“I don’t need it to freeze. Driving in at four AM would not be cool” The white-aproned man sets the roast beef on the scale. “You live up the hill?” I ask him as I, too, am concerned about the steep decline. He nods. “This is my first year with ducks.” I tell him, feeling extra peppy from my morning workout, “So far, I’ve been breaking up their ice.” He perks up, “Oh, there’s a heater you can get. Out on River Road, what’s the name of that place?” A frequenter of the ranch store, I fill the gap, “Tractor Supply.” He nods and hands me my bagged meat.
Later I’ll learn he didn’t price sticker the plastic bag, which was a blessing in disguise. Who knew the checkout lady and I needed ample time to reflect on experiences with drive-thru banking tubes?
Did you know they’re called pneumatic tubes? I didn’t.
I brainstormed ideas with Dave about the cause of the funky cold medina smell in the laundry room. “I’m afraid it’s because our house is falling.” I wasn’t, but I’m sure you can understand his worry.
I took to YouTube, double-checking the removal of the trap at the washer’s bottom. Moments later, after unplugging it, I toweled up the rotten egg-smelling water, semi-confident I’d found the culprit.
To be safe, I did three hottest water wash cycles; one with vinegar, one with bleach, and one with just water.
When I reach the end of a post, I get into a “Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, no one cares, keep it moving, onto the next thing” vibe. Just an Olympic bronze medalist bobsledder when I’m just an amateur feeling way out of control.
My goal for tomorrow’s post is to watch for the hurry-up-and-go mentality and the butterfly, jittery feeling I get in my chest. I will acknowledge it, thank it for its concern for my time, and let it know I’m ok, I got this, and it can move aside.
We’ll see how that goes. Until tomorrow.
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