I really should be asleep right now.

Finished the Anne Tyler book last night, shortly after getting home. Read another 20 pages in the memoir by the Iranian professor. Another hour or so should do it.

No reading today, because our attorneys catered a Tex-Mex spread to celebrate Administrative Professionals Day. It was seriously yummy, and there are leftovers for tomorrow. There were cards handmade by one of my former attorneys and signed by all of them.

I'm about halfway through Hope Street, a comedy/mystery/drama (or so it bills itself on BritBox) set in Northern Ireland in modern times. Great casting. Good acting. Interesting story arcs. Having lived in a tiny town in the Texas Hill Country, the small-town feel in this show runs true.

After more than 20 years in the office with prescribed working hours, I learned today that our office hours are changing effective next Monday. I had the option of keeping my current hours, starting earlier, or starting later. I'm going to try going in at 9:00 and working until 5:30. My only concern is how difficult it may be to back into my reserved parking space if the opposite spaces are filled. I'm anticipating that both morning and evening commutes will be less crowded. We shall see.

Done for the night, because Wordle ticks over in two minutes. Later, gators!

Side quests.

Last year I bought a T-shirt on Etsy which reads, I'm not procrastinating. I'm doing side quests.

While working AARP's daily crossword puzzle, I became curious about one of the answers: stampede. How did we come by this useful and colorful word? So I consulted the Google and Thummim, which informed me that it arrived via American Spanish estampida from the Spanish word for crash and goes back through German as far as the Old High German (what was that old German high on, you ask?) stampfōn, to stamp. So basically, you have a bunch of ancient Germans stamping around, and their descendants stamping their way to Spain, and their descendants escaping to the Americas with visions of Tex-Mex dancing in their heads.

Starters. The current word for things to spoil your appetite before the main course arrives.  See also: appetizers, hors d'oeuvres, amuse-bouche, antipasto, finger food, munchies. As a young adult in the 70's, munchies suggests to me the crazed combination of foods which follow partaking of a once-illegal herb which is now sold in mom and pop CBD shops.

The AARP daily jigsaw puzzle has three speeds: easy, regular, and expert. You get eight minutes to solve it on the regular and easy levels. I always start with the regular level. If I can't solve it in eight minutes, and I have time to try again, I'll switch to the easy level, which has no more than 36 pieces. (I think the regular format averages 64 pieces.) I suppose I ought to try the expert level, just once, to see how many pieces there are and if you're given more time. I always solve the edge pieces first ~ you can sort for that, and then fill in toward the center. I like this game OK, and I prefer the app on my phone, which does track the time it takes me to solve a puzzle but doesn't lock me out if I don't finish at some predetermined point.

I fired up the puzzle I'd just completed. Same eight minutes for the expert level. That is, as my kids would say, ridonkulous.

My wonderful sister sent me a box of boutique chocolates for my birthday. It arrived on Tuesday, and I took it to work yesterday. Yesterday a card arrived, which I did not get around to opening until today. I'm going to frame the card; it's two classic Japanese women in kimono. And there was an Amazon card inside. I am currently browsing a sample of a book which popped up on my Facebook feed. If I continue to enjoy this teaser until its end, that will be one of my purchases.

Great gifts require great thank-you notes, and I recently exhausted my stash. That was my excuse to stop at Half Price Books' flagship store on my way home from work tonight. Long ago, in a universe far, far away I used to write long letters to friends and family. And I've always had a weakness for beautiful or unusual stationery and cards. Hallmark shops were a particular downfall. In recent years, I've made a lot of my own cards, but when I can buy them ready-made at half price? Time value of money means more time to read or knit or watch British TV or eat Nutella.

May I just state for the record that I'm not enamored of square cards which come with rectangular envelopes whose excess space is glued shut? Give me a rectangular card or a square envelope. Pick one.

Taco salad. A wonderfully Tex-Mex thing (see how I circle back to the beginning?) that is neither taco nor salad. Just enough sliced or shredded lettuce to lighten up a bowl full of hamburger meat, spicy seasoning, sour cream, grated cheese, and a liberal lashing of queso, all of it resting upon or reposing under rather too many round tortilla chips of inconvenient size or saltiness. OCD-me has to spend five to ten minutes crudely quartering the chips and hoping not to break my plastic fork before I can moosh things around and achieve a fairly uniform consistency that will adhere to my fork so I may hold my book in my left hand and read while delivering bites to my mouth and not the front of my shirt.

Words which are not my own, are calling my name. Later, gators!

Dates on which my birthday has fallen on Easter Sunday.

1650, 1661, 1672, 1718, 1729, 1740, 1808, 1870, 1881, 1892, 1927, 1938, 1949, 1960, 2022. 2033, 2044. Source.

So this is the second time it has happened during the mortal phase of my life, although I could have sworn it had been more than twice.

I went to church. I fell asleep in sacrament meeting. I brought my ministering brother up to date and got another priesthood blessing.

I'm going to finish the German movie that I began last night, and then I'm going to take a nap. Or maybe vice versa.

My cup got filled today.

Lunch with bestie followed by an early dinner with friends from the widows and widowers group. I told Middlest just before I walked out the door that I'd probably be gone until after dinner. I know me. If I had come home and changed into my PJs during the break, I wouldn't have left the house again.

I started the new audiobook yesterday, and after listening to it again today, I'm returning it for something that isn't peppered with F-bombs. I have a higher tolerance for them than I did a year ago, and I don't want to get any more comfortable with them. I'm trying the newest Anne Tyler. I've loved some of her books and felt meh about the others.

The clock has ticked over to Easter morning and my 70th birthday. Time to dig out the chocolate bunnies that I smuggled into the house and put into a "safe place" while I still remember where that safe place is. Then the new Wordle, then make the bed, brush my teeth, and crash.

Well, *that* was weird

Today was a good Friday (yeah, I know; bear with me) in that I took the bipolar bears to their monthly doctor appointment and then to pick up their monthly meds. On the way home, we stopped at Whataburger for the traditional reward: breakfast. Because nothing says love like greasy potatoes. And the Dr. Pepper milkshake is back.

Middlest has attempted to explain to me why I like the Dr. Pepper milkshake when, try as hard as I could over the 40-plus years of being a naturalized Texan, I've continued to loathe Dr. Pepper. (No need to recap here, Middlest. Your explanation is perfectly logical, and my inner four year old refuses to accept it, as if it were broccoli or a demand that I go to bed right now because I'm a growing kid and I need my sleep.)

Sleep. That is a major component of the current weirdness. I have fought drowsiness at work for several days running. I was due to see my hematologist next week, but he's had a death in the family, so we've rescheduled for early May. My color is fairly good: a little pale, but not ashen. I may not need another iron infusion this time around. My mental acuity seems normal, at least for the parts where I'm fully conscious.

After we got home from this morning's errands, I noodled around to let breakfast settle, watched the first two installments of "Why Didn't They Asks Evans?" and lay down for a nap, waking to an alarm on my phone. At first I thought I'd slept through to my Saturday morning alarm. I'm glad that my smart phone is significantly smarter than I am when I first wake up. It informed me that the alarm was for my evening meds and not my Saturday morning wake-up.

The dreams. Oh, the dreams. I was sitting in a cafeteria of sorts, eating I don't remember what, when a gentleman two tables over mentioned my name. I got up, wandered over, and asked him why he would. He showed me a list in which I was the new first counselor in a restructured ward Primary presidency. That's not how we do things in the Church. In the dream, I couldn't text our bishop to ask, "Is there something you want to talk to me about?"

The next scene that I remember is that of pulling up in front of an old friend's house to take her mysteriously disabled adult son to a medical appointment, because she had other commitments she couldn't get out of. In that part of the dream I was young, svelte, and inexplicably a ginger. The car I was driving was not Diana or any of the other cars that I've owned or driven in the past half-century. It was like unto Fred Flintstone's car, in that it was unwieldy to maneuver and frustratingly slow.

Yabba-dabba-don't.

When I woke at the alarm an hour ago, nature was calling. I was also slightly chilled, as it had been warm when I lay down, and I didn't want to get overheated, so I left off the top layer of bedding. I am now properly relieved, optimally warm, and momentarily rested. Heading back to bed now. Not sure for what, or how it will turn out. Could be enlightening. Or merely restful.

Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

It's one of two books written by Helen Simonson, who needs to get busy and write a third one at the very least. The audiobook is impeccably narrated by Peter Altschuler, who is brilliant. Loved, loved, loved this book. The Major, though British, reminds me a bit of my father, but I suspect the Major's inner monologue is significantly more snarky than my father's. More like my own. Mrs. Ali is a quiet woman who is underestimated and unappreciated by the small village in which she runs the local shop.

Stories about people who find love in their autumn years are not flooding the market. Movies with older actors are generally played for laughs: ah, look at the old people, aren't they silly ... or sweet ... or irrelevant ... or whatever.

This brought back a lot of good memories for me, from when Beloved and I were first getting to know one another, through courtship, and during our one precious year as man and wife. The parallel between the hunting lodge in the book and the bed and breakfast where we honeymooned. The time or two that Mrs. Ali caused the Major to blush. My memories of saying something unexpected to Beloved and watching his ears turn red. And vice versa.

What else am I reading, you ask? Reading Lolita in Tehran in paperback. I'm starting to get a feel for the author's voice. I think I've mentioned that I bought this book when I moved to Fort Worth in 2008, and it's been waiting patiently for me to become interested in it, ever since. Tomorrow I'll begin listening to I have Been Buried Under Years of Dust: A Memoir of Autism and Hope.

But for now I'm firing up the next episode of House, and then I am going to bed.

93/51

That was my blood pressure at the dentist's office yesterday morning, using a wrist cuff rather than the more usual upper-arm cuff, so it may have had no basis in reality. Still, it was interesting.

Last night I set up the BP meter and cuff which came with the glucose monitor that I haven't gotten around to using, and I improvised a surface upon which to rest my arm at approximately the level of my heart. The improvisation was spectacularly unsuccessful, as the meter registered 169 and climbing, without the lower number kicking in. Much lub, no dub.

I'm not connecting the meter to my app until I've found a setup which gives me an accurate reading, which could be in the near future or not at all. Meanwhile, I've invested in a fresh six-pack of cherry Coke

That's all I've got for y'all tonight. Wordle kicks over in four minutes. Wish me luck.

Don't know what to think.

First weekend in April and October is General Conference. I look forward to it with varying levels of anticipation, depending on what's going on in my life. Sometimes it's intense, the spiritual equivalent of kd lang's "Constant Craving." Sometimes it's quiet, more like The Eagles' "Peaceful Easy Feeling." It may be the result of my having been puny for so long, but this time around it was closer to the latter.

This morning I fired up my phone, grabbed my knitting, and dozed off maybe halfway in. This afternoon, same thing. This evening I remained awake and engaged for the entire two hours. (Do not fear. Knit also happened.)

I'd like to find out why it's so hard for me to stay awake for church, or when sitting still in general. There were a couple of days last week when I sang myself to work just to remain on the safe side.

I added several more rounds on the current knitting project, in between accidental naps. It's slow going, and oh so pretty. Thirty years ago I taught myself a modified continental knitting technique for Fair Isle which involved rocking my left hand, and It's Just Gone. (As long as I'm going with musical metaphors, Celine Dion would be disappointed that "It's [not] All Coming Back to Me Now.")

The final two sessions of Conference are tomorrow. I'm hoping to remain awake for both and finish this weekend with a modicum of glory.