Rain forecasted for three days in row beginning yesterday. My husband left me note--he leaves them almost every day--encouraging, sweet-worded--saying if I walked again today do it earlier rather than later in the afternoon because it was gonna rain hard.
I didn't plan to walk--trying not to overdo it so I'm up for tomorrow's ride to/from, at the women's basketball game in Akron, but after doing a bit of this and that, around 2:00 p.m. I looked out the window and saw white, what looked like snow, which it was--not rain.
Also, staring for a bit, the snow blew off some roof tops in a sheet and a swirl, winds obviously in need of the adverb, "gusting."
This is why I often tell my husband that I'll just stick my head out the door to get the weather report as it's usually more accurate.
Also, I tell him meteorologists should get paid a basic salary and only receive extra for when they get it right--a kind of commission. Plus, a big bonus for predicting tsunamis and similar life-threatening disasters.
As for me and how I'm doing--I don't get paid; however, I do bear this in mind: I am still rattle-brained.
I went down to the basement to bump along a white, stained sheet I picked up for $2.99 at a local thrift store (I soaked it overnight with a dash of shampoo, some fragrance-free All detergent, 20 Mule Team Borax, and peroxide).
So I set a timer for 20 minutes to add some white vinegar to the rinse cycle, then promptly got involved in reading Pearls Before Swine (When Pigs Fly), which led me to look up some images for possible signatures, got so engrossed I almost missed the rinse cycle, hurried to the basement.
And the way I dress. I don't do it in a self-conscious way but sometimes I notice:
Today, it's salmon colored floods--sweat pants meant to be for a much shorter woman, so they fit like long crop pants. I rolled up the hems and that felt better. On top I wore a horizontal striped Old Navy long sleeve top, and on my feet: Merrill work boots.
I want some photos of my get-ups but my husband is rarely home and by the time he gets here it's dark outside which is the best place to take photos--the light in the flat accentuates the shadows on my face.
I just have an old Boost phone camera, really poor quality but better than nothing. I use it as a base for photo effects (not PhotoShop excessive) to approximate actual skin tone and so forth as well as to play around:
I've loved photography, especially black-n-white (other people's and my own) since I was at least as young as 12 and organized a shoplifting visit to a local Pick-n-Pay: I was the lookout. (No money for film, never did develop any of the photos I took.)
That was the year my mother said, "You could talk a beaver out of his teeth," and I felt pride swelling then a stomach plummet because as I said to her, "But a beaver needs his teeth."
That last statement is why my father said, sneering, "You're so sensitive," and not--as so many might assume from my INFP status, because I was a cry baby or nostalgic or sentimental (I was none of these three).
I'm rambling, and letting myself:
It replaces physical doings that would bench me (metaphorically) from going to the women's basketball game which is my favorite spectator sport followed by indoor soccer if the team is good. Third?
Hmm, maybe Olympic swimming or some gymnastics--women's more than men's for that last too because for certain sports, in my experience, women play focused on the team rather than what we called in the 70s, "hot-doggin' it," i.e. showing off.