Yesterday unraveled the way my cats unravel a ball of string — with enthusiasm, zero strategy, and a trail of chaos that somehow feels personal. I slipped out to the yard sales — a covert little treasure hunt — only to find that every driveway had transformed into a graveyard of forgotten objects. The old saying “my junk could be your junk” didn’t stand a chance. I’ve already got enough of my own junk auditioning for space in my house.
I did manage to mow the lawn, but the idea of digging through the shed to find the shears felt like an archaeological expedition I wasn’t emotionally prepared for. And the bush trimmer? The thought of plugging it in felt like too much commitment for a Saturday.
The real chaos started with the new router. I had this whole plan: install it, bask in the glow of improved Wi‑Fi, then hang new curtains like a domestic champion. Instead, the router decided to audition for the role of “Most Useless Piece of Technology.” The company swore their app would handle everything “effortlessly,” which was true only if “effortlessly” means “not at all.”
Meanwhile, Wifey was growing increasingly irritated because no internet meant no Roku, which meant no TV, which meant the household mood was deteriorating fast. After two hours of digital purgatory, I finally called the company. A technician swooped in — not through their precious app, but through an old‑fashioned browser window. She was fantastic. The app, however, remains a mystery wrapped in incompetence. Why direct customers to a tool that works about as well as a screen door on a submarine?
Anyway — back to the real heart of the day: another Peacock 45 arrived in the mail. Funny thing, I almost never stumble across the R&B Peacock 45s in the wild, and the spiritual Peacock 78s only surface once in a blue moon. I’ve got a battered copy of Big Mama Thornton’s Hound Dog on both 45 and 78, but I’ve never held an original Peacock sleeve in my hands.
I do have a few Sister Josephine James 45s, though. A little digging suggests she passed in 2019 — and she was the sister of Reverend Cleophus Robinson, whose voice I adore. Funny how a single record can open a door into a whole family’s history.
