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» Saturday, May 14, 2022The Whole World is Crazy
The bad news: I still have a cold. Now I have lots and lots of phlegm in my throat, with lots and lots of moist coughing. Yeah, it's as annoying as it sounds, and I'm congested as hell. But no fever and no other COVID symptoms.
Thursday was the last day I could go do something with a CD I had that, years ago, was giving me two percent interest. Now it was only getting .02 percent, and renewal interest rates weren't any better. So we went to the bank, had to wait a half hour for anyone to talk to us (I had to run back out to the truck for water since I ended up having a coughing fit), and cashed out the silly thing, which I gave to James to pay down on his truck.
Plus we finally went to the HOA post office box and the checks we ordered for the account still haven't come. We will be on the last check soon; it's bad enough we got stuck with the HOA account, but to have this happen is freaking annoying.
And on Saturday night some moron in a full-size pickup truck ran into the "Trellis Oaks" trellis at the end of our street. He cracked the sign that said "Trellis Oaks," ripped up one of the spotlights, and actually tilted the stone-and-wood trellis back a degree or two. Actually, the people in the house at the end of the street must be still saying their prayers right now because if that Trellis Oaks sign hadn't been there, the pickup would have gone through their downstairs bedroom/sitting room!
All this and the nightmare news about the cretin with the 100+ page manifesto who drove for hours to a grocery store in a mostly Black neighborhood and shot up the place, the asshole who shot up a church in California, and the moron who shot up a flea market in Texas. People have no self-control any longer. Someone upsets them, they don't get what they want, the solution is grabbing a gun and killing people.
The one good thing about the week was a trip to Canton for lunch at Uncle Maddio's—the owner is still running the place by himself—and a side-journey to Books-a-Million, where I found several nifty books on the remainder shelves, including Ghost: My Thirty Years as an FBI Undercover Agent, which works out well since I've been writing about an FBI agent. On the way home we stopped at BJ's for orange and pineapple cups and various other things. They didn't have any plain Skinny Pop, so I got the buttered kind, and, boy, did I regret that. It tastes like "cheesy-flavored" popcorn and is revoltingly salty.