The S-Word

I got up a bit late this morning. I usually rely on Dave's alarm to wake me up -- he sets it for 5:45 a.m. and that's a good time for both of us. But today he's not going to work because he has a doctor's appointment, and I neglected to consider that fact when I went to bed. Next thing I knew, it was 6:30 a.m.! Oops.

That's our olive tree, above. It's producing little olives, which are darkening as the season advances. Dave suggested harvesting them, but I have this vague idea that processing olives for eating is somewhat involved and takes a long time. Don't they have to be cured or pickled or something, for months or years? I've never heard of anyone making homemade olives, but maybe it can be done. (Indeed, here's an article on how to do it. It seems relatively simple but involves daily water changes for a couple of weeks and then a long period of salt-brining. I think I'd rather just buy a jar of olives.)

Dave's sister gave me that tree when my dad died back in 2016, and it sits on the sunny side of the house in a big pot and seems perfectly happy. It may need a new pot, actually, especially because our passionflower vine took root in the same container from a seed, so they share it. Tight quarters for two fairly large plants.

Anyone want a filthy pink chair? It looks like something Frank N. Furter would have used in his boudoir.

Soon after he left for work yesterday, Dave called me on the phone. "I forgot to take my medicine," he said. "Would you bring me one of my pills?" After ascertaining which pill he was talking about, I told him I would -- and then I got caught up in trying to get out of the house by 8 a.m. and promptly forgot.

He came to me in mid-morning when I was working with a group of second-graders in the Lower School Library.

"Why are you here?" I asked him.

"For my medicine," he said.

I gasped and confessed that I had totally forgotten it, and Dave said, "Oh shit." I offered to go home at lunch and get it but Dave said he thought he'd be fine without it, and in the end he was.

When he left I turned back to the students and a little boy said, "Did he say the S-Word?!"

"No, he did not," I replied. "He said 'shoot.'"

This is my life -- gaslighting second-graders.