh. I used to shake like a alkie with DTs when my mom was late with our cheeseburgers from McDonalds. The fries cause serious dependency.

I will post a little jpeg once in a while of pictures I am working on for a book. The photos are of my dogs and their magical ability to enter the paintings they love. I am looking forward to writing the stories they tell when they exit the artwork.

If I think of that thing I was going to tell you, I will need to make a note. I am fearful of the day when I forget where I have parked my car.


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liese ricketts

photographer, closet writer, mother, grandmother, hermit.