Alas, the well is dry. The ink-pot is empty. There is no gas in the tank.
In short, inspiration is lacking. I have finally run out of things to say.
The wise thing to do would be to just say nothing, but wisdom has never been my strong suit...
Over the weekend we went to Wegman's, otherwise known as The Grocery Store Where I Would Like to be Buried.
As we walked in the door, there was a woman giving out free samples of freshly-pressed orange juice. Joel and I pushed our cart over to enjoy some citrus-y goodness.
She saw Joel and said, "It's wonderful that there are so many more opportunities for the blind these days"
I told her that he wasn't blind. Undaunted, she continued, telling me about Braille programs she had heard about from her neighbor. She explained that I should give his friends magnifying glasses so they can relate to his disability.
I backed away slowly, as Joel was frantically reaching for more juice. Juice he could see with his perfectly functional eyes.
Now, if I was clever, I would have said something to the woman. Instead, I just said, "Thanks for the advice!"
I volunteered at the food pantry yesterday, and it was perhaps the most relaxing hour of my life. All I did was stack cans of fruit and vegetables on shelves. Again and again. I turned each label so it faced the same way, and made sure that the creamed corn was separate from the kernel corn.
I walked out feeling like I had just had a massage. Mindless tasks are so good for the soul. Especially when somebody else is watching your children while you do said tasks.
I learned something else---don't donate cranberry sauce. They have plenty. Splurge on a nice can of fresh pineapple and feel good about it.
Guess what I did for Mother's Day yesterday? Bought a card for my mother-in-law. Bought her a gift. Wrapped it up. Dropped it off at the post office.
I even remembered to let her son sign her card.
Does everybody do this?
I used to make fun of my mother because she wore handkerchiefs all the time as sweat-rags. Her hot flashes are intense, apparently. Naturally, I teased her and called her The Boss or Pat Benatar.
I believe she will stay around, just for the sheer pleasure of watching me suffer through my own hot flashes someday. She may be one hundred and five, but she will smile and whisper, "See? Told ya."
By the way, Mom? I'm wearing a handkerchief, prairie-girl style, as I write this.