We Can Only Speculate: It's Not Rocket Surgery

It's Not Rocket Surgery

Posted by Unknown On Tuesday, April 05, 2011

There’s so much that I don’t understand. So very much. For instance:

I don’t understand why it rained, hard, for about six hours yesterday; yet the cool wind never made it inside, past my screens and open doorway. Actually, I don’t even understand why it rained at all in April. It’s hot season. No rain until May, at the earliest. And this so-called mango rain was supposed to have occurred in March; yet there was no rain in March. I don’t understand. It’s like the cold-season that I was promised . . . don’t understand which hour of my PC service that occupied. Maybe I slept through it.

I don't understand why this man isn't a Follower of my blog. Do you understand that? Me, neither.

And, Becky, sorry if I'm the first to tell you . . . this is the new J.D. But you understand everything . . . so you already knew, right?

I don’t understand why sheep will eat hard soap. Other livestock, too . . . sometimes . . . evidently. This I was told by Dioana, who says she’d love to attend a liquid soap-making class but dare not abandon her hard-soap booth to a sheep. Why would a sheep eat soap? I don’t understand the words for foam at the mouth, but I like the image.

I don’t understand why I don’t have the authority to remove a Facebook photo that’s been posted on my wall by someone else, even if it’s clearly the worst photo ever taken. Especially because it’s the worst photo ever taken. I don’t understand why FB doesn’t have the destroy-all-evidence-that-this-photo-ever-existed button.

I don’t understand why the three sutures in my head required twine so thick that you could truss a turkey. And why can't I remove them myself? It's not brain surgery.

I don’t understand how to determine percentages. If the total project cost is $249 and the community is donating $101, what percentage is the community donating? I don’t understand how to determine that figure, though I’ve been told more than once. Let’s hope that my next site-mate is also a brilliant rocket scientist and mathematics instructor. Yeah, I really belong in Small Enterprise Development with my stellar math skills. Right.

I don’t understand how much warmer it must be before chicks hatch without the need for mother hens. In a closet at GaMoWigna, we have either eggs waiting to hatch, or baby chicks. The sign says Do Not Enter, and the cord running under the door is for a heater. But perhaps I've failed to understand Yaya's French and it’s not an incubator at all. In this heat? Perhaps it’s a rotisserie!

I don’t understand why my French isn’t improving at a faster pace . . . unless it’s the amount of time that I spend reading novels in English.

So, do Jake and Lady Brett ever live happily ever after? Is Ms. Kate Mayfield ever going sky-diving again? And is it possible to read Atonement without picturing, deliciously-so, James McAvoy? Isn't it pretty to think so? We can only speculate.