THE OLD CHEEZ WHIZ GRIND

I wasn’t surprised to see her. I was surprised at how glad I was to see her.
‘How was it?’
‘Great.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘We’ve only been back for two days but I can hardly remember it.’
‘I know. Same thing happens to us.’
‘Maine.’
‘Oh yeah. We have friends who went there.’
‘I know. That’s how we went. They told us about it.’
‘The Osterman’s?’
‘Yeah. We rented the same house they did. On the coast.’
‘They said it was cold.’
‘Really really cold. Really rocky. And rain. It rained for two weeks.’
‘Wow. I’m glad you’re back. It’s nice to see you. Becky looks great. How’s the baby?’
‘He’s great too.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Home with my mother. Oh, I forgot the sandwiches. Gotta go back. I’ll see you in the playground.’
‘Well I’m glad you’re back.’
‘Yeah. Back to the old Cheez Whiz grind.’

Sometimes I think life is not about getting somewhere, but is all about grinds. The toilet-training grind, the playground grind, the Cheez Whiz grind, the school grind, the daily grind, the golf grind, the tennis grind, the marriage grind, the money grind, the career grind, the greatness grind. Other times I think it’s all about bounding forward movement and rejoicing in your existence and exulting on a pinnacle of potency.

Right now I’m wondering what peaceful change in the playground means for the American far right.

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About judyjablow123

In my youth I was a world class tournament golfer. I earned an MA in history at NYU, after which I knew I had had enough of academia. I have remained a student of history. I have a strongly personal - almost entirely negative- take on the contemporary pharmaceutical and mental health industries. That was the impetus for my Bluepolar blog, which will also include stuff on sports, history and anything else that strikes my interest.
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