Thursday, December 22, 2016

Some Stream-Of-Consciousness On “Chill”

I have a cold, which is about par for the course this time of year. I must have caught a chill over the weekend, when it was cold and damp and when we were around a lot of sneezing, sniffling kids, or as we call them, “bacteria farms,” though “virus farms” might be more appropriate. Mary and I never had kids, and feline diseases don’t infect humans. Okay, there is toxoplasmosis, which can be transmitted to an unborn child if an expectant mother scoops the litter box, but as far as I know that’s not a feline illness.

We all had the chicken pox when we were kids, and Dad, who had never had them, caught them from us. He couldn’t shave for about a week, and his beard grew out in all different directions. Mom blamed it on the fact that his father died before he could teach Dad how to shave, so Dad had to teach himself. Hey, Dad died before I learned to shave, and I think I did all right. I have a beard now, because I have no one to impress besides Mary and shaving is a big pain in the backside.

I learned to shave using Dad’s old safety razor, which Mom never cleaned out of the medicine cabinet after he died. He left some shaving cream, a half-empty package of Gillette Blue Blades, and a half-bottle of English Leather, so I was all set. I learned the English Leather would stop the bleeding when I cut myself, which I did a lot of at first. I stuck with the safety razor, or an injector razor, until I found I couldn’t get the blades for it, after which I was forced to use the disposables. I tried going back to a safety razor when the disposables wouldn’t shave me properly, but after slicing my face to shreds relearning how to use one (and from the left side, because my right hand doesn’t work right), I said “screw this” and grew a beard.

I don’t get this trend among men today to rid themselves of their body hair (I think they call it “manscaping”). When I was a kid, I wanted my body hair to grow in, and it wouldn’t. I finally started growing hair on my chest when I was forty, and it came in gray.

None of the forgoing (I think that’s the right term) has anything to do will “chill,” but I get sidetracked sometimes and, well, you see the results.

It’s been chilly in the house, and two of my cats are sleeping in the bedroom, on the bed, close to the head of the bed, because a stream of warm air comes up through there from the heat register on the wall behind the bed. Homer, one of the two baby kittens that we adopted after they were taken from their feral mother in a “trap, neuter, and release” sweep, and his girlfriend CeCe, who we found in Edwardsville, Illinois on one of our trips north and brought home, are the couple. We think CeCe is feral, because she’s terrified of us, me in particular. That is, unless Homer is around. She had originally attached herself to Jethro, Homer’s brother, but he died. God knows what we’ll do if Homer goes. She won’t come anywhere near us.

All right, I’ve rambled on long enough here…

The prompt was “chill.”

from The Sound of One Hand Typing

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