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A little smile

I was waiting at the bus stop. There were some others waiting as well. A mom and her little daughter caught my eye. The little one clearly needed her nose cleaned. But every single time her mom put a tissue close to her face trying to clean the nose, she started a little fit. After Mom attempted it 3 times, she had enough of it. She took control, cleaned her daughters face. After done, she picked her daughter up, and played a little word game with her to comfort her down. It worked very well; her daughter smiled  and put her arms around her neck.

It reminded me of my kids, when they were this little. It was the same pattern, and the same response. And at the end, my son and daughter always ended up smiling when they were picked up by me, holding onto me with their arms around my neck.

The thought of my kids smiling at me made me smile. Today was a better day.


Another day, another disappointment

I walked into this pub and sat down at the bar. I was the only visitor. For some reason I can’t just stand the taste and smell of beer at this time, so I ordered a rum and coke. After she set down my drink, she picked up a magazine and started reading. An article about an uninhibited look into sexual lives. Like I know what that was. I, the one person on this planet that is deprived from sex for many years. I was sitting there. Perplex staring at the article, and then looking up staring at her. Why would she read that? And why in public? And why in front of me?

I often thought she was beautiful. Beautiful brown hair with a red glow over it. Not just plain skin over bone but not overweight, and very well build shoulders. Nothing lust, just plain beauty. But now all has changed, forever. She became a different person. A person that is no more or less than an animal. No intelligence involved. Only reading about and thinking about the drive for lust and sex.

Upset I finished my drink, and put a few dollars on the bar to pay for the drink. I left without saying a word, heading home. When I got there, I crawled in bed, covered up my head, leaving this awful world behind. Tomorrow will be a better day…

It just hit me…

Yesterday, it was one of these days. You know, you’re by yourself, enjoying a glass of wine and some french brie. Unfortunately, not a Brie de Meaux made from raw milk, but just the ‘ordinary’ brie made in France from pasteurized milk, the only one you can get in the United States, the land of unlimited possibilities. Except then for the possibility to purchase real brie. So, as we have that established now, it isn’t that unlimited. And then there was a small lemon pie as well that needed to be eaten. But I digress.

Still, it was enjoyable, sitting on the couch, Vivaldi’s Le Quattro Stagioni playing in the background and my brains going 100 miles an hour, jumping from one thought to another. That happens often to me just because I am a kind of hyper.

I poured myself another glass of wine. It tasted much better now. For some reason, the first drinks didn’t taste that well but when I got used to the taste, it really was a great wine. I started texting some female friends to see if they wanted to join me in my battle with the bottle of wine. Not that I was going to share this one bottle, but there was an army of two bottles. I, for sure, was going to win this battle and this soldier wouldn’t mind to share this wine with some female company. I would come out as a hero, the one that conquered great bottles of wine.

But all my enthusiasm would fade rapidly. None of them were going to spend time with me. There were the ones that just plain ignored my text, and others that made me believe they had an excuse.

But what is the real reason they left me battling the army of wine all by myself? Why don’t they want to spend time with me? I am reasonable smart, have a decent job, love taking trips, love good food, good wine, but still, no one out there that even is remotely interested in spending time with me.

And then it just hit me… Women, with the exception of a few, aren’t good food critics. And I am not talking the ones on TV but the writing ones. Phyllis Richman is the only one I know that has a stellar reputation. And women aren’t good wine connoisseurs either. I can’t even think about one name in that category. Women just don’t understand quality. Hence, I am sitting on the couch by myself, finishing one last glass of wine, and moved onto Mozart’s Requiem Mass in D minor.

The second bottle stayed closed. The army of wine bottles declared their victory.