The song remains the same

A year ago today, I was asking my houseguests to please pee in the bushes and wash up with the hose because I had water pouring out of my A/C air handler and I didn’t know where it was coming from. It’s odd what sticks in one’s memory. It’s also a testament of my friends that they didn’t even blink and got with the program until I could get a plumber that didn’t want a minimum of $700 to snake my cleanout.

This week, however, found me running out to get gas for the mower, so I could come home and mow. Which I tried to do -- I backed the riding mower out of the shed and it quit so I finished mowing with the push mower. The next day, I was at the hardware store, and went to pay only to find … no bank card. I searched my wallet. Checked my bank account for fraudulent activity. Cleaned out my purse and my car. Nothing. Thinking I might have stuffed it in my pocket when I went to get gas, I checked my pants. Nada. I scoured the lawn, thinking it might have fallen out of said pocket while I finished mowing. I went to the gas station to see if someone had found it and turned it in. Lather, rinse, repeat.

On my third trip through the yard I saw a small piece of something white. Closer examination found some more pieces.

No shredder? No problem!

 Yes, it fell out of my pocket and the riding mower ate it before giving up the ghost. The woman at the credit union said she’d never seen anything like it. At least I had proof that the card was still in my possession and hadn’t been stolen. Now I just have to wait for the replacement card.

Maybe I should stop at 50

I am pretty much a thrifty (okay, “cheap”) person in that I shop for deals, eat what’s on sale at the grocery store on any given week, make, mend or fix whatever is possible for me to make, mend or fix -- except in a few areas. One is pants. If I can find pants that fit, what I consider a “reasonable” price point suddenly increases. Considering I’ve never found pants that actually fit, I have no idea what that price point is.

Another area is quality polarized sunglasses. This might have something to do with the fact that I walked around during 5^th and 6^th grade looking perpetually stoned because my mother signed me up for some experimental treatment that consisted of me dilating my eyes every single night before bed. This was supposed to prevent astigmatism (or at least slow it down, or something), but needless to say, I did not wear sunglasses when I went outside and I have no idea what, if any, damage was done by walking around with my eyes dilated for a couple of years.

Anyhow, I decided to splurge and buy myself some new sunglasses for my birthday. My current pair is five years old, and the reflective coating has cracked on them. I shopped around, found the best deal, waited a week for them to get here, and then found then sent the non-polarized version.

This seems to continue a theme this week. Anonymous very generously sent me some awesome Zombie Stomper platform shoes with a 5” heel to keep my Werewolf shoes company. This is what showed up.

 Maybe this is a hint that I should stop having birthdays and just quit at 50.

 

Back in the saddle

So in the interest of finding something to blog about, push my comfort level, and just generally get some exercise - even if it’s in futility, I’ve managed to get myself talked into participating in a Firelock Match as sponsored by one of my Rev War groups at the end of June.

I signed up for muskets at 25, 35 and 50 yards.  They claim it’s not a competitive event, but simply for the enjoyment of live fire. HOWEVER they will be keeping score for those who wish to “compete”. Right. No competition. I don’t believe that for a second.

Tonight I took inventory of my supplies, and decided it was time to get my ducks in a row. Better late than never, I guess. This weekend, I’ll be filing sprues off my musket balls. I sure wish Hornandy made them in Brown Bess size.