Monday

Having disgracefully neglected my housewifely duties for the last three days, I spent four hours yesterday morning on the following: 

Stripped bed, washed sheets, put on again; did a bleach wash💥; seasoned and oven-roasted eight chicken thighs, using my favorite recipe (easy to do and I've never had chicken so tender 💥; oven-roasted a dozen apples, which I had, then seasoned with Splenda and cinnamon 💥; halved and sectioned off a gorgeous grapefruit 💥; prepared a big acorn squash and readied it for cooking later 💥. I was so virtuous! (And now I'll go back to my real self--ha! 😈.)  

Friends section: Suzanne texted me to ask if I wanted to go to Winco today. Yes, and I'll be at her door at 8:45. I called Lorraine to see if she wanted to meet in the middle and chat for a bit before I got ready to go to the Stone Fire Grille. No answer, though, and her message machine seems to be off.  Stella called to see if I could meet for dinner, as she was at her for-rent house in east Ventura. Told her I had plans, but we'll get together later in the week. Must call Noreen, too, to discuss whether to go to Comic Potential again on Friday or just meet for lunch. 

Vera picked me up for dinner at the Stone Fire Grille. There were ten of us and we had a good, congenial session. Home a bit before 8:00. 

Philosophical Note: I'm watching two documentaries about the Columbine shootings, which took place 25 years ago next month, on April 20, 1999. (I have, and have read, the book by the mother of one of the shooters.) Mass killings are so hard to understand. I can grasp revenge on an individual who has harmed you in some way, but those who just happen to be in the vicinity?  And what about those who agree to kill strangers on command?  We celebrate them as "heroes," but how does that differ? It's a knotty question that I've been puzzling over for years.