“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.”

For those of you wondering what the hell ever happened to our still-unfinished shower remodeling project, the answer is NOT A DAMN THING. I just sent an email to Clayton, leader of the grout people, to find out when Tim, leader of the glass people, will finally show up to replace the bottom of our shower door frame and stop the leak. It’s been almost THREE WEEKS since we last heard from either of these cretins so I’m thinking it’s high time to be as snotty as possible and rattle a few cages. In case you’re new around here and need some background information, read my May 30 post in the original Howdygram, pour yourself a Marcytini and click the links in the second paragraph.

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.” This quote by the late American sports columnist Red Smith pretty much sums up Marcy’s Favorite Therapeutic Pastime, although writing in the 21st century — especially if you’re writing a blog — means the whole world gets to know about your life, have opinions and judge you. Fortunately I don’t give a crap. I just WRITE. There are some days when I suspect I have the interior life of a flatworm, but I never give up. I write about my screw-ups and health challenges, about great and lousy movies, about life as a stay-at-home retiree who almost can’t walk any more, about Sam, about Texas, about eating things and buying things, about lunatics and about politics. (Lunatics and politics are basically interchangeable.) And every single day I’m amazed that so many of you come along for the ride.

Thank you. Send presents.