Nonsense

Down front by the bay, a wonderful sea breeze is coming through. Somewhere between wafting and whipping, it’s pleasant enough not to be called a stiff breeze. But from the west, it’s being blocked by trees and other houses, and not felt on the front porch. Otherwise, that’s where I’d be as the sun rises over St. Andrew Bay instead of here in my blue chair.

No single sample proves the point, but last night, instead of playing games and chasing down early model cars for my picture collection, as Sunday evening usually involves, I wrote. Nonsense that likely will be deleted, but it held my mind until nine thirty. I then watched a television show until ten, turned out the light, and slept until four o’clock, which for me is a victory due at least partially to not much liquid with my supper of eight crackers, six smeared lightly with butter to hold bits of chicken, and two with slivers of dried out Velveeta. Why dried out? Because Saturday evening, Linda pointed out that a slice held 80 calories, so half was saved back. And what television program? A couple looking middle age in the face, at least he was with his long, bleached mop, were looking for beach front property south of the border in Mexico so he could surf. God help us.

Wasn’t that fascinating reading for my +Time blog post. Well, tough tootsie rolls, I don’t read this stuff. Besides, the idea was to explain to myself why I slept until four o’clock, a rare phenomenon. BTW, I’m not worried about animal fat in the Velveeta, it seems more like fox grease. French: faux fat.

Busy Monday morning confronting. Staff meeting and consultation. In my day, Monday in the rectory belonged to me, was my own day of rest after an invariably exhausting Sunday. Monday in my rectory days, I had oysters on toast for breakfast, then read the lectionary readings for the upcoming Sunday, maybe read one of my homiletics subscriptions, such as William Willimon; and made some sermon notes. If my notes were interesting enough I’d write until something blossomed that I could hash over in my mind through the coming workweek. Or until somebody knocked on the rectory door, ever one of which came first. Anymore, most Mondays are a work day.

This particular Monday promises late lunch: curried chicken salad with a small glass of the red box wine that calls itself shiraz, then maybe a trip to Tyndall for a haircut, or maybe a nap. More likely the nap, because the commissary is closed on Monday and I like to drift by the beef and lamb selections while I’m in the BX building. This wine is fine, actually, it just reminds me more of a light pinot noir or fresh bordeaux than a bold Australian shiraz, cabernet or durif. I don’t have a favorite brand, when I was a member, a year or two, the Laithwaites wine club sent me some good reds, better than a grocery store selection, and I developed favorites. I resigned from the club because they were covering me up with wine. The lesson learned was never join a wine club because when you decide to resign they drive you insane with letters, emails and phone calls trying to find out why you don't love them anymore and have we got an even better deal for you. But this box is OK, "not too bad" and "I've had worse." Would I buy it again? Apparently so: I came home from Trader Joe’s with a tapped box and two new boxes. Tasting decent, it was $10 for three liters, which makes it $2.50 per bottle. Good enough for cheap enough. They would sell more boxed wine if they boxed it in containers that look like little wine barrels. Of course, that's not space efficient for shipping, but they'd sell more and that would make up for the loss in packing and shipping space. They could even have a marketing strategy like the bacon and coffee people: invent a 12-ounce pound, my pet peeve. Not being cynical, but my BSBA from Florida is in Marketing as marketing in America was nearly sixty years ago when a pound of bacon or a pound of coffee was sixteen ounces. Imagine that.