As feared, the Mister is taking this weekend personally:

What a weekend. First the Jayhawks blow an 11-point lead in the final five minutes, then the Bears get stopped by the weakest defense in the NFL. Next, I’ll probably get hit on the head by a falling safe with no money inside.

Please everyone: make an offering to whatever powers that be that March Madness is not a disaster as well.

***

Many thanks to all of you who answered my questionnaire. You’ve been a great help and given me considerable insight. I’ll let you know as the project progresses; and if I can conquer the “screw art” mentality, I’ll even post a photo of the final packaging.

***

I have Boeing feet. That is what the Seattle podiatrist calls plantar fasciitis because so many Boeing workers get it from standing on concrete all day. My plans to be a ballerina have been permanently shelved.

A hairdresser recommended reflexology; it sounded like woo-woo to me, but I would have tried planting a potato up my butt if someone said that would work. I called her reflexologist and the rest is history.

For any of you with chronic foot or hand pain — and if stretching exercises alone don’t help you — I highly recommend it. It is said to do wonders for migraine as well, but I don’t battle that particular beast, so I couldn’t tell you.

***

Presidents Day observation: I have always idolized my sister. As a very young child, the three years difference in our age gave her something of a goddess-like status. I believed everything she told me. Here’s an example:

One Washington’s Birthday, she observed that the Fathers of our country achieved such lofty status because they never slept.

“Why not?” asked gullible little sister.

“Because they had no eyelids.”

I believed this for more years than I am ready to admit. Of course, when it comes to this particular President, the absence of eyelids is the least of his problems. He must be missing two other body parts that keep him from being anatomically correct. It takes gonads to admit when you are wrong.

***

Happy trails, Barbaro: you were the stuff that dreams are made of.