One of Those Days I Should Have Just Phoned It In

English: Sotby phone box. These old red boxes ...

English: Sotby phone box. These old red boxes are becoming a rarity these days – one of the TELEPHONE panels has been put in back-to-front and upside-down. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Michelle’s prompt for the day: “If you were forced to give up one sense, but gain super-sensitivity in another, which senses would you choose?”

Taste. Hearing. Seeing. Smelling. What the heck is the other sense? Oh yeah, touch.

I would not voluntarily give up a sense but if I were being tortured I would consider giving up the one I could not remember—touch—though I would most certainly miss it. If I did give up touch though, would that mean I would never again be bothered by scratchy labels? Touch though is a touchy subject—would I not feel hugs or register kisses? Giving up touch would be, on second thought, a hardship that the super-sensitivity of another sense would not make up for.

Sight. Never. I need to see and read and watch and measure and observe.

Hearing. I need to hear the voices of my loved ones. I need to hear to make conversation. I need to hear!

Taste. Well, what would be the use of eating? I guess we are supposed to eat to live, not live to eat—but that takes it to a whole new level.

Smell. Can you imagine not smelling the stuffing of a turkey ever again? Or cinnamon buns. Or the pungency of onions and garlic?

Okay so I would give up my sense of intuition, as it does me more harm than good, as I do not recognize it anyway—or give it credit.

So there you have it—no intuition. I would trade it for super-sensitivity in seeing, as then I could discard my glasses and near blindness without having to wear contacts.

This was a silly prompt—and a silly response to the prompt. I would get my money back if I were you.

Published in: on September 16, 2013 at 5:57 pm  Comments (25)  
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~ Never Ask Me: How Are You? ~

English: Cute coffee.

Cute coffee. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This is from my weekly newspaper column–I talk to my readers like they are my friends. I hope some of them are:

My sister Peggy and I try to email each other every day. She lives in Ottawa, so we do not have the luxury of face to face visits often. Sometimes I do not have much to say—but today this is how I opened my little tirade to her (she made the mistake of asking how I was):

“Well, (you can always tell something did not go well, when you start a sentence out with ‘well’) yesterday started off with a bang, or should I say crash—I broke the carafe for the coffee maker, so made coffee by putting a cup where the carafe should go and then pressing up on the spigot thing to get the coffee to come out. That was some fun! Until I got the hang of it I had hot coffee coming up the handle of the knife I was using to press the spigot up. (I now have first degree burns on my right hand). So I went out and bought another coffee maker and started getting it ready to make coffee (this morning), and it did not have all the parts it was supposed to have–so I tried putting it back in its packaging, and of course it does not go back into what it just came out of.

So….I will be taking the darn thing back to the store the way it is and they can deal with it.  I just finished making two cups of coffee using my rather flawed method again today–but used a spoon this time. The coffee ran up the handle of the spoon a bit, but since I am getting better at this, not as much as yesterday. Oh, yeah, and the coffee tastes like sweet dishwater.”

That is how my day began–has to get better from here, right? Just a minute, I need another sip of coffee—yep, warm dishwater (or what I imagine warm dishwater with sugar would taste like).

It is Monday morning as I write this and no, it is not going to be a diatribe about how awful I think Mondays are. I like Mondays. It is the day I usually write up this column and I do look forward to writing another piece of weekly literature. Then I just have to make do with what I really produce, and though it isn’t literature, it does fill up my space on page five.

I am surprised though at how important that first cup of coffee is to me in the morning. I did not even drink coffee until I was in my thirties—before that my caffeine fix was in the form of tea or cola (yes, at one time I did drink cola with my morning bagel and cream cheese or bacon and eggs—try it, it really complements the food).

I am trying to become a tea drinker again for one reason and one reason only: I do not put sugar in my tea. I put a lot of sugar in my coffee—as I do not think I really like its taste—the aroma is good, but the taste without a pile of sugar is too bitter. I so admire those who drink it black (gag, ugh) or with just a little cream (just gag).

Today, I am writing this up without the benefit of a good cup of hot sweet liquid (good being the operative word here)—but I am persevering—I am made of good stock.

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