Global warming seems to have some of us a bit confused – can’t imagine what the poor birds, snakes and bugs think about our changing climate.
I try to do my part to reduce my carbon footprint. But, really, much younger folks should pick up the slack so I can spend my “golden years” just having some fun without worrying about whether I’m killing off a species of snails.
The changing season brings up this obvious issue: What about fashion? Have you ladies stopped wearing sandals or other open-toed shoes?
Have you men put away your seersucker until next year?
I don’t have much argument with casual sandals, especially for folks just bustling around to the grocery store, big-boxes etc. Although doing so when it’s really cold requires socks, which is a really ugly look.
What I don’t like are toes in church, at least adult toes. It sort of grosses me out to be attempting some religiosity at the altar rail on Sunday, only to look down at a set of hairy toes or red-polished toenails sticking out from under the chalicebearer’s garb.
What’s also bothering me, and maybe I’m just getting too sensitive about this, are those incessant TV commercials by senior men and women worrying about their kids, who are trying to decide “where to put” Mama or Dad.
Maybe I’m just watching the old-folks channels.
And there’s cancer. Apparently Vanderbilt University Medical Center has gotten heavily into the cancer treatment business and they’ve heavily invested in telling us about it.
I’m glad we Southerners have more medical options, but don’t we all have enough to worry about?
Terrorists, bad breath, dry-mouth and dry-eye syndromes.
I’d go see my doctors with any difficulties but they keep retiring.
This calendar thing is getting out of hand.
So I’m headed to the Crescent City in a couple of weeks to fetch Grandpup Bonnie for a little Nana-time while her Mom and Dad go on some exotic foreign trip.
That should bring a whole new set of distractions and the anticipation of great joy at Doggie Day Camp when Miss Bon makes her usually grand entrance.
Poor Bon will have to readjust to my loud interactions with the TV as college and pro football become priorities for my viewing pleasure.
Her first time experience with my hollering caused her to move over into my lap, like she was concerned that I might be in pain.
At least she’s not worried about “where to put” Nana as the golden years approach.
At least with Bonnie, I don’t have to worry about putting away her white shoes or insisting she forego sandals.
She had a set of winter shoes a few years ago and acted like it was the worst thing in the world.
Patsy R. Brumfield writes a Thursday column. Contact her at (662) 678-1596 or firstname.lastname@example.org.