Playing pool is like riding a bike. Even if you haven’t been on it for a while, it all comes back. I claimed the table last night. If you weren’t as tall as the cue stick, you’d just have to get lost. I played several games with Mr. Pool and won three out of four. Even though one or two involved eight ball blunders on his part, they all occurred at the end of good, solid games. So, I won fair and square, which is the only way to win. I got off some great shots which restored my confidence, so now I’m ready to do battle with Confidante. I was sure glad I didn’t play him last night. He was so busy with check-ins it would have been one LONG three hour game.
I went back to the salon with the groaning chair, previously immortalized in this blog. Confidante had politely suggested I might want to think about putting more brown in my hair. The sun always has its way with me during the summer, and it takes less than a week for it to make my hair too blonde after getting it colored. “White women need more contrast on their faces,” he says. Besides, it was worth adding the brown just so I no longer have to listen to his, commenting, “B. That sounded so blonde.”
I was afraid it wasn’t dark enough, but I got his seal of approval upon my return. Actually, it's so blended it looks natural --light brown with a few blonde highlights across the front and top. By Saturday it will be all blonde again. For your edification and delight, yes
the groaning chair continues to groan, “GET OFF ME.”
I have a friend who doesn’t know how to shut up. He will talk your head off in person. Yet, have him attempt to converse with you via texts, all you’ll get are one to four word sentences. Is that even legal? Well, I can tell you it sure is annoying. Why would you text someone and then only offer one word responses? I’m a writer, so it’s only to be expected if you’re going to have a conversation with me, you’re going to have a conversation. I’ll send several sentences and his response is yes, no, or wow. My grand dog knows more words than that.
The hogs are back. Harleys, not piggies. They’re right below my window too, just sitting curbside gunning their engines, and enjoying the power trip that comes from acting totally annoying, that only a biker with a self-confidence problem can demonstrate. See, now they’ve ruined it for me. My kids always figured when I turned old, like 75, that I’d embarrass them by getting a Harley. So, I’m thinking that could be me some day, sitting at the curb gunning my engine, showing off to impress whatever eye candy is on the
sidewalk. Only, by that time, they’d be old, wrinkled guys with pot-bellies and
diapers trying to remember where they left their canes. Ungh, I don't think so.
I went back to the salon with the groaning chair, previously immortalized in this blog. Confidante had politely suggested I might want to think about putting more brown in my hair. The sun always has its way with me during the summer, and it takes less than a week for it to make my hair too blonde after getting it colored. “White women need more contrast on their faces,” he says. Besides, it was worth adding the brown just so I no longer have to listen to his, commenting, “B. That sounded so blonde.”
I was afraid it wasn’t dark enough, but I got his seal of approval upon my return. Actually, it's so blended it looks natural --light brown with a few blonde highlights across the front and top. By Saturday it will be all blonde again. For your edification and delight, yes
the groaning chair continues to groan, “GET OFF ME.”
I have a friend who doesn’t know how to shut up. He will talk your head off in person. Yet, have him attempt to converse with you via texts, all you’ll get are one to four word sentences. Is that even legal? Well, I can tell you it sure is annoying. Why would you text someone and then only offer one word responses? I’m a writer, so it’s only to be expected if you’re going to have a conversation with me, you’re going to have a conversation. I’ll send several sentences and his response is yes, no, or wow. My grand dog knows more words than that.
The hogs are back. Harleys, not piggies. They’re right below my window too, just sitting curbside gunning their engines, and enjoying the power trip that comes from acting totally annoying, that only a biker with a self-confidence problem can demonstrate. See, now they’ve ruined it for me. My kids always figured when I turned old, like 75, that I’d embarrass them by getting a Harley. So, I’m thinking that could be me some day, sitting at the curb gunning my engine, showing off to impress whatever eye candy is on the
sidewalk. Only, by that time, they’d be old, wrinkled guys with pot-bellies and
diapers trying to remember where they left their canes. Ungh, I don't think so.