The Women Who Run With the Moose (Celeste, Rita, Betty, Dot, Shirley and me) have been in training lately. The last four weeks, we’ve been meeting every Saturday and taking a power walk, gradually working our way up from two miles, to three, then four and topping out at five miles. Seriously! And of course, doing it as a group, you push yourselves harder. Boy, I can really feel it in my legs, after.
For any sensible journalist, the one topic that seems to cause warning signals to start flashing is a discussion of the differences among the various races. I’ve never understood this timidity.
Perhaps, that’s because, living in Maine as I do, I’ve had somewhat less experience dealing with different races than writers in other states. But I reject the idea that Maine is so uniformly of one mind about races that there’s no room for diversity.
You know, there are just some things you shouldn’t see up close. In fact, if you never had to ever see ‘em, you could die happy. Last week, I had the dubious pleasure of gazing upon one of these things: color photographs of my back teeth.
Technology is part of this, of course. I mean, just because it is possible to see your back teeth up close doesn’t mean you should. Like the photos of my colon the gastroenterologist sent me home with last year. What was I supposed to do with those? Make Christmas cards out of ‘em?
When I was a kid growing up in Maine, my family lived in a cave. When I was twelve, somebody invented fire, and we had heat and didn’t have to eat raw meat. A few years later, we got a TV, which showed us fuzzy black-and-white pictures of the luxurious lives led by the residents of such exotic locations as Los Angeles, New York, and Bedrock.
Well, hate to burden you with this, but I’ve been sick for over a week now with some creeping crud that’s been going around. Don’t you just hate that? Every day is a new adventure; I get rid of one crap symptom and develop another. It’s like you’ve thrown a party for all these folks you don’t want to see.
I don’t pretend to be an expert in matters concerning pregnancy. I understand how it happens, having studied all the relevant aspects, both in high school biology and extra-curricularly.
This photo here pretty much sums up the difference between men and women. What is it, you may ask? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s a boot brush, modified. Beautiful, isn’t it?
Awhile back, Charlie says to me, “Ida, you know what we need?”
“Smart-aleck. I was thinking of something a little closer to home.”
“A complete kitchen make-over?”
“Hmm, I don’t know. New cloth napkins with matching placemats?”
Thank goodness that’s finally over.
The ridiculous statements.
The endless advertising.
The fierce competition and the bitter recriminations once the results were final.
Yes, the World Series is done for another year.
Wait, what did you think I meant?
The election? There was an election?
Last week was the anniversary of my mother’s death. Seven years! I can’t believe it. It seems like only yesterday and at the same time, a million years ago.
My mom lived with cancer on and off for four and a half years. And boy, oh, boy, that last one was tough. I like roller coaster rides and all, but only at the fair. Not so much at home.
Stay indoors at all times.
If you have a gun, make sure it’s cleaned and loaded. Keep it with you wherever you go, including the shower.
If you see movement in your yard, call the police.
Come to think of it, call the police even if you don’t see movement. I mean, what are you paying taxes for, anyway?
You need to take all these precautions because Maine is under siege.
Here are the grim facts, as I have freely interpreted them.