Long before my days became a long train of misspent Saturdays, the day was special. I usually worked but, if not, I’d at least try to enjoy that sassy NPR programming, perhaps go see some obscure British film, and later enjoy a meal out. There was a wickedness in the air as if Jon and I were playing hooky and sneaking around Main Street.
These days, however, I am almost always at home, unless one of us has a doctor’s appointment. Jon does all the marketing and “fetching”. Two hours is my limit, before the aches and yawns commence. I seem to save my energy for a day that never comes.
Recently, my Saturdays have become quite the tragic “comedy of errors”. There might be ample coffee in the cupboard, but I am out of half & half. If I should need to shave, there won’t be any shaving cream to be found.
If we’re watching some terrific Masterpiece Mystery, our cable might flutter and blink, at least until the credits are over. We are out of kibble for the pusses. Either Jon or I might be out of our pain medications: he, for his acute neuropathy, and for me, that damned stubborn pinched nerve. That nerve even has a name now — a too, too familiar Bruce.
I could continue but you certainly get my point. Mind you, I am not complaining, just sharing observations. Oh, did I forget to mention ‘Accu-Fill’? It drives me crazy. If I type a word, I mean to type that word!
And Siri? I guarantee mine went to a different school than the other tablet or phone personas. He ( yes mine is a ‘he’) probably never graduated and has drifted from Prodigy to Compu-Serve to an endless run of forlorned retail chains.
I have voice recognition on my devices, which should make the very recognition of my voice an easy task. Siri’s must have been distracted for much of these many years with my iPhone. Still, he has a poor vocabulary, poor sense of directions, and seems content just to admit ignorance. Siri has no idea what real traffic looks like. And he knows not the quaint custom of punctuation.
Today, however, on this very Saturday, none of that occurred. I blissfully savored my iced coffee while reading some captivating articles on 19th century art. I filed away an embarrassingly daunting stack of receipts, information, statements, and the endless run of “My Copies”.
The absolute highlight, however, was a satisfying telephone “catch up” conversation with a friend in Greensboro. We have been friends for over forty years. We misbehaved together. Campaigned together. Worked together. (She hates the anecdote of when she hit another car while driving mine in an otherwise empty parking lot, so I shall skip it.)
Later, I watched a SciFi standard: a B movie about zombies and an apocalypse of a different color. This time, however, the undead could run, climb, and turn doorknobs. I loved it and promptly sat through a second such film.
By dinner time, I was ready for both PBS and an innocent, long-overdue iTunes adventure.
The ancient pines and thick brush shielded me from any harshness of the world “out there” and its harsh realities and givens. The front yard was still, except for a few chatty birds.
The world seemed happy. I was happy. And it was even Saturday
(Image: “The Naked Man” by Joseph Hirsch, 1959.)