…I thought of lots of stuff to write about today while I was vacuuming and at the time I remember thinking it  important and maybe even thought provoking.  Obviously, I was mistaken since I’ve already forgotten all of it. 

I used to think of cool things to write about in the middle of the night but would forget about them by morning.  So, I installed a notepad and pen by the bed.  Now I don’t think of anything interesting to write about in the middle of the night.  This is probably much more restful for me.  At any rate, it doesn’t bode well for me to leave note pads and pens all over the house for whenever inspiration might strike.

The kids had bad colds which turned into bronchitis and a sinus infection (each has one affliction…they aren’t both stricken with two big bad infections…naturally the asthmatic has the bronchitis).  I’m feeling a little sniffly myself so I did an extra sinus rinse and swig of Airborne…we’ll see what happens.

I’ll leave you with a quote from E.B. White…who is rapidly becoming one of my picks for the “name 5 dead people you’d love to have dinner with” thought provoking query that comes up at parties.  This from an essay called A Report in January from 1958.  White is remarking on the notion of “progress” in this essay. 

“In one respect my henpen in the barn is ahead of the most modern egg-producing plant:  from it come eggs that are 98 percent clean-shelled, with no trace of dirt.  Today many commercial egg raisers have quit worrying about dirty eggs; they simply install a washing machine and run every egg through.  I stood in the laundry room of a large egg factory not long ago and watched the eggs come off the assembly line by the hundred.  Each wire basket of eggs (clean and dirty mixed) was immediately placed in the washing machine that was standing there throbbing its heart out.  Here, in a detergent bath at a temperature of 120 degrees, the eggs remained for three minutes.  When they were removed from their hot tub, the shells had the fine patina of a cheap plastic toy.  If that’s an egg, I’m a rabbit.”  Essays of E.B. White, copyright 1977 by E. B. White.