Wednesday, September 29, 2021

Max, Part 6 - More snippets. He pulled into a speed-bar. The food was, well considering, halfway decent. And a person could sit atleast sit inside

and atleast partially digest ones food.  He had never been much for eating on the run - hadn't been raised that way.  Over the past ten, fifteen years, the whole restaurant scene had changed.  When he was a kid, any middle-income parent had a choice of where to take the family out for a good, sensibly priced supper - one served with a smile, and upon real plates, and eaten with real utensils.   While there remained a few diners out in the sticks, most sit-and-enjoy-a-meal places catered to ... well, not tradespeople, who drove utility vans, and came home sooty or wet, or both.  

He set his tray on a corner table and opened up his coffee.  Checked his phone.  Yay, any messages could wait.  It was half past six, dark outside, and he was d.o.n.e, done for the day.  Unwrapping his sandwich, he took a bite, and just relaxed a moment on that plastic chair.  

Two or three tables beside him, he heard some voices.  Was the same-old small talk - someone's new car or whatever.  A moment later, where such-n-such lender is offering introductory rates - adjusted, of course.  And then, came the snippet - one that you didn't have to worry overmuch about getting a stiff fine, county time, or both.

"[Gosh darn] jews are raking in the green ... greedy bastards!"

Max rolled his eyes - and rolled his partially eaten sandwich back in its wrapper, sealed his coffee, and headed out the door.


And i'm headed back to 2021.  Good night, Dear Reader.  More tomorrow, Lord willing.

Max, Part 5 - Another service call, this time, in one of the last remaining department store's in the tri-county area. As he assessed the job before him, and what

tools he would likely need, he heard voices coming through the vent, from the restroom outside of the hfc credit office - a concession, which was why the store had, so far, been able to remain in business.

"WHAT THE F*, CARLA!"

Max dropped his phillips, the young woman's shrill had startled him.

"Sshhh."  carla, cautioned, then continued.  Something about her voice, very calm - too calm.  

Max continued on the task at hand.  The filter...any wonder the heat wasn't coming out.  He wiped his sooty hands on his trousers.

"Bull spit," the young woman's voice was some quieter, but not by much. "...they had no right, it was a private conversation, and ...."

"And, in a public place," carla interjected.

"Come on, carla..."

Max didn't catch the name, nor the situation, but he knew enough to know where this all was going.  Yeah, leaving everyone sooty, that's where.  He blew his nose.

"...hasn't a sexist bone in her body, what th.." the f-bomb went off again.

ms. calm carla continued...didn't take a psychiatrist to conclude, the older was enjoying upsetting the younger, and then chiding her for being, understandably, upset.   Max didn't know the details.  He didn't have to.  He'd heard it all before.  Snippets whispered from the next groceryaisle; murmured among two or three waiting in line over at the grab-n-go; and the random  individual half-hiding in a corner while talking on a cell.

His task was done.  Checking around to see that he didn't leave anything, he heard the distinct clack of a pair of a certain brand of high-end pumps, followed by the soft thud of the restroom door closing.  As he began to leave, from inside the restroom, he heard sniffling, and then water being run.

Old Guy, continued - Karl Marx was the antichrist...no wait, Adolph Hitler was the antichrist...no wait,

slick willie was the antichrist...no wait, Bill Gates...  Anyway, our old guy was sure glad he had listened to that (sermonaudio.com) sermon, from around 2020.  The preacher had explained that, not even the smartest Bible scholar - the devil himself - had that knowledge.  But the devil is a planner - more so than any Gates or Bezos could ever hope to be.  In short, old guy, though full of questions, was in good company - since, there had been, throughout history, more than a few solid, brilliant thinking men of God, who had questions as to whether pre-trib, mid or late - or somewhere inbetween - the Lord would come and rescue His Church from ... the melodrama.  

From what old guy had read in Revelations, it seemed that taking the Mark didn't happen until after alot of really bad quakes had happened - and forget about the one that just happened up north.  That one was really bad - a point 9-something.  But no mountains moved ... no wait, the best end of an entire side of pilk's peak now lay where a lake used to be.  Other than that ... per the news.  But that's anyone's guess.  Still, per the only trustworthy news - i.e., the B-I-B-L-E - the whole planet will be an obvious geo-MESS before the antichrist causes about everyone to take the Mark. 

So, what's with all the dot-matrix places popping up?  And all the forehead and right hand selfies all over the media, the cutsie names ... the latest, being "My Little Dragon Dropping."   Ugh!  It had been way more than enough, when that Robin had taken a dump, right in the front of old guy's Red Sox cap.


Lunch over, back to 2021.

Meanwhile, back here in 2021...yo, those meds of hers must have been totally ON!

What she was going on about ... and yeah, can't really blame her for being upset ... over a family member.  Lazy is bad enough, but lying, oh that's not good.  Anyway, this being a blog, located along the backwoods of cyber boonieville ... gives me a bit of freedom to vent.  While we get along, wouldn't trust her as far as i could pick up that shredder, and throw it across the office - it's about the size of a college-dorm frig.  

The woman's one of those who will go on and on about so-n-so, and then chatting if all up with that same person.   So, needless to say, strive to always be on guard - not always good at that.  Seems like as we, as a society, go on flipping off the Lord, the fakeyier, and fakeyier we are compelled to be.  

In the yarns have been spinning lately, one or more of the namby-pambyish terms she uses, are in the posts.  And yeah, when the yarns draw a pulitzer (hahahaha) i'll give her some of the prize money.   And no, she is no Daisy - not even close.  Daisy, as wicked jez as she is, atleast was basically above board about it.  

Old Guy shambled into his unit, he noticed the volume sitting atop the bookshelf, and paused

a moment.  He specifically remembered putting the Book back in its usual spot.  Yep, old guy had always been sort of a neat freak.  Anyway, he parked the bag of groceries he had carried in, upon the kitchen counter.  As he unpacked and put away the package of hamburg rolls, a small bag of mint candies, a quart of milk, a pound of burger, a dozen glazed donuts, and a can of coffee, he pondered some questions.  Questions for which, it was just as well the Book sat where it was.  He'd be reading from it within the hour.  

Oh, it felt good to have real heat again, old guy extended his hands toward the vent, then poured his coffee and ate a second donut.  

What was with all those dots, that people were getting on their foreheads anyway?  He had even seen, and had heard them affectionately referred to as "The Mark,"  and even, "My Beastie Button" - the latter posted all over various social-sites, even making inroads onto the few no-frills sites old guy visited.  And needless to say, nearly everybody seemed to be gushing (and a bit much) over Sir William Dorr.  How did that happen?  Billy boy wasn't even british...   He flipped on the plasma to catch the weather; hoping for word that the storm would fizzle down before approaching the southeast - Sis lived not too far from the coast, and the area had already had its fill of storm drama.

Speak of the devil, instead of real news, (as wanting as such was) Billy boy was center stage - going on about whatever usual goody-goody global fluff.  There was something familiar about billy boy - if old guy hadn't known any better, he'd of thought sir billy boy was the same creep who'd sold him that piece of crap bush hog, back in ... whenever.


Anyway, back in 2021, shift is about to befon.

Tuesday, September 28, 2021

Max, Part 4 - Coming back from a service call, Max stopped at a gas-n-go. He'd filled up earlier, but had forgotten to buy a jug of

windshield wash.  Sure, the price was nearly twice of what you'd pay over at the big-box, but, who knew, from one week to the next what would be out of stock.  The line was long...nothing surprising there.  What did come as a surprise was: what was playing on several of the plasmas.  It was as if you couldn't get away from those things - the horrors, that you might miss an ad for something you don't want, a preview for a show you don't want to see, or a track from a band that you don't want to hear.

But what was currently being blared, wasn't the normal skanky rubbish. It was a few-second (but long enough) trailer of a full-length (40 minute) movie, about ... well, what people in 2021 would call the imaginations of conspiracy-junkies.   Oh no, fred, the gore (and that's a polite term) was front and center - and on the side, over by the milk.  And on the other side ... over by the three or four little food-court tables.  

Atleast this place had a few tables.  Most gas-n-go type places had the food court, but no place for travelers to sit a few minutes - cool their heels - and eat their sandwich and fries, before getting back on the interstate.  No tables meant one less thing for staff to deal with, one less set of potential liability issues.  Yes, back in '26 - or was it '27?  oh well, whatever - someone had sat down, in in the process of what he/she/it/they was wearing, the edge of the plastic chair had caught hold of a length of chain, somewhere attached to the individual's "clothing."  Needless to say, a bump and maybe two stitches - if that ... Yep, Dear Reader, you guessed it - a multi million dollar lawsuit.  And yeah, chain-link (think that was the person's name) won the case.

While waiting to be checked out, he glanced over at the locked display cabinet which stood behind the cashier.   It had been several months since Max had bought a pack of cigarettes; nor was he interested in shelling out $17 and change for a second, containing eighteen cigarettes.  The first had been a rite-of-passage thing; having turned 25, he was able to legally purchase tobacco products.   Max hadn't finished the first pack, just wasn't his thing.

He turned at the red light.  On the corner, which - when he was a kid - had been a little diner, then became a craft shop, then became a body art salon (by that time, the neighborhood was beginning to slouch) then became a hemp outlet.  The place was now another "dot matrix."  Max did a double take.  There was already one just outside of town - in the same strip where the grocery store was.  Evidently, there was a sufficient customer-base.  The parking lot was full enough, and coming the door, was an individual, who evidently couldn't wait long enough to get to his or her car, before flashing multiple selfies of his or her forehead.

Max, Part 3 - "THA-WONK," the old volume hit the thinly carpeted floor. Max did a double take.

How'd that happen?  He wondered, since he hadn't even set foot in that part of the room.  The vent was on this side, not that side.  As busy as max was - nothing usual there - our young hvac hero held a deep respect for old books.  He set aside the vent cover, walked over to where the volume lay - minus the few pages that fell out, and landed nearby.  He inserted the missing pages, all but one.  That one, for some reason - and he didn't even think about it, but he read part of page before inserting that into its rightful place within the volume.  Unsure, whether the book had fallen from the 2nd or the top of the 3-tiered wally-world shelf, Max simply placed the ladge-print volume.   Somehow, he knew the apartment's tenant wouldn't make a fuss.

No, it wouldn't be until a bit later, that he would think about the portion of which he had read.  For now, his mind was on the here and now - and here, he had totally forgotten some other papers, about which he needed to see the tax collector.  Max didn't like the guy; why Pop continued to do business with him...?  Yeah, yeah, second or third cousin and all ... still, the guy was  ... that was a daytime-drama in itself.

Outside, the sleet was finally starting to let up - weather report said it would be moving out around 2-ish.  Three other jobs yet, and he hoped to be done around seven.  After which his big evening plans included going back to his apartment and, hopefully, getting atleast a half-hot shower.

For as much rent he was paying ... but then again, he couldn't blame the landlady.  She had the same problems Max had in finding reliable people to do work.  And on top of that, Max had noticed the evening before yesterday, another "Notice..." posted on the door of a nearby unit.  While he didn't know the tenant, nor really cared to, the probable reason ... well, it showed.  The balcony was a mess, and the sliding glass door looked as if it hadn't seen, for too long, so much as a mist of glass cleaner.

It had been a year and a couple months since he had moved in, and within that short amount of time, it was evident enough, the complex was not its former self.  Granted, Westgate was no Martha's, but when Max moved in, no parent had to worry overmuch if junior forgot to lock his bicycle, or left his leather baseball glove sit out on one of the plastic picnic tables.


Back in 2021, the mail is waiting to be picked up.

Monday, September 27, 2021

Max, Part 2 - The coffee was it's normal semi-palatable serving, but the breakfast-sandwich,

that third-ways eaten, went in the trash.  Second time this week.  One thing for sure, max wasn't going back there, to wait overly long, for a more-sizzle-than-steak-and-egg that ... didn't taste quite right.  Sure, the car line had been long - and seemingly getting linger -the ads about everywhere.  Well they could all have at it.  A partially eaten sandwich, from earlier in the week, lay near the bottom of his wastebasket.

Was going to be a long day, since he probably would not have time to stop anywhere later in the day.  He turned on his computer.  Two or three flies sped by him, enroute to somewhere.  He swatted the one, the other one or two dove toward the earlier discarded feast.  A bit late in the year, Max paused, but didn't give the winter-time flies any further thought.

From up the street, he heard that familiar 4-cylander engine, it entered his parking lot as if there was no this-morning.  His wall clock read 7:37.  Also, the second time this week.  He and ruthie would have to have a little talk.

Max didn't get it.  What was ruthie expecting?  Three feet of snow to fall, between where she had parked, and the front door?  Anyway, he'd call her in to his office a few minutes after 8; that was her start time.  

Some minutes later, max advised her, that perhaps she should pretend her little car was one of the company vans.

"Huh?"  Ruthie, evidently, didn't get it.

"Ruthie," her boss spoke, "if you don't slow down, they'll put you in jail."

What max didn't tell ruthie was, anything about sonny, his neighbor.  Guy certainly wasn't himself, not since he'd been arrested for doing the same sort of nonsense.  "Safety hazard..." horse-spit, sonny was just being sonny.   But, evidently, county wasn't near  the same place his pop had been a "guest" at, back in the day, for drag racing - or for whatever other vehicular stupidity.


Break over, back to 2021.

Back aboard the time-machine - Max wasn't too thrilled about leaving college.

But he didn't have too much of a choice.  Pop couldn't handle all the calls - and the customer load was increasing.  Yeah, so were taxes, and other costs.  The money part wasn't the real issue - mom and pop had always been the careful sort.  The problem was: pop - his arthritis, was getting too much for him to be crawling around in dank, dusty basements, repairing furnaces - furnaces, of which the owners, for the overwhelming most part, had neglected to call for routine  annual maintenance.  So yeah, when you don't atleast clean or replace the filters, you won't get much, if any, heat in february, or ac in august.

Max knew that within, maybe two or three years, he'd be running the business.  Pop paid him well, that wasn't the problem.  The problem was: his folks were talking about moving to arizona; in short...what!  he'd see his folks, maybe twice a year - if that.

The other, ongoing nagging problem was: finding people willing to show up for work, atleast on a semi-consistant basis - and to  show up, reasonably fit for duty.  Yep, you guessed it, Dear Reader, our had-to-ditch-college hero had to fire one of the had-seemed-to-be-working-out assistants.  Hiring was a headache, and agencies - even the so-called, "better ones" - just sent over about any one who walked in their door.

And yes, ruthie, was dependable and skilled.  But comeon, ruthie was a 50-something woman, who really had no business crawling around cramped dirty spaces ... the heck was up with that husband of hers...would have his wife getting all damp and dirty - ugh!

Did the hiring issue have to do with...what he'd been seeing more and more of, here of late.  Those dots.


Anyway, more later.  Back to 2021.  Shift ain't started yet, but have to get busy anyhow.

Here, back in 2021 - glad i heard that sermon; preacher said, there's a (big) difference between the wrath of God, and

the wrath of man.  While the preacher is pre-trib ... and yeah, he has ALOT more education than mid-trib me, his sermon helped me out, alot.  Okay, real qwik - reason for the mid is: seems to me, that throughout Scripture, things get really hairy for the Lord's people, before He intervenes and rescues His.  Uhm, Egypt's chariots were about on Israel's heels - tell me, those people weren't scared ... and scared, crapless!  Later down the line, the Babylonian captivity - those conquerors weren't nice people, they didn't exactly help poor widow simmons across a busy street.

So, per the preacher, God's wrath begins, when His Son, Jesus begins to unseal that book.  That starts in Chapter 5.  Need to re-start.  And yeah, i get it ... far greater minds than mine ...  And yet, i don't see my little brain, heading towards pre-trib.  Question is:  will the Church still be around, when people are lining up (on pain of losing their JOBS) to take the jab - in either the right hand or the forehead?

Oh, i don't know.  But i know this:  while the covid shot is NOT the mark, it's a bit too close of a doggone good dry run, for the Mark.  So, it all boils down to depending on the Lord -  every day.

Sunday, September 26, 2021

As for Daisy, Dear Readers, oh, she's doing quite fine...of course.

But let's go back, briefly, to that Sunday mid-to-late morning.  Oh, it was just a bit past 10, maybe a quarter past, and Daisy was fixing to get ready for a very important 1pm brunch.  First off: the outfit which her maid had laid out for her, clearly was not the appropriate season; micro caprese were certainly not something you wear after Turkey Day (or before Halloween).  Okay, Daisy had kept her cool so far, after all, what can you expect with ... a rude term applied to central american people - which, by the way, was acceptable speech among higher income-caste circles.

Daisy's phone buzzed.  She picked up, chatted a bit, then - after several minutes - ended the call.  She had to get ready, her clothes,  her hair, her makeup ... yes, she had overslept some.  The previous night had run it's usual too long into the am course.  

She barked for her maid.  Hearing no response, she cursed, and barked again.  Still no response.  Getting madder by the second, she went about the other rooms.  The woman wasn't in the kitchen, nor was she in the laundry area, nor touching up in any of the parlors.  Daisy went upstairs - which made her doubly irate (while the drugs, did wonders, her knees ... well, only so much can be done, when you continue to allow abuse of them). 

The maid wasn't in any of the guestrooms, nor in any of the bathrooms, nor in the guest exercise rooms, nor in the upstairs portion of the library.  Daisy arrived at the bottom of the staircase to the third floor, and barked again.  No response.  She climbed those steps, and peeked inside those several rooms.  Back to the staircase, oh there was no way, she was going to climb that, just to check the two small rooms up there.  

Back down, on the main floor, she made her way, past the foyer, into her suite of private rooms.  The maid was not in Daisy's parlor, nor in her breakfast nook, nor her office.  It was then Daisy noticed a strange smell.  It was comming from the area of her bedroom.  The smell was a bit stronger, as she neared her wardrobe room.  Then she realized what the causing the smell.  In the sewing, room adjoining the wardrobe room, the ironing board was up, and the the iron face down upon one of Daisy's better table-top sets.  

Oh, Daisy was furious; that top was one of a kind, and had cost several thousand.  Just plain livid, Daisy didn't notice the faded green cotton dress, the worn looking half-slip hem, peeking from beneath the dress.  And underneath, those ugly brown shoes the woman always wore (uhm, if the woman had been paid decently for the some 70-freaking hours ... ugh!).  Anyway, this poor pile lay upon the floor in front and center of the iron.  

Oh course, Daisy didn't touch the pile.  Along side it, maybe a few inches away, a silvery object caught her eye.  She bent to look at it.  It was her maid's wedding band (her husband was deceased).  Just a plain piece, probably had cost maybe a $100, if that.  Nearby, that abysmal little bracelet...hhmm, which dollar store did that thing come from?

Anyway, Daisy was clearly upset.  She'd have to call this in, and miss the brunch.

Okay, moving forward:  while her finances could be better, Daisy did manage to sell the beach place, and make some trades.  She had come out ahead enough to finance a modest place in a sufficiently fashionable area, near Martha's Vinyard.  

Dear Reader, you might want to know what Daisy thought about the "disappearance."  Well, she didn't think too much about it; Daisy didn't want to think about it.  You see, Daisy was going places, and it would only be a matter of time until she was able to have a place, a big place, AT - not just some knock-off, near - Martha's Vinyard.

Problem was, though Daisy didn't want to admit it, she knew full well, she was living on borrowed time.  In short, she knew exactly what happened to those people.  And she knew what would eventually become o her - and any body else, left behind.

Daisy, walked into her bathroom, opened the little cupboard along side the large mirror, took out a small bottle, opened the lid, and took a swallow of the smelly potion.

The Days After: The stats came out, within hours. In the us, was figured between 5 and 30 million, but with fake news,

who could know, and frankly, could care less.  The weird sibling or neighbor - or the guy in the soup line - is gone.  Good riddance.  Our ex-interrogator found real  work, shortly thereafter.  He was so glad that plant-gig he was doing, for that brief time, was done.  Qwik backtrack: about a month, before - prior to, whatever number of people, supposedly, vanished in thin air - he had taken the plant part-time position.  Our villain was having cash-flow issues; and he had a history of being let go.  

As a matter of fact, the last church he had "visited," had been his third.  He hadn't a good fit at the church before that one; but you know, it wasn't his fault.  That old fat guy shouldn't have been allowed to drive, and when the geezer backed up, he had come within a half inch of ex-interrogator's pre-owned toyota.  Needless to say, ex spewed out certain words, and of course, was politely asked to leave the premises.  So, it didn't take long for word to get back to the bureau.  He, however, was offered one final chance.

But anyway, that's in the past, and ex works a 9 to 5 getting apartments ready for new tenants.  The pay isn't half bad, when you consider, what you can put in your pocket, and - if halfway discrete - put in your vehicle.  Ex is the proud owner of a coin, from around 1517; it's worth, to the best of his knowledge, about 10 grand.  Needless to say, our villain is not completely stupid.  He so did NOT google that coin - or any other.  In his neighborhood, is a vintage book store.  What went into his car, was a solid silver dinner-plate, and two (Pennsylvania made) Lennox Barclay teacups with matching saucers, (probably worth about a 1/2 k) a cigar box containing several unmatched sterling silver eating utensils (maybe another 1/2 k) and some 1/2 decent clothing he could wear - shirts that covered his belly (sensitive issue).  Have to say one thing about those odd-balls, he thought to himself, they bought and took care of things - things a person can use.

So, the cramped ugly toyota is gone.  He has a new car now.  As for the unpaid balances, that should become manageable within the following year.  He has resigned himself to let his lover move in, in order to share expenses.  Sure, that will cramp his style - bigtime, but only for about a year - then he can show the b*tch the door.

So, what happened to everyone, that Sunday, around 10:30 am?  No one really knows, the news doesn't talk about it - and, so, people don't ask about it.  Sure, like anyone else, he ponders questions - but is savvy enough to keep his thoughts on the matter (and a half dozen other matters) to. him. self.

Just as an aside:  when it happened, he thought perhaps, he'd gotten hold of a bad supply.  And since then, he's somewhat laid off the stuff.  He has a sibling who flipped out from a bad dose, and has been in a mental facility - and probably won't get out anytime soon.

That morning, there had been a few cars abandoned on the expressway.  The one vehicle he had recognized - one you couldn't miss.  Down the road from him, lived an old guy, who drove a 1976 - YES, a 1976 Nova.  Where that guy was able to get parts?   But then again, he knew cars - would take apart engines and transmissions, fix em, and put em back together.  And the cars would run just fine.  Well, the car didn't sit in the off-ramp for too long, before the hubs did a disappearing act - along with two of the tires, the back bumper, the so-70s hood ornament, and the tech stuff inside.

Saturday, September 25, 2021

Epilogue: Some ten minutes before - pimples walked into the church house. He and his folks were almost late ... the car, it was quitting.

Yep, that's all mom and pop needed.  Well, they made it.  Thank You Lord Jesus.  It was beginning to sleet - not a good situation to be stranded in.  They took a seat.  The kid's mom laid a throw on her husband's lap.  He wasn't doing so well - heart issues.  

About half way through the sermon, pimply began to feel funny.  Kind of faint, his vision turned - well for a second or so - but long enough to see the people around him start to appear more like mist.  Out of the corner of his eye, his hands appeared the same.

They were gone.  Maybe a dozen or so had been in the building, but only two or three remained - one which was a recent plant.  
A job that paid abysmally - that was, until you could get results.  That could take a year or so.  And the hours involved, of having to fake-friend - ugh! with such boring, ya wanna slap the eff silly people.  Yeah, one of those gigs usually taken up by the comfortably retIred, and don't need the money sort of.

Millennials!  They made the ex interrogator fuming, hopping mad.

THE END,

but the Beginning, for the Bride of Christ

Last day: it was as if the evening was one big blurr. Becky was in her nightgown.

She had said her prayers, and was getting ready to read a little bit before calling it a day.  Was around 10 that she fell asleep.  Seemed like a few moments later, when she heard a loud crash - from inside her unit.  It was the front door.  Before she had time to think, she found herself being rough-handled, and hurled into the back of a van.  Within, were several sobbing others - along with the smell of varying stages of both fresh and stale pee and solid matter.  If the van wasn't smelly enough, the holding cell was ... she threw up.  Well, she more less dry-gagged, but enough to sprinkle the front of her nighty, and the old robe she slept in.  With neither socks nor slippers on her wet bruised feet, she shivered.  The cell, through crowded, had a chill about it.

Near the one corner, a little boy was sobbing, "I'm so scared."  He kept his murmurings low.  Discernment?  The kid didn't look much older than five or six.  His mother appeared nowhere in sight.  She may have been in one of the "last chance" interrogation rooms, or have already been "dealt with - and disposed."  Or, like countless other kids, simply abandoned.  

It wasn't as if Becky had just fallen off the melon truck.  She knew what was happening, and it scared - literally - the shit out of her.  

Lord no, don't let me cave, she murmured softly.

The kid's small voice moaned again, "I'm so scared."  Beside him, stood - since there was really no place to sit - besides upon the floor, which was filthy - a what appeared to have been trucker - and boy, did he look worked over.  "Kid, I'm scared too."  The two didn't appear even remotely related, but the man was, well as best as he could, was looking out for the little guy.

Hours passed.  Becky's ankles were swelling up from the cold standing.  She was able to lean against the wall, for a little while.  But there were others, and besides the stupid wall was cold, and, of course, damp too.  Neither did she talk to anyone - well except one or two people, but very briefly.  It was known there would be atleast one or two plants.

Becky's number was up.  She was none to politely led into one of the rooms.  As predicted, she was offered the last chance to "cooperate" - for the greater good, of course.  What she didn't expect was.  Why the calmness?  Why wasn't she shaking like a leaf in last September's storm?  Why wasn't she crying like a river?  

When the offer - for lack of better terms - was made, she politely responded with, "I can't do that."

"WHY?"  The interrogator's response was followed by a the usual diatribe - and peppered with a rather foul smelling shower of - a drug nearing the strung-out stage.  Anyone who's been out of the house lately, has seen it, has smelled it.

Anyway, to wrap this up - cause, Dear Reader, i really need to get back to 2021 - the interrogator had a melt down.  Fortunately, and mercifully, Becky was spared the unspeakable abuse that went on in such places.  

Well, not just yet.  The interrogator was furious - about some personal issues, namely about a stiffed pay rate.  And the repo.  There was nothing more embarrassing than being seen driving to work in a .... it didn't matter.  For all the bragging, the others were dishing it back, and then some.

Anyway, whatever had set off the interrogator, Becky didn't see it coming.  Happened so fast.

She was dead before hitting the heated cement floor.

Needless to say, not an hour later, the interrogator was the one begging mercy.  For not following procedure, the, now ex interrogator had five minutes to clear out locker #9.  No uc of course.  And yeah, the landlord would - in this case, with no court drama or cost - be able to rent the apartment within days.  Anything left behind, the landlord was legally able to dispose or sell, with no legal snags, whatsoever.

Oh, for some reason, nobody could figure, why all the hub-bub over some old broad who died of a broken neck.  Before dawn, someone from the janitorial staff had been directed to remove the body, and throw it in the "bio hazard" dumpster.

The pimply-faced kid was having some vision problems. But he saw no use in saying anything about it to his parents.

Both dad and mom weren't working - take a good guess, Dear Reader.  Yep, you got it - neither got uc either.  So, the very idea of getting an eye exam - let alone glasses, wasn't happening.  Besides, pimples was no longer in school, to attend, you had to ... yep, you guessed right, Dear Reader.  As for truancy issues, that bureau was just one of understaffed many.  So, atleast the upcoming fist full of fines wouldn't happen - well not right away.

Needless to say, the young man kept a low profile.  He didn't get out much, especially during weekdays.  He kept up with the algebra lessons - lessons, which the kid was, quite evidently, God gifted to have had the foresight, to download and hard copy his entire text.  Was barely a few days later, he lost his internet access.  As for the history and the various social/literary sciences, he didn't give one hoot about - all those lies.  He did miss the tech science class, but with no internet, what was the point!

Not only that, to even turn on a computer - yeah, he was savvy enough to climb into a few windows, but to do so, that wasn't wise. So, in the meantime, he studied his algebra, re-read the books he and his parents had - well, for an hour or so.  Then he had to give his eyes a rest for a bit, before continuing.  

Mr.smoothpalms was no one important, but he knew someone who was.

Someone whom he was able to please.  And yeah, it showed - and it was taking his health down.  But the torn innards were treatable with the drugs his lover supplied ... well, somewhat treatable - that is, if he avoided any of the foods he loved.  Anyway, it was so worth it - being seen at those dinner parties.  The tv people were constantly all a gush at who was attending - and more importantly, who was not.  Even the newscasts made way for these happenings.  

So, in short, mr.snoothpalms - being no dummy - was all speedahead to enjoy it, while it lasted.   Yeah, he was well aware of what happened to the ex-lover before the last ex.  That person, though, was not discreet, and ended up ... ruined.  Smoothpalms, was smarter than that.  When the inevitable came, he'd certainly not make a scene, but quietly get out of the picture.  He had funds stashed away - enough to get set up somewhere out west.

But for now, he was among the favored elite of lovers.  So much so, that he had, though limited power, oh yeah, he had every (though careful) intention to use it.  Why not, he was being used - and rather harshly so.

He knew, unlike countless others, he'd successfully make the transition back to social anonymity.  Besides, being the big fish, in a small pond, was easy, was fun enough - and so much safer.  Really, it was the little things in life that gave him pleasure.  He smiled to his reflection in his bathroom mirror - oh the shattered look on that silly  dyke's face, when he told her to clear out her locker.  Teary-eyed, she begged that he reconsider, that she had a child, that the kid's dad was ... well, he couldn't remember if he had taken off, or was in jail.  Not that he cared.  She broke the rules about having an outburst - either to a team member, or a customer - while on the premises.

Good times.  He straightened his shirt collar.

The preacher looked over his still dwindling congregation. He had some sad news.

Not that sad announcements were that new.  Widow So-n-so was found dead in her apartment.  It wasn't her daughter who found her, oh no the girl was long gone - left her two kids flat, and headed off to ... wherever.  Nope.  Was a neighbor, who began noticing a foul smell.  Cause of death: hypothermia - the old woman had neither heat nor electric.  Another death was a result of a break-in - likely drug related.  As nearly anyone knew, pot and opioids were mostly past-tense, and were the choice of mainly elementary aged kids.  Nope, the new drug was alot more powerful - and very expensive.  

Even for partakers of means, it was commonly known that generous bank accounts drained quite quickly, multi-million dollar houses would suddenly appear on the market - in the ever growing "foreclosure" section.  The auto market, which had not long ago, been selling luxury models, almost like pancakes, were now stuck with an ever increasing inventory of repos.  They either sat, or were sold - cheap, too cheap.  In short, both the real estate and auto market weren't doing nearly as well as last year's sunny projections.

The preacher gave yet another announcement: advising his flock to keep their coats nearby.  The heating system was on-again, off-again - more the latter.  "We can't fix it, or get it fixed...you know the drill."  While one of the guys had brought in a kerosene heater - for which the landlord would probably take issue, kero, like about everything else, could not be paid for with either cash nor check.  

What the preacher did not announce was :  he had tested the system back in mid September; the decon, a recently retired heating systems pro, had carefully checked it.  All was fine.  What happened, sometime during the last few weeks?  Well that was anyone's guess.  

The service was to begin shortly.  A certain pimply-faced young man took a seat near where Becky was seated.  She waved a hello, he greeted her back.

"Church," the preacher began to speak, "there will be no adult, nor children's Sunday school after the service.  As a church, we need to make some plans."

Becky, Part 13 - The can was two years old, past its expiration date, by almost a year.

Becky had a few others remaining.  Inside the cupboard, thankfully remained a canister still partially full of rice.  In the back, sat a large can of peaches, and one of pineapple rings.  She had an unopened bag of noodles, some crackers, and a small jar of preserves.  2025?  Oh well, still should be okay.  And anyway, these remaining items were so old, they'd probably stay down.

Becky paused, before opening one of the cans.  Her supply was ... well, not much.  Earlier in the year, she had tried to stock up as best as she could, but her savings certainly didn't keep up with the inflation-on-overdrive.  

It was late November.  Her fuel oil might get her into late January.  Good thing she had had the tank topped off, before her credit was shut off.  Her card, by the way, had had an unpaid balance of $67.12.  Funny, the company had no issue of accepting her mailed check.  Neither did the electric company - who by the way - gave notice that starting January 13th, subscriptions had to go with their credit line.  Well, Readers, you know what that entails.  Yep, taking - what was, not so long ago, called the upload, but now called exactly what it was - The Mark.  As for Becky's phone, same story - except that customers had until mid December to switch over, if they wanted to remain with the plan - or enroll in any other.  

As for Becky's health insurance, that had quit 30 days after she had "resigned."   Talk about dependence upon the Lord to keep her in health.  Becky, being in her mid 40s, was old enough for things to go wrong, but had no insurance to get anything that went wrong, to be made right.  But anyway, to any medical facility, was about the last place she wanted to be even near.

A few days prior to the store incident, she'd filled her gas tank.  Being that she could neither buy nor sell, there was really no point in going anywhere, other than church.  She had formerly gone both Sunday morning and Sunday night - sometimes to Wednesday's Bible study.  But having to save gas, that shut her out from the only place outside of home she cared to be at.  Except Sunday morning, that is.  When the gas ran out, she'd bundle up and walk the several miles.  

Really, it was a miracle that the congregation's supplies were holding out as ling as they had so far.  They car-pooled, when they could.  But it being so dark, and many of the people couldn't drive at night - and besides, being out after dark, wasn't exactly safe.  Nope, Sunday and Wednesday night services were sparsely attended - and only done so, by those who lived nearby.  Five miles - and in the dark - was pushing things.

Sunday was the day after tomorrow.  Becky would wait.  

Mr.prettypalms made his way upstairs to his office. He had some matters to attend to -

including getting the word out to, even to the rival store, just down the street, to not hire a certain stockboy.  Not that the pimply-faced little geek did or said anything inappropriate.  It was just that, he didn't like the kid.  He didn't like the boy's ... well, world view - it was written all over his acned face.  Anyone, with any brains could tell, and with no words spoken, exactly where the boy was coming from.  Yes, just like, UGH! blondie - except, at least pimply-pete had some proper social graces about him.  

On the other hand, blondie was trouble waiting to happen.  Discernment, (from below) he had caught the facial expression from someone walking nearby, when blondie had her outburst.  The old guy had smiled, then casually, but quickly shambled out.  Ya know, as they say, "See something, say something."  Which was precisely what mr.smoothpalms was going to do - that was, had he not been interrupted by an argument coming from the breakroom.

Those two had to go too.  And that nitwit in hr, wasn't doing her job.  Skimping on the background checks, obviously.  The two in the breakroom, had evidently been lovers - the one hired first, had pulled some strings to get the other on-board.  He'd seen it too many times before: one partner, getting the other partner in, and getting the bonus.  Well, obvious to say, one of the partners wanted a part-time diversion; that didn't bode too well with the other.

Why people took other people so seriously, smoothpalms, let out a huff, wasn't worth it.  Wasn't worth the inevitable drama - especially since one or more of the parties became tangled in relationships, became stupidly possessive.   Why would anyone care to, for even a few weeks - let alone, months, deny themselves ... uh, variety.

Becky, Part 12. While no fan of halloween, Becky considered

buying a pumpkin.  She chose a small one, and put it in her cart, then proceeded to buy some other grocery items.  The usual: milk, eggs, oj, bread, crackers, cheese and some lettuce and bologna.  Oh, and tissues, she needed a box.  On the way to the register, she grabbed a few health bars.  

Yeah, the atmosphere in the store was no different than any other place.  People didn't really converse - except maybe to quietly grumble about this or that.  Mostly, as they shopped, their attention was focused on one or more videos being played...well about anywhere there was room.  Needless to say, sometimes quarrels broke out ... the usual, but socially acceptable, blasphemous, obscenities, cursings.  Sometimes, there was a floor show, especially when two work/or otherwise weary and typically highly agitated strung-out females (women wasn't really a proper noun to utter in society) would screech at each other, and begin to duke it out.

A time or two, Becky had almost become uncomfortably close to one of those situations.  As a matter of fact, was only last week, a 3-eye (that's a term one NEVER utters in "polite" company) started in on her - and there was no rational reason for it.  Needless to say, Becky left her cart - with stuff she really needed - and got herself the heck out of there.  Oh but guess what: The crazy broad (another illegal term) had chased her almost to the door.  Thank the Lord for having sent the downpour outside.  There was no way our skinny heroine would have come away from that - that is, without an ambulance ride to the nearest medical facility.

Anyway, the store being not too crowded, and appearing at least reasonably safe to shop in, Becky headed for the checkout.  The sullen-faced cashier (whose expression matched about everyone else's) rang up her sale.  Becky - who no longer carried a purse, for obvious reasons - reached into her pocket and took out two $50s; she only had bought a few items.

"Didn't you read the sign?" the cashier snapped.  

"Uh, what sign?"

"That sign, blondie (a rude term, which was socially acceptable.), the cashier pointed to a poster, hanging right above the "customer (they really did NOT) care" center.

"But, but, i was just here the other day, there was no sign."

"Well there is now! We no longer accept cash!"

"But why?" Our Becky was dumbfounded.

"Because cash and checks are unsanitary, that's why!"  

Hmmph, Becky thought to herself, while reaching for her credit card, that what goes on at various pleasure palaces (that were about everywhere, and catered to one or more "income-castes" (YES, that was a socially acceptable term)...such goings on were sanitary???  Was all Becky could do to not let out a snorty laugh.

She inserted her card into the reader.  It read "Inactive."  A third person got in line.  Already, patience from both the cashier, and the other two customers, was waxing thin.  Becky inserted the card again.  And again, the same message.

"WTF?!" Becky tried a third time.  Same message.  

"Is there a problem?" came a snarky voice to Becky's right.  The sneery expression, just oozed - like yesterday's ... ew!

"Yeah, there's a f*ing problem! Becky snapped!  "There's nothing wrong with the cash i have to pay for these groceries."

"Ma'am, you know such outbursts are not permitted on the premises..."

"F*k you, and your premises!" Becky grabbed her card from the reader, left the cart sit, and proceeded to walk out.

Almost at her heels, mr.prettypalms continued his nannyish chide-fest, of threatening to call the authorities.  Becky turned around 180 degrees, flipped him the bird, turned back around and headed to her car.

Becky, Part 11 - "But devils can't bother the saints, can they?"

"Read the first chapter of Job," the old guy, sitting in the pew directly across from her, responded, while reaching in his suit pocket for a pen and pad.  The worship service was soon to begin.

Dear Readers, our Becky had no idea of things going on behind the scenes.  And she had no clue, whatsoever, that a certain day, sometime during the previous September, would make her a target.  Okay, here's a brief rundown of what went down:

Late last summer, Becky was minding her own business, eating a pasta salad in the cafeteria, where she had worked.  Across from her, a coworker - who worked in a different department, and on another floor - sat and more or less, stared into space, while stirring some sugar into his coffee.  She waved a qwik hello.  Well, anyway, they both got to chatting.  Unbeknownst to her, he was contemplating doing something really dire.  Anyway, she said something...something so, well seemingly, unrelated.  Becky forgot about the conversation, and didn't hear until sometime afterward, that the man had resigned.  

And here's the real deal.  She didn't have one iota of a clue on this one either:  he and his wife packed their stuff and moved several states away.  Well, to make a long story short, he took to giving the Gospel in the streets of a large city.  People were coming to Christ left and right.  And to make the devils even madder, in the crowd, was a certain young thug - a real belligerent sort... Well, he got saved - and so did half the gang he ran with.  In short, all from the Gospel message from a mouthpiece, who several months ago was considering putting a 44 in that same mouth.

Becky had no clue, whatsoever.  And anyway, it wasn't like the street preaching would make the news.

Meanwhile, our heroine was enjoying the mid summer weather.  While people around her were beefing about the humidity, and the ac costs - and, per usual, about everything else - she enjoyed soaking up the sunshine...and not being cold.  Talk about a silver lining in the haze, Becky had only once, maybe twice, had turned on her ac.

Ms.nosey-posey glanced at the mirror in her living room, that stood above an ornate bookshelf. The mark

on her forehead was a source of irritation.  The IDIOT!!! who had installed it, not only had done so, off center - only slightly yes, but certainly noticable - but the hue wasn't quite right either.  Atleast that part could be rectified - and yes, it would cost a bit, but such as life.

The tv, finally, was through with it's latest string of commercials - there were two advertising garden gear, one from a travel agency, another from a software shop, and three others from various other businesses.  The commercial-free option was ... hmmph, "experiencing technical issues..." How convenient...and didn't their rate just go up, again?  

Posey muttered a blue streak.  She was beginning to consider switching back to standard, but then she wouldn't be able to watch ... well, alot of things.  Not only that, the programs available on the standard, were shortened, although by five or so minutes per half-hour episodes - in order to accommodate the advertisements - still, five minutes, more than occasionally, made the difference between finding out who done it, who was doing who (or what) and not finding out who, or why.  

Another little trick to get you on premium - whether or not you could afford it (many really couldn't) was the volume games.  On standard, as soon as the butler began to sing to the detective, the background music would kick up enough, that you couldn't hear all the details being spoken - just most of the whys and the hows...almost is not enough.

But what posey was interested in watching, wasn't her usual fav dramas.  No, the evening program would be viewed by a global audience - superbowl, take a seat!  That wonderful, inspiring world leader was about to, once a glorious again, take world-wide center stage.  And oh, he was a looker.  Yep, Posey's little plastic toy, in the other room would be busy tonight.

(Mental pictures, mental pictures, ew, that's gross - posey is, like in her mid 60s...ugh!)

Well, now, Dear Reader, while you're headed for the nearest waste-basket, to puke your guts out, your narrator has got to get her old fat ars'e, back to 2021, and over to the grocery store.  Yeah, can't let that go for tomorrow.  Tomorrow's the Lord's Day.

Becky, Part 10 - The late January snow was coming down, they were calling

for, maybe, over a foot.  Becky glanced over at a corner, where the shovel sat.  Even though she had no place she needed to be - certainly not to any job, since she no longer had one.  Over the past month or so, her search was unsuccessful.  Place after place, was all the same, they demanded that not only their current employees be properly uploaded, but any "Persons un-uploaded, need not apply - NO exceptions!"  

How businesses were managing, Becky couldn't figure.  Everywhere, there were signs posted alongside, practically begging for help.  The other day, at the grocery store, they were out of - of all things - apples ... what the...???  Guy at the checkout told her something about cdl regs ... yep, you guessed it.

But there was more.  Alot more.  Not that Becky, or anyone over at church could prove, but, within the past year ... and yeah, old people have been beefing about the lack of work ethic in society ... for how long??  But this latest trend was different, way different.  Seriously, if you so much as bought a few groceries, or a bag of salt from the hardware store - and good luck finding that - and were met with so much as a half smile, that was something to remember.

Becky slipped on her other sweater, it was heavier than the blue one.  She kept her heat set at 62.  She also needed to buy another set or two of long underwear; northland had instead sent her a refund check...you guessed it, they were out of stock, and didn't expect any until mid february - and it didn't profit them to order winter inventory only to, maybe, arrive so late in the season. 

Our heroine was cold.  She wrapped herself in a nearby throw.  While Daisy was spending money and raging bigtime in front of her 3-way - and at her much harried maid -  she really didn't have, in order to hold on to escaping vanity... Becky didn't even want to look into the small mirror above her bathroom sink.   

A week or so ago, Becky had caught her reflection as she was bending over to pick up her hairbrush.  The novelists like using the term "willowy," but that wasn't even worth pretending.  Becky looked more like a scare crow.  Yes, she had sufficient funds to keep her in necessities for another year - that is, if prices didn't go too high... It was, other than toast, peanut butter, and fruit - if she could find that - not much else stayed down.  And if it did, it quarreled.

She finished writing out a check for her electric bill, and put the envelope in her purse.  It had arrived in her mailbox earlier, just when the snow was starting to accumulate, and would go in tomorrow's mail.  She wasn't going anywhere.

She glanced at the shovel.  Yeah, she needed to get out there and atleast shovel her part of the walkway - else, ms.nosey-posey would  make a fuss.

Becky's phone rang.  She picked up.  It was her cousin, the one that ... well, what now ;/  A few moments of small talk, with an agenda thrown in, Becky's ears were about stuffed.  She basically interrupted, "I can send you something, but it's not much ..."  More of the same-old, same-old coming from the speaker.  Becky basically interjected again, "I really can't manage much else, I don't have a job right now."

Upon hearing, what she thought she heard as a response, her eyes widened, her head shook.  "Excuse me!" Becky exclaimed.  Cousin repeated the statement, as if the conversation focused upon who would win the stanley cup, or whatever.  "NO, i 'should've' not...LOOK, i'm sorry you're having issues..."  (There was no point in any  i-told-you-so elaborations.)  The call lasted, maybe, a minute longer, but that was it.  Dear Reader, you know how it goes - with some people it's all too seldom enough, and usually someone else's fault.

Daisy, Part 2 - her reflection in her 3-way mirror, really...ugh, showed.

Needless to say, Daisy was highly concerned, and very, very upset.  The shipment didn't come through.  The boxcar had either been intercepted,  and directed to a more profitable group of clients,  or worse - per what she had heard, may have happened - there still remained, in law enforcement, people who believed that human life, especially children's lives, trumped any man's, or woman's, or any combination thereof's desire to (unnaturally) retain youthful appearance.

Oh, our villainess was positively fuming, bigtime.  The silk shortie-set she had planned to wear to the dinner party....well, that wasn't going to do.  She balled up the delicate scanty fabric, and hurled it against a long row of other "late fall" outfits.  She selected another outfit - which had also showed more toward her actual age.  She tossed that as well.  Then chose another.  Not satisfied, but it would have to do.

She then barked for her maid.  

That wasn't the half of it, however.  Yes, Daisy prided herself in having all of her ... "brats" in a row.  In short, Daisy was proactive; she always had atleast one other source of supply - on speed-dial.

But there was one other little problem...well, actually, not so little.  The fee...one that was orbiting mars right now, and could, within short time, head out for jupiter.  

Her phone rang.  It was about time that little faggot troubled himself to return her call ... he just didn't know - but should know, exactly - who the hell he was dealing with.  As if Daisey's evening couldn't get any worse - due to unforeseen market issues, the advance she "requested" wasn't going to be enough.  

Not to mention, several other bills which were either coming due, or past.   One of which, was the mortgage on her beach property.  One that, looking back, she should have sold last season - that is, before that storm.  The repairs had cost a pretty penny, and the insurance hike had cost about half as much.   Daisy was possibly, probably, looking at selling a certain necklace and matching bracelet - a gift from a past lover, a duke and close cousin to his nation's king.  

The set was certainly enough to keep her in appearance... well, for maybe until summer.  But then what?  Yes, Daisy had other pieces, other saleable assets...but you know how it is: brokers are all a bunch of needy greedy mangey vicious little predators - out for every single dollar they can get their smelly paws on.  Needless to say, the words erupting out of Daisy's mouth were enough to make any dock-worker blush.

Becky, Part 9 - "Why, those rotten fricking b*tards..." Her (unmarked) hand shot up against her mouth. She had to watch her language -

having been warned more than once.  "Fricking" was, of course, offensive toward individuals who chose to engage in various acts of pleasure - in one or more ... methods.  As for "b*tards?"  Whether that was directed toward the mentally challenged (of which were few - because, within the last few years, medical science could, supposedly, detect that either before birth,  or not long after...and that problem could be easily, cheaply, done away with).  Or, even worse, the "b*" term was usually perceived as an outdated, and forbidden word, because it denoted ... well, most of the population.  

Had Becky blurted the Lord's Name, with the eff word in between, that would have been acceptable language.  But anyway, her last remaining friend in the whole place, Yuki, was faced with a real problem.  Well, so was Becky...but Becky was young enough to ... maybe find another job - maybe.

The memo about stated, that all employees had until the middle of December to get their upload, or they could get another job.  "WT..., couldn't they have waited until January?"  Becky grimaced, then added, "course nnottt!"  

"So, I'm out of here." Yuki quietly spoke.

"I'm sorry for the outburst," Becky replied, then glancing at Yuki's wall calendar, which had a lovely oriental garden scene - complete with a bridge.  Thurday, of course, was "TurkeyDay" and today, being tuesday, was the first day, anyone - well, evidently  - most people, had been notified.  Becky added, "it's like they had this planned..."

"Of course, they did, Dear."


Back to 2021, things to do ... like - yawn - grocery shopping.  More later.

Becky, Part 8 - The passenger side window ... it's amazing how the Lord works things out,

in the nick of time.  That small gap in her window, was becoming yet, what she thought would be, another hassle - with cold weather coming on, and all.  It was only, maybe a sixth of an inch, but enough to let in cold air, and her car heater ... meh, was ... well, not the greatest.

Just when Becky began to question that maybe she needed to ... as they say, go along to get along, perhaps, that old book could be in fact, just a collection of old desert fables.  But she dismissed any thoughts, besides the fact that she had to get somewhere immediately after work.  

She got into her car, threw her purse on the passenger seat.  That's when she noticed a small white envelope laying on the floor, by the console.   It was as if, a still small voice told her to forget about whatever or wherever she had to be - and, instead, just get right home.  She placed the little unopened envelope in her purse, and drove directly to her driveway.

Inside was a brief letter, unsigned.  But she recognized the handwriting.  Basically, all it said was, "Whatever you do, don't take 'it.'"

Well, talk about scales falling to the floor!  For the ... for lack of better terms, the fun - no, better yet, the JOY of it, she reached for her little sweeper and ran it over the "scales" then, emptied the basically empty sweeper's hopper into the trashcan that sat outside on the back porch - which was hardly a porch at all ... but whatever - (overpriced) townhouse units be townhouse units.

Becky, Part 7. The missing dish, and other changes.

The box of crackers sat on the little table -  off to the side from the main conference table - alongside of what was left of the store-bought clear plastic-covered cake.  Beside that, sat a short stack of logo'd plastic plates and a few matching napkins, and a few remaining plastic utensils.  A partially opened bag of chips leaned upon the crackers.  

The sorry-imitation-of-crystal plate, which had contained the sea-salad was nowhere...in either sight, nor smell.  Becky had asked a co-worker, who had attended Friday's little party, if "they" had seen it.  Apparently not.   Becky wished she had used another dish.  Not that the missing dish was of any monetary value.  On the contrary, it had been purchased at a store, called "Kmart."  She still recalled the day, her mom put the holiday left-over item in the cart; Becky had been in either second or third grade, and they were on their way to ... she couldn't recall, but probably over to uncle pete and aunt cheryl's.  Dad was on his way back from a run, and they'd meet up.  Nothing really significant about the day...just another day of growing up in a family where dad and mom actually liked each other, and liked their three kids.  

All said, and Becky couldn't put her finger on it, but that plate held sentimental value, and she certainly never imagined it would go missing; seriously, who would want it?  It wasn't even fake glass - let alone crystal.

Becky had meant to remove the items on friday, following the party, but some work things had come up.  She glanced at the clock, it read 8:24.  She loaded the items into a mail cart and wiped down the little table.  Upon exiting the conference room, two of the meeting's attendees were arriving.  As Becky wheeled the contents towards the breakroom, out of the corner of her eye, she met Daisy's not-so-usual dismissive stare.  But this time, there was something else - something far from friendly - from those painted just-ever-so eyes.

One thing for sure: Daisy didn't buy her cosmetics from anywhere near a "Kmart."

Another thing for sure - as she wheeled the now empty cart by Frank's now vacant little office - she missed him.  Frank was one of the few people who was ... well, real.  Realness was becoming less and less.  Unsurprisingly, realness was found amongst the becoming fewer - and far betweener - absense of that certain little tell-tale upload mark.  

The one either upon the right hand, or upon the forehead.

Every story needs a bad guy, or mean gal. So "Daisy's" it - okay, the antagonist's name is from a story

i'm currently reading, and boy, Daisy, in the story is a real hum-dinger.  Anyway,

As soon as Daisy pressed the elevator door, her nose was greeted with a foul smell, coming from somewhere.  Making her way to her office, she made a mental note to have someone look into the matter.  One likely of one or more of the janitors not doing their job.  Those [blasphemous phrase] people...she wrinkled her nose, passing the conference room and entering her office suite.  She locked her handbag and proceeded into the small bathroom.

Oh, she had to pee.  When you're 60+, you can't hold it for too long.  While the room was small, she did manage to have a somewhat truncated full-length mirror placed in back of the door.  While nothing like the 3-way she had at home, the narrow one would have to do.  Her hair was a bit out of place, thanks to the [expletive] wind.  She continued to examine, and admire, her reflection.

Not bad.  Not bad at all.  Daisy knew, she hardly looked a day over early thirties.  A good age to be, old enough to handle situations, but young enough to enjoy ... things.  

What was bad - and getting worse - however was, the appointments were expensive.  Very expensive.  And frankly, she believed, the quality of the treatments were not as they had been a few years ago, when the procedure was new.   Perhaps ... oh, no perhaps about it - they were using, well ... less than quality ingredients, from places like ... well, where those people come from.

Daisy mumbled a curse.  Her cell was in her car.  The distractions in her life, last Thursday's appointment fell through - and frankly, still gazing at herself, it showed.  Coupled with some recent supply issues, it was only a matter of time before the fees would go up - again.

She entered one of the elevator cars, and was met with yet another reminder of her situation.  With an audible growl, she ripped and crumpled the announcement, which someone - probably Bbbeeeckyyy...ugh! had taped up late last week.  Frank's retirement party.  Good [Expletive] Riddance!  

Really, he was an idiot anyway.  His heart condition was his own fault, one which could be resolved - if not lessened greatly - by simply taking the upload.  Not that Daisy particularly cared; she clearly didn't like him from the get-go.  He'd say inappropriate things, and converse with ... well, the wrong sort of people.

A qwik example:  Daisy had been on her way to a meeting, sometime last year, when she had caught part of a brief conversation between Ffrrrank and some guy with ... of all things, a trash barrel in tow.  Something miss-becky-of-sunnybrook-farm had done, for so-n-so.  Daisy didn't get the details, and really didn't care.  But Frank's "if I was ten years younger, I'd ..." response, for some reason, set her off.  Thing is: she didn't even like Frank; he wasn't her type.  And the very last Daisy was interested in was, ugh... marriage.

Daisy couldn't even fathom why people even bothered with that anymore.  Frankly, overnight was more than enough; which was why she preferred hoteling ... let the staff clean up the mess.   That way, in the morning, or whenever she returned to her home, her large rooms remained unsullied from ... other people's odors.  Better yet was - and this is why she usually put the room on her card - whenever who, or "they" were perceptive enough to take the hint, and leave shortly after the evening's fun-n-games were over.  That didn't always work out, however; sometimes, she simply made up a reason to take offense - at nothing, really - and he, she, it, or whatever, would pull on it's duds, and leave...good riddance.


There's yard work to be done, back in 2021.  More later.

Friday, September 24, 2021

Becky, Part 6. But it wasn't just the not-funny tasting food that had her insides in a semi-uproar. Becky remembered parts of that conversation.

Those "parts" she though wished, she hadn't heard, but frankly, neither did the partially muffled phrases come as a surprise.  But still, those phrases and terms are supposed to be something out of a b-dystopian movie.  It was a friday evening last spring.  Becky was on her way home, when she realized, she had forgotten that sea-salad plate.  Oh brother, come Monday morning. that would have smelled real lovely, having sat out all weekend.  

So, she turned her little green datsun around and headed back.  She wasn't even half way in the lobby when she sensed something wasn't right.  And no, had nothing to do with so-n-so walking out with so-n-so - though if you-know-who found out, there'd be drama - complete with a big ongoing bill from the friendly neighborhood domestic relations office.  Yeah, yawn, people doing other people ...  Still, for a moment, Becky paused in thought ... the one individual was, supposedly, so big on ... well evidently, just moral flag-waving.

"Gonna vote dem come November!" Becky muttered, while slamming her thumb into the elevator button.  "F*ck!"  Her thumbnail was broken, down to the quick, and her "outburst" was met by a sidelong glance from someone getting off another elevator.

Muddled in second-thought, that the dems weren't any better than the repubs, she didn't take note of the firewall door being open.  She entered in, intending to grab the plate from the conference room, and leave - she'd wash it at home.  It was then she heard that muffled conversation...oh, this wasn't good.  

What Becky heard from inside a neighboring office, was enough to know.  But certainly not enough to prove.  And who would she tell anyway?  The police?  Hah!  They were so short staffed, to begin with.  To end with, what few remaining officers, who still believed the law was not just another commodity...well good luck doing your job with that.

Becky got right back on the elevator.   The plate untouched.  As far as Becky was concerned, they could call hazmat, come Monday.   She buzzed her car door to open, then, without stopping for her usual Friday night freeze-treat, she drove straight home.  A second and a half, in the door, she grabbed the nearest waste-can and vomited into it.

Becky's stomach hasn't been quite right ever since.


Enough time travel for today.  Goodnight.

Becky, Part 5. For several years, post-pandem, things had been ... eh, normal. Sure, the creepy factor, had all along,

crept in, but such was the "new normal," which was very abnormal.  But to question, let alone, disagree ... what worked best, and most importantly, Biblically, was simply to remain separate ... from all, or as much as possible, away from the the drama.  

Several months ago, maybe a year, Becky began noticing food in general - real food, like apples, bread, tomatoes, oj, eggs, milk ... real food, not junk - had a slight (NOT) funny taste about it.   But a person has to eat.  Made her mad, the needless meddling - of some sort - with the food.  But as with everything else downright weird going on, and intensifyingly so, you don't say anything, unless you want an earful of yet another longwinded, snarkey little secular mental health sermonette.

Becky did manage the salami sandwich, an hour ago, and it only made her semi-nauseous.  Power of prayer, she concluded.  She prayed another one of thanksgiving - for not telling whatzerface to mind her own [everloving] business.  Seriously?  Isn't it quite obvious that to tell someone - with obvious FAKE concern - that, "oh, you look a bit rough, perhaps, you should..."  Thankfully, the door opened, and in came an important client.  

Later on, and somewhat calmed down, Becky almost had to laugh, because she wasn't the one with all the piercings and graffiti all over her body - which, by the way, per custom, clothing was usually scant - and the heating bills needlessly high, as a result, to accommodate the ever important self expression  ... yeah, no wonder the cost of ... oh whatever, was so frakking high.  Sometimes, especially now it being November, just seeing people come in and out, gave Becky the shivers.  It's like 50 out, and windy.  

"Calm down,"  "You're having a melt down."  Yeah right :/   Besides being typical narco exaggerations, these reactions to normal human emotions, (conveniently) put everyone "in place," and kept them there.


More later, busstop ahead.

Becky, Part 4. Becky was never much of a reader - had enough of that in high school, and in college as well. Not to mention, that shortly after getting her accounting

degree, which she had done well enough in, to get a decent job...  Well, what, it's been some 20 years since then.  She can't even recall the day or even the year, but it's was warm out, the day was sunny, and she realized the whole evolution thing just reeked of an agenda.  Of course, our accounting heroine didn't study science, but she couldn't shake the suspicion of book-cooking activity going on...things she would read, while questions being either dismissed, or evaded...this and that scientist - who didn't even believe Genesis - getting invalidated, if not outright slandered - for simply doing science as he or she was taught.  

Of course, like any college kid, she had learned about Nebraska Man and such.  There were one or two other cases of fraud she had learned about, but that was back then.  But one thing had always stuck:  lie to me once, i'll assume it's a misunderstanding on my part; lie to me again, i'll do the same.  But lie to me yet again?  We're done!

Changes began to happen shortly after.  While Becky was not much of a Bible reader, she did pay attention to the preacher's sermon - and per the Lord's grace in her life, Becky sat under a for-real preacher, who actually studied the Bible.  And oh, get this: preacher did NOT farm out his wife to the workforce, in order to fund his ministry.  Anyway, changes in Becky's life, she could not, nor cared to, credit herself for putting a stop to certain things.  Things that just weren't right.  Ya know, this and that, she liked doing, but the Lord does not go for those things. 

We're not talking about anything gross.  It's just that, it doesn't take a fancy-schmantzy theologian to understand that, all it takes, in a person's life is: one - just ONE -  instance of flipping the bird at idiot who ran that stop sign, and almost ...  One obscene gesture is enough to cook ya - forever.   Anyway, somewhere along the way,  between Becky's first job (which didn't work out) and her second, she realized there was no way she could make it on her own steam.  In short, without Jesus Christ as Lord of her life, she was very burnt toast.  Needful to say, those few months, of finally coming to terms - on the Lord's terms - weren't fun.  

But, oh so worth it.  So worth it, not having to kick yourself for things that aren't even your fault - oh, but hollywood will tell you over and over, it is nothing but your own stupid fault, he (or yikes, "they") got away, you pathetic luzer.   But the real difference is - Becky has noticed more and more, over the years - people being so hepped up about living as long as possible, if not forever.

Oh, where's the science in that?  Because, Bezer-the-Geezer might last 200 years - per some really creepy methods - but sooner or later, things wear out.  Or some IDIOT!!!! on a stupid cell phone runs a stop sign.  That one's still Becky's hobby horse ... was a close one.


So, back to 2021, where filing awaits.  Will do some time travel, when i get on the bus.

Becky, Part 3: "Seriously!" Becky exclaimed. She took off the jeans, and threw them on the bed. That was the second pair which no longer fit - really, a bit late in the year for swimming. And it showed, especially on her face.

People noticed, and had asked what diet.  She didn't want to respond with the can't-keep-anything-down diet.  But that was her diet plan - one which she hadn't planned at all.  It was a few months ago, she began to notice more and more people getting all gushy-gushy about the upload - like it was the best thing ever.  At first she would ask questions - namely, "But aren't you afraid of malware, each time with the upgrades - which by the way, weren't only remotely done (oh, how convenient)?"  Of course, it didn't take long - not long at all - for people to start looking at her like she was retarded or worse ... nuts.  

It was sometime in early, maybe toward middle spring, she was at home and pulled off the upper shelf an old book.  A few evenings after, she again pulled down that old book - wasn't long after, Becky interest in the book's contents grew.  She, somehow - and that's a story in itself - managed to find a free copy on-line ... bet that web-host ended up out of a job - AND ineligible for uc.  Needful to say, the old book (the copy came off the press sometime around 1920 or so - some of the pages were in falling out mode) isn't one that you can just order up any old where.  Most vendors, though may carry watered-down versions, won't go near a KJV.  Anyway, since then, that precious Book is no longer relegated to a dusty top shelf, but instead, is lovingly kept in a top drawer, atop a worn out sweater, and beneath a 2027 Boston Redsocks t-shirt.


Anyway, must get back to 2021, because lunch is over.

Becky, continued. "So, did you get the upload, yet?" Needless to say, the co-worker's question was unsolicited.

Becky looked up from her work.  Yep, unsurprisingly, the question was asked in a sneery/snarky/and otherwise affected tone - accompanied by various, rather simultaneously conflicting facial expressions.

"Nope."  Becky's unmarked right hand reached for her mouse; her eyes switched their focus back to a mile-long spreadsheet.  "Excel, spreadsheets from hell."  That was an inside joke shared between Becky and a friend from church.  This one, however, was no joke; and it had to be done cob today.  

But evidently ms.thinks-she-knows-all-that, evidently, didn't know - more like, didn't care - enough to take a hint.  Instead, ms.thinks-she... went on and on about her latest hair appointment - how the hair-technician obviously didn't know "they's" job, and how HairPlanet's staff, in general, is becoming wanting.  In short (yeah, that too:/ the green, though passable, didn't quite match up with the pink - the latter, being just a bit too purplish-orange.

Of course, Becky didn't voice what she was really thinking: "What's wrong with just keeping it plain old blond - or whatever other natural color?"  And besides, one of the formulas seemed off, and that needed looked at.  

Oh no, no, NO!  Dear Reader, if ya thought folks were pc repressed in the early 2020s - tighter than any victorian corset could ever do - oh, just wait till the 30s hit.  

As a matter of fact, Becky couldn't help but to notice, less in the way of help-screens were available on-screen - and other things as well.  And yeah, Becky had, for several years, no longer bothered to request from merchants, real paper catalogs - with real paper order-blanks; with which she could fill out and send along with a real paper check.  

These 2030 days, it was nearly impossible to transact routine business (pay bills, buy groceries and such) without a credit-card.  Becky hated it!  Yeah, the credit-card sure  came in handy, a few years back when the car ...  But come on, for a stupid sweater?  That's what real paper checks are for.  And no, those thoughts do not go outside of Becky's real paper diary.

Yep, the woman took down her blog, back around '27 ... no wait, late '25.  It's almost laughable, but not really.  Nobody hardly even read the thing, but it was getting to the point where, no matter how careful and polite (oh Becky strived to remain so) simply to disagree with ... just plain reprobation's ever conflicting, ever confusing - and just plain fetid - fruits.

Well, to make a long post short, Becky had had enough.


Well, enough of this time-travel scenario, for now.  Godda get back to 2021 - and that stupid spreadsheet.

Becky took the shot, and yeah, for about two days, she felt somewhat achey, but slogged it off to work. She took the shot, because,

well, at 35, she was nowhere near retirement.  In short, her employer basically said this: "Get the shot, or get another job ... and good luck with that (neh, neh, neh)." Yeah, there was an underLYING tone about the on-very-short-notice memo - are we very surprised :/  Anyway, for Becky, she had to do what she had to do - onward and upward.

A few years later.

Wow, did things get really weird - fast!  As if things weren't weird enough, a few years back, when all that covid drama had kicked off.  Oh yeah, by the mid to late 20s, the masks laid in landfill piles - among mountains of empty hani-sani bottles, and other such covid gear.  Hardly a word said about it, as if covid had never happened.  

But hardly a word was spoken about much else either - that is, any bit of conversation that mattered.  Was the same-old, same-old (societal skitzo) on overdrive...ya know, only a few topics being acceptable - the weather, being one ... but not speaking or keying any questions outside of what was reported.  And certainly, NOT asking why there were so many droughts, floods, quakes (which were not called quakes, but "geo events").  Many in places, which like ten or twenty years ago, didn't happen.

If you did ask, you'd surely be quickly invalidated as the proverbial old red-neck with a 4th grade education.  Like Becky's Dad.

Qwik summary on the old dude.  He had done everything the namby-pamby-always-in-yer-business-nanny-state had told him to do.  He got the shot, he junked his truck (though it ran just fine) and financed an eco-mobile (not that he had the 80-some K just lying in a half rusted coffee can somewhere).  But he had to get around.  At 70-something, still working ... because he had to.  In short, the constant upgrades to things ... 

He had been saying, shortly before he died ... oh, that's a separate post, as to the very real possibility that he was, uhm ... pushed.  Anyway, he had made a statement,  something about cell phones having, in past years, lasting over five years.  Well, the sales rep, basically laughed in his face, replying with some smug-ars'd you-need-to-adapt-to-the-times bs.

To make a long story short, this forced "adapting" ... come on, you need a phone to keep in contact with your customers, and you need transportation to get to your JOB.  Anyway, all these greed-motivated cha-cha-changes, put that hard-working old man waay too near poverty.

And of ccooourrrssse, per any news site, any article dealing with finance, always invalidated financially troubled individuals with one or more causes:  if it wasn't sloth, it was mismanagement; if it wasn't overspending (for whatever reason - legit or not) it was substance abuse or gambling.  Well, the old dude would puff a cigar or drink a beer here and there - and maybe buy a lottery ticket, or a 50-50.  So, the talking heads, once again, don't know what the eff they're talking about.

But them reprobates always have atleast one other card up their sleeve - always.

You see, the old dude didn't have much of an education.  He barely graduated high-school.  Needless to say, he had no college.  Nope.  He went to work - paid his bills, paid off his house, and saved what he could.  Oh, but with worldlings, minding your own business, doing your job, that's not enough.  Because, with reprobates, it's NEVER enough.

The old dude's financial drama was ALL his fault, because he didn't finance a 200k college loan - for a curriculum he couldn't honestly handle ... but we know the old story, about where nice guys finish.  And oh, never mind, he took care of his wife - Becky's mom - when she had that cancer. 

That whole episode raises more questions - uhm, the woman never smoked.


Anyway, more later.  i godda go to work.

Got that jam cleared, so the shredder is working. Here's how i did it.

And, boy oh boy, it was that plastic coated paper you get with advertisement mailings.  The mess contained fragments of a busy bank statement and atleast one credit card billing.  Anyway, per google, some months back, i learned that regular vegetable oil can be used to lube a shredder.  So, i poured a bit onto the piled up jam, and proceeded to dig it out with what i had on hand: a letter opener and a screwdriver.  Took about two hours.

And yeah, pulled the plug, first off.  We don't have a warranty on the thing, otherwise, would have called for service.  So, all done - till next time :/

Wednesday, September 22, 2021

That woman's a witch! (Know a little bit about that sort of thing.)

This isn't hollywood, where shape-shifters go from human to wolf, in like two seconds.  Nope!  In the real world, shape-shifting is alot more subtile.  Smiley/smirkey/sneery facial expressions - frankly, rather amazing, yet unnerving to witness.   Then there's the high-hattie tone of voice to go with it - but that's sort of thing is commonplace in an office.  Being a file clerk, know a tad about that too ... oh well, in the unregenerate world, such "that will be all" tones of voice are gonna happen.  Yeah, what. ever!

And yeah, maybe it's the mental-meds ... can ya spell "pharma?"  Alot of (older) women tripping on that stuff too - uhm, something like one out of four?  Ew.   i understand that word is closely related to sorcery - and so, don't want anything to do with drugs or booze.  Sure, if i get a cut or get bit by something, (like that spider a few years back ... that was scary) there's pills for that - only makes sense for necessary medical issues.  

Anyway, there's something mesmerizing/confusing, and creepy about her, and so really need to keep at arm's length.  Confusion - that does not come from the Lord; where confusion is, be wary.  When you work with someone, however, there will be atleast some interaction ... with caution, that is.  Btw, neither is it wise to put much trust, if any, really, in whisperers ... sa-wizz-wizz-wizz ... hhmm, what's that broad up to now ;/

Break's over.

Tuesday, September 21, 2021

The gentleman who came into the office today, well, he had a bit of news. There for a specific reason... anyway, we had a chance to chat.

He is, maybe a year or so younger than i; employed with such-n-such for over 30 years.  Well, not surprisingly, his employer gave very short notice to the staff of several thousand.  "Get vaxxed, or get another job elsewhere.  And, oh, here's the very predictable part: you have until the end of October (typical freaking rotten reprobate b'tards). 

In other words, if the old-timers decide to say bu-bye, and retire, any payouts of unused vaca or sick pay on the books, might not be forwarded to 2022, but instead taxable in 2021.  In short, people who save their leave, generally tend to retire at or near the start of the new year, so they don't get scalded tax-wise.

And if you are applying, but don't have your shots, (these are men and women, not dogs and cats) ferget it, charlie...your application goes right into the delete bin.

With my employer, haven't got the e-bomb...yet.   Am hoping it won't happen, atleast until January.  But if my employer decides to play the same reprobate little mindgame ... bu-bye.  And no, don't have the money to retire, but will anyway.  Ain't takin' the mark ... i mean, the shot :)  And, by the Lord's grace, and His grace, alone, will continue as a real widow - not some fornicating (bragart-ars'd) pseudo-one - ugh!  Test of Faith?  You betcha!  Uhm, it's one thing to wax all bibleze-thou-shalt-not when ya got a fat bank account ... like that boomer who went all praisey-maisey, "Jesus is my social security..." uh-huh, she had one gorgeous car ... was parked next to the gorilla-taped wonder i drive.  Anyway,

Concering the shot, the gentleman said about the same.  Yep, once in a while, one is blessed to have the chance to fellowship, for a few moments with a like mind ... to be able to actually listen and speak of things, which are exceedingly seldom - and getting more so - communicated, in these ultra vanity-fair days.  Said he don't trust it, either.

By the way, (but not really btw) the man appeared to be not in the best of health.  So yeah, if he was to get covid, it might tear him up, bigtime - but even doctors can't determine who's gonna get it bad, and who isn't.  But stastically, it's older/not real healthy people who get it bad.

Nope, he does not want the shot.  And i am sure, he realizes that, statistically, he's at risk.

But here's the thing:  and it's not so much as what's spoken, but how ... and what's not spoken.  In short, he appears to be a follower of Jesus Christ.  Yep, Christians somehow (uhm, more like indwelling Holy Spirit clues 'em in) are drawn to one another.  So, being in Christ, basically gives the boot to all the fear-mongering.

Google news: 1918 pandemic.

Out of a global pop of around 1,800,000,000, 50,000,000 died from it.  That's about 3% of the pop.  Needless to say, back then, many urban areas did not have decent waste disposal systems.  So, if you were a factory worker, or a miner - working like a half-starved magey dog, while your employer was hosting lavish balls ... on your bowed back ...

Recent covid stats here in the US: pop is about 330,000,000.  Covid deaths are about 675,000.  That is less than 1/4 of 1% of the US pop.  While the 1918 plague was age blind, covid usually targets people in their 60s and above.  And yes, young people have died from it also - young people are getting things, which a generation or so ago, went after middle aged and older people; things like diabetes and such - because parents are half afraid (and wisely so) of letting their kids go up the street to run and play.

Monday, September 20, 2021

Today was an "interesting" day - if whatever could go wrong, it did.

First up, the copier - the new one - was jamming.  Old one worked fine, even with the horrid recycled paper we use; there's money for covid crap, but not for reasonable quality paper.  But i can't really blame my employer for wanting to save on paper; there are a few people, who would rather use their employer's resources, for non-work things, than spend a few bucks for their own paper and ink.  And yeah, i get it: not everyone has a printer at home; but comeon, if you need to make a significant amount of non-work copies, then get yer own puter stuff.

But that's not it.  The shredder is jammed up jelly tight clogged.  And now i know why.  Though it was, that i forgot to give it a lub.  Nope, all was well a few days ago, worked. just. fine.  Had to use it to shred a few work -related pages.  Though did intend to lub it, but got busy filing, and other job stuff.  Today, figured out what's caused the major jam ... last time, took me a few hours to clear it.  The plastic that covers the envelope address, which utility, insurance and credit card companies provide to us bill-payers, that plastic film wraps itself around, and just plays heck on the shredder teeth.  In other words, it dawned on me because of what i witnessed late last week.

Saw a co-worker with several envelopes and pages - looked like the stuff we get in our home mailboxes.  Stuff that is not wise to just chuck in the trash ... thanks, reprobates:( In other words, why spend the $100 or so for  your own shredder, when you can cart your stuff to work, and use the office one ;/  And seriously, our employer pays us decent - even us clerks.  This morning, that same person, who had a handful of opened bill-mailings/credit card solicitations late last week, told me the shredder was jammed.

Anyway, such trends, and frankly, a disproportionate percentage of time, the personal stuff is from ... well, that's politically incorrect, so, won't go there.

For years, the unwritten rule in the office was:  if - here and there - you need to use the phone (pre-cell days) to make a personal call, google up something (like where that hardware store is) make a copy of joleen's pie recipe - no problem, as long as the calls, the browsing, the copies were here and there.

Sunday, September 19, 2021

One positive thing about covid is, no longer having to feel guilty about calling

off sick.  Hope that doesn't happen - period!  Am saving that leave, it's like having a savings account.  Anyway, before covid, whenever coming down with the flu, positively hated having to make that call.  While have always had the blessing of decent bosses, still, come from a place where, you don't call off, unless you're about on your death bed.

Sure, a little ache or pain, won't keep me from work, but colds and flu ... they're just gross.  You feel like crap, the day drags.  Hani-sani or no, sooner or later, you're bound to touch something, right after blowing your nose - something like a finance folder, the office printer, elevator button, another file drawer, hole puncher, supply cabinet ... ew!

Back when i first started, one of the old-timers was telling me, before computers, the floors were a sea of desks and papers.  If the person behind you sneezed, you might feel the mist.  Back then (early 1980s) you only called off if you were running a high fever - like 103, and couldn't stand up.  So, the sickness would run wild throughout the whole office, and onto other floors, other buildings.

How did we survive back then?

Sunday, September 12, 2021

"Stay in your comfy pants." That ad slogan, for Giant's curbside service, is quite telling. Evidently,

there's such an air of entItlement about, that (older) people don't want to trouble themselves into putting on real clothing.  Sad.  Even sadder, since grocery shopping is generally done by women ... "comfy pants" ... mental pictures, mental pictures - UGH!

If Joel, one of my late husband's buddies, is still alive, he'd be pushing toward 100.  Anyway, Joel, being a widower of several years, had made mention of wanting to, eventually, find a lady friend - one around his age.  But - this being years ago - he said that had not met any available women whom he found  attractive ... said something about frumpy.  What Joel didn't say, but was written on his face, he didn't quite understand why.  Yeah, the guy was old back in '95; came from a time when women - even poor/homely women wanted to look like women, not drudgy/loutabouts.

While glad, Giant has the curbside service, the slogan could stand a serious makeover.

Saturday, September 11, 2021

Taking a qwik break from yard-work, (i'm old) what's going on at the square in town? We have the technology

to find out.  If world powers wanted to get together, they could make it happen, within minutes.  Of course, the world's kings and princes are not interested, in whether or not, joe will be walking his dog, or if charlie will be headed crossing the street, on his way to the little coffee shop there on the corner.  And the power-brokers don't care that alice's little green toyota isn't parked in the usual spot.

Forty years ago, that stop light, there on the corner didn't have cameras - but if it did, it sure wasn't hooked up to the world wide web.  So, if leaders had wanted to spy on the residents of PoDunk, the little unmanned space craft would have to be in range, or they'd have to plan ahead some, and send for another.

Not so today.  Just a few mouseclicks.

Over the last 1900-some years, lots of head scratching on that one ... that the entire planet could see two guys, on the street, that very second.  

Eighty years ago, there was no nation of israel.  All the jews were either living elsewhere, or getting out of dodge and looking for someplace else, where they could live and work ... reasonably hassle free. 

As for the weird weather, the scoffers will say, (with a sneer of course :/ ) "but we always had crazy weather ... dust bowl anyone?"  Uhm, that wasn't too long ago, 90-some years, and neither were both world wars.   

One of the many things, the scoffers just don't get is:  Scripture is quite clear that we are to watch for the end of days, because it's coming.  And Scripture is also quite clear, that we are not suppose to sit around and fancy ourselves able to predict when those end of days will happen.

So, scoffers :) , the trib may not happen for another 500 years ... or that may kick off in 5 years.  All's i know is, the Bible says "watch."

Break over, back to the yard work.

Over at ApacheDug's blog, he has pictures of his niece, who tried on various pencil outfits, for homecoming.

Well, Dug was a bit taken back, evidently.  Those outfits were skimpy.  Later, in the post, he showed pictures of three girls, from his highschool past (1979) wearing formal gowns.  Prom or homecoming?  Not sure.  My question is, are gowns becoming out of fashion for school functions?  

Anyway, Dug, it's not a mere old age thing, (as if being 60 and above is some sort of crime) it's a decency thing.

Sure, your 17 year old niece looks hot in all those pictures.  In five years, she'll still look hot, still turn heads.  Even in ten years, when she is 27, she'll be able to flaunt it, cause she got it.  Of course, i am assuming she works out and steers clear of junk food - alot of people do just that - but the years continue.  

So, ten years of looking real good, getting lots of opportunities to date (that is, if men and women still go on dates...not sure, married 27 years, widowed 3).  Anyway, 10 years, maybe 15) is long enough for fashion habits to become deeply entrenched.

Lydia's posts come to mind ... she had a lovely website about modest clothing, oh but the trolls chewed. her. up - bigtime.   Even slander, woah!   Anyway, the gentle lady had explained that as a woman ages, if she's been wearing skimpy stuff from slender youth, that becomes a habit - one that is really hard to get past.

So, hot 17 year old girls in prom gowns, and modest attire in general, will transition far, far better, as the years go by.  Those same late 70s prom gowns, by the way, were available in size 16.  In other words, the girl's grandmothers may have chosen very similar dresses to wear for a 50th wedding anniversary - and looked quite lovely.

Yes, a few times, seen it happen with my own eyes.  Old men's eyes will light up when seeing a nicely dressed old woman - even if she's not skinny.  It doesn't come off as lust either, but something else..along the lines of, "thanks for doing your part in keeping America beautiful."  The old dunkard women, selling pies outside the farm and feed store, they always look nice. 

More later, there's yard work to do.