Now that I’m retired, people want to know what I do with all of my spare time. Many are pleasantly surprised that I don’t have a problem filling up my day with meaningful activities.
Between breaks with some heavy-duty storms that Northern CA was pounded with last week, I was bent over on my arthritic knees; looking head first, into a 4-foot hole, with my arse saluting my unsuspecting neighbors. I was trying to figure out why our back-yard sump pump wasn’t doing what it was supposed to do – sump water away from our home and into the streets. I had difficulty assessing the situation because of all the standing water in the hole and decided to try using a portable pump to help me.
I got my garden hoses attached to the pump and lowered it into the hole, when it started to rain.
Again, I was bent over with my larger – than – life buttocks shooting straight up into the air, when I suddenly felt water trickling down my hiney.
“No biggey,” I thought to myself. “My socks are totally wet and I need to change them anyways. Not a problem in changing a wet pair of undies, right?”
So, into the house I traipsed, grabbed a new pair of drawers, changed my underwear and socks, and headed for the loo before leaving to my exercise class. I opened the bathroom door, and Molly – the cat that I have the door closed for because she likes to piddle on bathroom rugs – sashayed pass me.
“Cazzo (Ot-so!),” I said out loud, as I slid into the cat pee.
“I must have accidentally locked her in there when I left this morning for my walk,” I said to myself, while shaking my head in disgust.
All right, this was also no big deal. I have many pairs of socks. I changed into pair number 3 and out the door I headed for my morning A.P.E. class at the Senior Center.
My Subaru decided that it did not want to start.
No big deal. I had a camper van that wasn’t used in a dog’s age and needed to be run. It was sitting under an ash tree for the past umpteen storms and unbeknownst to me had accumulated all kinds of goodies on the cowl of my van’s hood.
As I began to drive to class, it started misting, and I unwittingly turned on my wipers. Suddenly, my windshield – that was kissed ever so lightly by the morning’s mist – was now an impenetrable lens of mud and muck.
As I drove down Virginia Avenue, blind as a bat, I looked up to the heavens and shouted, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Ya wanna give me a break today?” As if on cue, the heavens promptly opened up and it began pouring – really pouring – enough so that it cleaned the gunk off of my windshield.
The Big Guy came through for me once again.
I got to the Center, pulled into the parking lot, made an abrupt stop and got slapped in the back of my neck with water that apparently had accumulated under the canvas of my pop-up roof.
At that point, I looked up to the skies, told God that he had a great sense of humor, but that he needed to find another muse for his merriment.
And People want to know if I write fiction?
No, People, this is my boring, retired life. Who needs fiction when you’re living life in my shoes?
Stay well, and I’ll catch ya next adventure.