my weekend

How was y'alls weekend?

 I wonder where that y'all comes from?  I don't believe Beagles has ever been south of the Mason Dixon line.  Well possibly in basic training, but I think you are too busy there to be exchanging bon mots with the natives.

You know I spent a few years in Chattanooga, but it was from the age of one to four so I was not exchanging bon mots with the natives either.  I was a mere 62 miles north of the Mason Dixon Line for the two years that I was in Herrin.  They didn't say y'all, but they did say you 'uns, and they were rather proud of it.  They were a little more sophisticated than those deep south types, but they weren't hard and mean like those skinflint Yankees.  Like baby bear's porridge, they were just right.

Thinking back I likely washed my dishes but I can't say that I did any cast iron seasoning.  I once had a cast iron frying pan, but I left it behind somewhere along the rocky road of life.  I can't recall ever seasoning it.  The internet says it is not too bad:  All you need is dish soap, oil, and a bit of patience. But I am lost at that mention of a bit of patience, very ominous.

And I did clear out the jungle on the balcony, (yes that is my garden in the photos) leaving just a few sunflower stalks for the finches to perch on and for the morning glories to climb on eons from now when spring returns as that skinny young girl in the pea green gown.

And I finally got around to ditching my corrupt Medicare Advantage insurance.  Bloody thieves sucking up dough from taxpayers and spending it on all those commercials where they are protecting our health but of course all they are doing is sucking money from both you and your doctor.  It took about two hours, much of that drumming my fingers angrily and listening to Muzak.  Actually it's not Muzak, just like some strange sounding music likely picked by somebody's fourteen year old nephew drunk on White Claw.

Whatever happened to Muzak?  It had a certain je ne sais quoi, that the current clamor does not possess.  All I know about White Claw is that it takes up way too much space on what should be the beer shelves.  But I am sure that it does not have the je ne sais quoi of Mad Dog 2020 or, what's the word?  Thunderbird!

And I am jealous of, may I call him Tom Tom, Old Dog's Roma tomato growing strong in Old Dog's sunny abode as the Dog himself hums patiently while seasoning his cast iron, and all I have is a bag of scraggly crapola sitting on the balcony waiting to be hauled into the stairwell.