Jack, the dogs and I are behind closed doors. They are both sleeping on the couch after their strenuous morning of going out twice, having their biscuits and a bit of coffee. The air conditioner is blasting away. The weather for the week will be in the low to mid 80s. It is 83° right now.

My dance card is uke heavy. Last night we had a concert, practice tonight and both a lesson and a concert tomorrow. Also on my dance card is a trip to the dump, always a highlight.

Today’s Coffee is a stream of consciousness.

I notice that women on TV cover their mouths when they eat and sometimes even when they smile. I don’t. I guess I didn’t get the memo.

Late night commercials are geared to older people. I guess maybe the powers that be figure we’re a captive audience at single digit times of the morning. According to the commercials, pills are available to cure most common ailments. I should keep a list just in case.

Most nights I watch the Red Sox and a movie or two. I read before I go to sleep, sometimes for as long as an hour. I generally turn off the light around 2:30.

I have been eating out of my freezer. Some stuff has to have been in there for centuries (tongue in cheek here). A eureka moment was when I found hot dogs, two packs.

Quick is my best choice for dinner; hence, hot dogs. I also keep tortillas, cheese, jalapeños and guac for another quick dinner. I am in a catch as catch can mode for dining.

The best days are when I can stay in my cozies, loll around and do nothing. I become the quintessential sloth. I’m thinking I should be on a poster advocating the easy life, maybe one highlighting my napping skills.

I have more pairs of shoes than I have ever had, not to match any particular outfit as matching shoes with my outfits is out of my realm of experience. In Ghana, I was friendly with and enjoyed the Popps, Suzanne and Ken. She had matching dresses, bags and shoes. One time they were chosen by Gibley’s Gin as models for a full page ad. They were sitting at a table clinking glasses. It was a great ad. They were both wonderful volunteers with decidedly different experiences.

Today I will wear my khaki pants and my pink shirt with sandals.

The day is already hot at 82°. I’ve turned on the air conditioner. Both dogs are now stretched out and sleeping. Neither one was out for too long earlier. Poor Nala doesn’t do well in the heat. She pants a lot.

When I was a kid, our house, a duplex, was close to the top of a huge hill and was on the corner of the street. It had a big, grassy lawn in front. There was a set of stairs from the street up to the pathway to the front door. I never rode my bike down that lawn but, instead, rode it down the smaller grassy hill next to the stairs then I’d glide to the big hill. Down that hill was the fastest ride. Up that hill was the slowest. About halfway up, I’d have to stop riding and start walking my bike. The hill was just a mite too steep.

In the winter, that hill was perfect for sledding. We’d walk to the top of the hill, run and then hit the sleds on our stomachs with our legs bent at the knee and the bottom of our legs in the air. Only little kids sat up on their sleds. We flew down that hill. At the bottom, we’d grab the rope at the front of the sled and trudge up the hill for another run. When our lips turned blue, it was time to go inside.

My mother aways made breakfast so we’d be fortified for school. She made oatmeal in winter, the sort you had to boil. It always had a few lumps, but if you added milk and tons of sugar, the lumps didn’t matter. She’d cook soft-boiled eggs. She’d make toast and cut the pieces into strips which fit through the tops of the eggs, perfect pieces for dipping. Sometimes we’d have cereal. We always added sugar to the cereal. I drank cocoa and my brother drank tea. My mother served the tea from a ceramic teapot. It always seemed a bit fancy. The cocoa was made in my cup with half boiling water and half milk. It had bubbles around the inside rim.

When I watch old TV shows like Leave It to Beaver or The Donna Reed Show, there is always a stack of white bread on the dinner table. I always wondered about that. Why squishy white bread? I’d understand rolls or slices of Italian bread but I just don’t get the white bread.