Our thirty-one-year-old clothes dryer died. It was a Kenmore. Rest in pieces, fella. We won't see the like ever again.

Something worth blogging about. I don't much care about telling everyday stuff, but I'll pass this on from my brother.

He says that if you don't like television and are in a non-private room in a hospital, your rights are not respected. He was in that situation at the VA. He doesn't watch television. He socializes.

I rarely watch television anymore, and I despise the din. I don't watch CNN, I don't watch Fox, I don't watch Oprah or morning shows, I've lost interest in HGTV, and a battle between young chefs doesn't hold me.

It ticks me off that Lyman's younger son sleeps on a couch beside the television in the front room rather than a bed with clean sheets.

That's it.

That Lucy. The little red hen sits about closed-mouth until everyone is out of the house and I'm in a back room, then she lets loose with the most interesting trills, clucks, honks and variety vocalizations, including words.

This week I'll begin trying to videotape her. She won't make it easy.

Ya know, if you're a woman who wants to be tattooed all up and down your arms and legs, you might think about buying print tops that don't clash with the tattoos.

Just sayin'.