On the Big Bang Theory, Sheldon and Leonard have The Roommate Agreement.
One of the rules is The Manners Rule, in which Sheldon states:
At least once a day, I ask how you are, even though I simply don’t care.
There’s a lot to be said for just asking, just as a matter of course, and looking interested in the answer to the question, even if the answer is longer than, “Fine, thanks. You?”
It’s free to ask, and it’s free to listen and it greases the wheels of society a little bit.
This is what I think my dog thinks she looks like.
Which is to say “not unlike me.”
There’s a lot of debate these days about whether you have to write thank you notes, and of course you don’t have to write them. You don’t have to do anything, really, except eventually die. You don’t even have to pay taxes if you can stay under the radar well enough.
There’s also the question of condolences. What are modern people supposed to do? It’s hard to know what to say, let alone what to commit to paper, so what should you do?
What do you do? Do you still send notes in the mail, of any sort? If you get notes, do you toss them in the trash, or do you hang on to them?
We’re all talking about it but nobody’s doing anything about it.
It’s freezing cold and then it’s hotter than the hammered-down hinges of Hell.
Schools here were closed for snow last week, but it turned out they were just closed for rain.
I kept buying coffee for the weather, just in case, but I kept drinking it, so I guess it’s just as well I didn’t get snowed in.
A special gift from Old Man Winter is the dry air, leading to the inevitable eczema flare up, which this year is on the side of my right foot. It’s flaking off in dime-sized patches and I should leave it alone, but I am not that person.
I am, however, the person who is nearly finished making a sweater and might skip around the block when it’s done.
And I am the person who has to turn off the computer at 10, because of Lent.
Tonight my friend Bruce posted some pictures from college. I am reminded of how much I loved my boys, and how much I miss them.
I present this for your Sunday evening.
Tonight at dinner, a group of three gentlemen sat catercorner to my friend and me at the bar.
We struck up a conversation with them in which I asked the one closest to me “which famous person are you?”
He laughed and said, “I wish,” and the five of us moved on to other things, like what they should order (definitely some grits).
We talked about Atlanta, and about that night at Tiffany when I ended up shopping with the basketball player who everybody else in the store recognized but I didn’t (it was a Chicago Bull looking for a Christmas present his mother and a girl who was a friend of his).
So their dinner came and they did, indeed, love the grits.
And my dinner came and I insisted he try my Brussels sprouts, which he did.
And then he left and we figured out it was Dri Archer.
Nice guy. I hope he wins.
Today I called to order more contacts. The conversation was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, it was just a means to an end.
After my business was concluded, just before I hung up, I inexplicably said, “I love you” to the gentleman on the phone.
There was a pregnant pause and then we both said, “Uh, bye.”
Now I want somebody to go get my contacts for me.
This is not my first time at the Awkward Rodeo.
I once almost kissed my eye doctor. Who I then never saw again.