bogeyandruby

Random stuff, reflections on the meaning of life and death, humour, self-deprecation, a bit of bad poetry.

Random February: an old post written 2015-2-24

George Harrison is my favourite Beatle and tomorrow would have been his 72nd birthday. A few days before he died, I was in a jewelry shop in India, playing Here Comes the Sun on an old acoustic guitar I found lying around, while my dad haggled over some ruby earrings for my mother. To my delight, a young shop clerk recognized it and shouted out, “George Harrison!”. Miss you, George. All things must pass.

Recently, I overheard two attractive seniors in their early 70s, in the lobby of an apartment building I was visiting, making plans for a coffee date later that day. Both were beaming as they parted ways and so was I. Love is that contagious.
A few days before I turned 52, two different store clerks, on two separate occasions, called me “miss”, which prompted me to postpone getting my roots done for at least another week.
I have eaten three out of the four corners of my birthday cake so far. Woke up feeling blobby and vowed to start my diet today, but instead I am eating the fourth and final corner.
There were a lot of bad smells at work today. Some of them were mysterious such as the lingering B.O. in the stairwell way too early in the day, and the insidious onset of what smelled like vinegar (though definitely not the balsamic kind), or Elmer’s glue, or maybe something dying (like our health care system), in the office. Is it possible for three people to share the same olfactory hallucination? Then there were the obvious smells like the bad one coming from the bathroom stall. Not that there is anything wrong with it. We all make those smells. But I always thought the rule was multiple flushes and wait until everyone leaves before exiting your stall. If, God forbid, someone does come in before you’ve had time to skulk out, deny it was you by pulling a face and pointing a finger at someone else. The last thing you want to do is flaunt all the bathroom rules by starting a conversation with a colleague who is clearly trying to breathe through her mouth.
I know it’s time to take a break from everything when I start writing posts about bad smells. It’s also time to take a breather when I have to fight the urge to bring my crying towel along with me to visits with clients instead of hope. Three more days until Spring break. Funny name for it this year, under present weather conditions.
Ah well, Here Comes the Sun, peeps.
Peace and love.
Namaste.

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