again

They are Spanish speaking so I got a chance to show off my broken Spanish. I loaned them my extension cord and my leaf blower to clean my gutters of the grit and shingle flotsam. Which reminds me, yooou know what strawberries and grits taste llike? Strawberries. Blueberries and grits? Blueberries. Butter and grits? Butter. Horse manure and grits? Grits.
I seem to be groggiest on Sunday. Maybe it's the one last vestige of work patterning. Anyway, I am zonked when I get up and while Istarted the 8:30 a.m. service attendance, I find I can't get Sunday-ready by then anymore. Just too slow. During the week, I can get ready quickly enough: A hat to hide my finger-in-a-socket hair-do, my jeans from yesterday (and the day before, etc as well as the tee shirt), socks (ditto) shoes (tied butloppy enough slip on, morning breath and I'm ready.

Well, I made it

Here I am, Lord. Sitting here on a Sunday morninga capitive sheep of yours trying to stray but tethered by mom and friends, including my staunchest friend, Marty. The roofers bang away, if I'd have been THE hunchback, it would be bells. Instead it'll be the usual ringing of tinnitis, not bells.