Just Stuff

It's Saturday morning. Nuria is sitting at the far end of the dining room table. She sits behind two computer screens. She's using my phone to make a call to a bank in Costa Rica and she's vehemently and adamantly discussing something in Spanish with a banker there. My PC is running an online stopwatch, counting down to zero. It's counting off the international minutes I bought for this call. When it gets to zero, the call will go dead and we'll have to buy more minutes. But at the moment, we're far from zero.

Nuria went to a "high tea" party at the senior center yesterday at noon. They told her to dress casual, and she did, with a white knit sweater-blouse and black pants, but many of the ladies wore fancy dresses—the kind of dresses women might wear to ... you know ... high tea. Nuria took the Costa Rica decorated coffee mug she uses twice a day; the other ladies brought those almost-useless little teacups that you hold with your little finger pointing outward while you sip. The tea lasted two hours and she brought back some fancy sweet pastries, which I quickly dispatched into my already oversize stomach zone.

We then visited my friend Butch in the rehab center, meeting up with his daughter Paula in the parking lot. It was a bright, sunny and warm day. Butch looked better than I expected. When we entered his room, he was sitting in a wheelchair (he's still too weak to stand) but he looked like his old self, with  his dark hair combed back and wearing black stretch jogger pants, socks, and an unbuttoned long-sleeve shirt. He has been in the hospital, in the rehab center, back in the hosptal, and back in the rehab center, for about three weeks. We sat down and the four of us chatted for about 90 minutes, then Nuria and I decided he needed rest, and so we left. Though he looks good, he's still in a very weak condition.

When we got home, I pulled the lawn tractor out of the garage, started it up, and mowed the yard—front, back, and side. Then I got out the string trimmer and trimmed the edges of the sidewalk. I need to do more yard trimming today, but I probably won't do it. I know myself well enough that I don't kid myself about what chores I'll do on a given day. 

It's quarter past 11 AM and I haven't eaten anything yet and my stomach is beginning to get that hollow feeling. Should I eat a snack or wait for Nuria? She's still involved with her chore. Dealing with her bank is like dealing with the CIA. Which I have done. I applied for a job with them, once upon a time. Long ago it was. I went to an interview and the CIA guy who questioned me gave me a large yellow envelope containing about 200 sheets of paper, and each sheet had about 20 questions on it. I was supposed to answer all those questions and return the answers to the CIA. That didn't happen. But I did get a job—somewhere else.

I'd better publish this and then check on Nuria. After a great deal of sighing (but no moaning or cursing) she has gotten suspiciously quiet. I should find out why. Catch you later.