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Today as I stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes, something caught my eye. It was the unmistakable blur on the stove top of grease that had been wiped. What else do I see; effort. I see the effort made to clean up a spill. Now, some might be annoyed that the spill-cleaner-upper didn’t even take the time to spray a little cleaning solution and wipe it away with a paper towel. But, no, not me. I appreciate the effort put forth here. And , the “F” written in blue Sharpie on one of the stove knobs? Well, again, effort. The Sharpie wielding artist clearly had a plan. The “F” written in blue Sharpie helped this person to know which knob turned on the front burner. Effort. Clearly put forth to use the stove top. It’s all good.
I recall a conversation that a friend and I were having. We were talking about people with unique personalities, with idiosyncrasies. She said to me “there is a lid for every pot”. I pondered this, and went on to use this colloquialism I had learned from her from there on after in similar situations.
Well, today at the secondhand shop, I found a bunch of lids for pots. Real life ones, though. And, I thought of my husband. He is my lid. But, also, just yesterday, he was complaining about my use of plates as lids for my pots and pans when I cook. Oh, the complaint didn’t come out of nowhere. He saw a few lids for pots that I had in the pile for donation, and wondered aloud where they were headed off to. This is when he commented on not being aware that we had lids for pots in the house, as I always used plates. But, these lids that I was donating were aluminum, not very versatile. They fit over the boiling pot in a way that allows condensation to drip down the outside of the pot, making a sizzling sound on the burner. It got messy, and I always wondered about it putting out the gaslight. So, into the donation bin they went. They just might be perfect for what somebody else is looking for. After all, there is a lid for every pot, right?
So, back to my secondhand shop trip today. I found three lids for pots, all different sizes, glass, with handles that don’t get hot. I will be giving these to my husband tonight as a gift. He is always so supportive of so many different things. He is my lid.
Today, while waiting in my car for my son to return from his day camp, I was doing some general neatening and rearranging. I came across a pile of rusty nails, 11 in total. I know exactly where these came from. You see, I carry around with me ways that I have been wronged. And these nails, they are from a gas station I patronized some months back, a gas station that I feel wronged me.
I stopped into the gas station to get my son a snack and a drink after an event. Little boy is hungry and thirsty; I act. After making our selections and paying, I noticed the bed of rusty nails I had parked in. I collected a handful of rusty nails, and went back into the store. I put them on the counter as I explained to the man that I had collected these from the parking lot, where I was parked, under my tires. As he stood, silently looking at me, I felt compelled to explain what the issue was. “They could give people a flat tire” I said. his response was simply “They are doing construction on the gas station.” He stood there, not really looking at me, just stood there. I quietly took my 11 rusty nails off of the counter between us and walked out. I share with my son as we got into the truck that we would not be going back there, that he didn’t care enough about his customers, even in a basic way. I have held true to my declaration, and have not returned, even when my gas light is on with no little bars left on my gas gauge, even though he is right by the highway right where I get on.
These 11 rusty nails here in my truck are a reminder to me that I have control of how I move forward when people have wronged me. I cannot control what others do, but I can have a say in how I move forward with it. I can decide when, if ever, I give another chance.
Today I saw somebody sweeping their driveway free of grass clippings and sand on the edges. I couldn’t help but think, I barely get my kitchen floor swept inside my house, all those crumbs and debris. The thought of sweeping my driveway is insane. I guess it’s all about your perspective. Before my blessings, John and James, came along, you might have seen myself and my husband outside tending to such details without too many complaints. Now, our time goes to other things, like cheering on my oldest son and his team at a double header on the baseball field, or watching and encouraging my youngest son at his karate class, or getting up with the sun to pack four lunches, unload the dishwasher, sneak in some laundry folding, and various other things.
So, for now, as I feel the occasional crumb under foot, I smile to myself. It’s all good.
Hashtag, #, aka the symbol formerly know as the number sign, much like The Artist Formerly Known As Prince, who in fact gave up his lettered name for that of a symbol.
So, the hashtag phenomenon has spread. I am so uninformed that I’m not even sure if you can write out the word hashtag or must you always use the symbol formerly known as the number sign to represent the hashtag. And, do you even say “the hashtag”. My husband, who is more up on things, says it is like a tag. I know about tags, but what’s up with the hash piece. What does the hash add, how does the hash make it different?
The hashtag is everywhere, in advertisements, in common popular culture, various places. My youngest son has even been known to let me know his opinion by modifying it with the hashtag (example: “hashtag: boring” as he rolls his eyes at me…..or is it “#boring”?).
Yes, I know I could look this up in any manner of ways, including Wikipedia or a basic Google search, but, sometimes I just want to understand things the way I do. I am, however, curious about the birth and development of the hashtag movement. Perhaps I will research that part of it a bit more. But, until then, I will keep using the hashtag as I see fit.
Okay. So I spent two minutes maybe even a bit less at Stop & Shop. Run in, run out. Apparently, Dad thought it was just a fine idea to have his daughter rifle through grocery bags to find her special treat right in the middle of the exit. Not before the exit door so you could sneak by, and not just outside the door. No, right in where the door is. Wow.
So, I walk past that scene and headed into the women’s room. It was a long drive home after that large cup of coffee. So, what do I spy coming out of the stall next to me, as she saddles up at the sink next to me? A fingertip washer. And, she dons the Stop & Shop smock and Stop & Shop shirt. I don’t have time to follow her to see where she works exactly. Hopefully it’s not the deli or the bakery. Wish I didn’t have that coffee. These two minutes have been unnecessary stress.
What is that man stopped in the middle-of-the-road? He doesn’t even have his hazard lights on. As I drive by I look in to see if I can get some more information. This is what I saw. A man with a flip phone in one hand, with which he was texting, and a sandwich in the other hand, with which he was eating. No wonder he’s not able to actually drive using the steering wheel, as his hands are completely unavailable. Wow. He really embraces his freedom, just lives his life, no matter how it impacts the people around him. What a sight this morning.