Petunia rambles on and on….

This is from Wikipedia:

Rhetorical question

A rhetorical question is a figure of speech in the form of a question that is asked in order to make a point and without the expectation of a reply.^[1] The question is used as a rhetorical device, posed for the sake of encouraging its listener to consider a message or viewpoint. Though these are technically questions, they do not always require a question mark.

For example, the question, “Can you do anything right?” is asked not to literally evaluate the abilities of the person being spoken to, but rather to insinuate that the person always fails.

My husband has a college degree from an Ivy League school, is well-spoken and is no dummy.

The above information should be known to him and understood by him.

When asked by me, “How long do you think it’ll take me to get my fat ass into this bathing suit?” he therefore should recognize that the words are forming a rhetorical question, and also quickly note that no answer is expected, required, needed or even safe to give. He should know that any attempts of humor will be looked on with disfavor.

He should know this, but apparently, sadly, does not.

It could only happen to me!  Who else has a “brassiere emergency” on their way out to have a few beers???  I mean, really!

The day started out fine. I was asleep. Then the damn alarm clock went off at 0520 and it started going downhill. Sunday is my normal day off, but several weeks ago, I agreed to work a 7-3p shift for a co-worker. No problem, Paul had to work anyway and it never hurts to help someone out – I never know when I’ll be the one needing a favor. So OK, I can deal with getting up at the ass-crack of dawn and trying to fake intelligence at 7am.

It was about 3 weeks later that I realized I had agreed to work on RACE SUNDAY !!!! I must have been out of my mind. I DO NOT go out on RACE SUNDAY! Only a fool would go out, and then try to get back in on Race Sunday. But I had already agreed to it.

So half way to work this morning, I notice that my thumb is bleeding!  What the hell??  Had no idea what I’d done. Washed it out at work and it looked like a knife cut ( I had cold cereal and coffee for breakfast. No knife needed there) or a nasty paper cut – and at 630am, I was not doing much paperwork. So I’ve got no idea how it happened.

And the location insures that I will rip it open 287 times every day for the next week or more. And every time I wash my hands, it’ll hurt and bust open again. And I’m left handed, so it’ll hurt every time I pick up a pen, and I’m on my way in to work, and hoping I don’t get blood all over my clothes. Day is sliding down hill already.

Not at work too long when I notice that something is poking me in the right boob. And it hurts. And I wiggle and move things around, and it’s worse. When I finally look, I realize that the fabric on the bra has split and the underwire is now an OUTwire and that’s the problem. And the damn thing is sharp!! So I try to push it back in and it won’t move. And I tried putting lots of tape over the end of it, hoping to keep it from stabbing me. Didn’t work well. Fell off. Made me madder. And then I’m starting to think that the sharp edge that’s stabbing me in the bosom may very well be the explanation for the cut finger. I probably was fiddling with it without even realizing I was doing it.

And this damn wire was annoying me all day. This picture is horrendously magnified. Damn thing was like a knife blade.

Back to Race Sunday. Husband and I both are working and getting off at 3pm, so we planned to go down to JP’s in Bowers for a few beers, dinner and a walk on the beach. And this damn brassiere was hurting so bad that I was ready to cancel except that I can’t go home because we can’t drive IN anywhere near the race track – after the race all lanes are OUTBOUND. So we can’t go home for hours, until the police open up the roads again. But I didn’t want to be annoyed and/or in pain most of the evening, either.

Rather than take 2 cars down to Bowers, I went to where Paul works and we took my car down, leaving his truck there. No sooner does he get the seat belt buckled when I announce that we’re going to Target because I have a Brassiere Emergency. Sadly Paul must be sufficiently used to my idiocy that he doesn’t bat an eyelash over this. I bought a new bra, ran into the ladies room for a “quick change” and was having a beer in Bowers in record time.

I found some pictures while searching through my hard drive for something else, and I can’t remember what I was looking for to start with. This is not unusual for me.

Gift I got for birthday/Mother’s Day from Number One Son. He knows I’m a camera freak; have more cameras than I need; always looking at more or at accessories or upgrades or places to take more pictures, and otherwise annoying folks nearby. This is what he chose for me. Thoughtful guy. I take the lens hood and cap off every morning – and pour my coffee into it.

Silly signs I saw in a shop on the boardwalk in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. Paul liked “Nuttier than a squirrel turd.”

An effort’s being made to re-seed the natural grasses at the beach, so the beach stays put. Big signs are in the sand that request folks “Keep off the grass” to give the little seedlings a chance to do what they are intended to do. Hope it works!

Did I post any pictures of the shit-ton of yarn that I bought at Maryland Sheep and Wool on 05 May?  Are these my colors or what???

Bugga!

Uh, more Bugga! How can you not buy Bugga!

Thanks, Gryphon. Great seeing you again!

One day a few weeks ago, we took the dog to Tidbury Creek Park, right here in Dover. I wandered off with a few cameras, and found this spot. Almost slid down into the mud and water.

Ok, I’m done now. I’m tired of looking through them. So are you.