Suck. I have one at 7:30 tomorrow morning. A “retreat”. Yeah, a retreat. It means blather blather blather for four hours then go home and be ticked at the wasted morning.
It’s a job, though. It’s a job.
Night all.
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Keesie, who I think might be inhabited by gazelles, or some other jumpy animal over there across the sea; you know, like gnus or smchaleitsticks or ranging hoardwogs, has dared his readers to post like other bloggers, or himself.
Now, I’ve been remiss in visiting and commenting on my bloggy friends’ places lately due to MEETINGS. FuCking MEETINGS. ANd fatiGUE. BUBt, this I had to address.
SESpecially since he will be blogging me, Bane and Goldbloom in his own setting. Because he disagreed with us at some point and lived. Call me crazy but, sheet man, I don’t remember frightening him that badly. It may have been a bad day. Not that I ever have those. Now, the others, …
Kidding! Kidding! oh piffle and sniffle
So I will be doing:
Raaitlaaik Sweething.
Raiitlaaik Bane
Raaitlaaik Goldbloom
Raaitlaaik Froth
And I hope they will be doing WriteLike KeesKennis (that is if they can get Drunk/Dumb/Stupid/Smart enough)
Please call your post RAAITLAAIK (assholeorwhoeveah)
What scares me is that I almost understnad somEof thet.
So, I’m blogging herrrrrrre for the Kees whoo’s been interrupted by real life, so his Tuesday thingie may be delayed. I’m hopeiiing that he’s okay. Because this is just too much adventure.
(INsert photO of crackadole injgesting an HOOTERS Gril here) Gators agot your cracker!?
(Insert phot of serene sunrise over the SMCHooVanDERHeortengins Villey of Peace whereeeeeee the local et brined jackal eggs) You stateside couldt HANtle the tartiness!
(Insert hphotoshoppd thong on nyubile ass of waitreSS serving KEESK a warm shot of witterbuffalo spew) DOn’t tip, do ya? I think SO!!!
It’s a beginning. A genesis as it were. I feel the creative juices lapping about.
Oh shut up, they’re not fo ryou.
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Yesterday was the day that Merv became spherically challenged.
Early in the morning we drove to what I thought was the Humane Society place. It was the OLD Humane Society place. Luckily, I had allowed extra time because the old place was at the end of an almost-unpaved street, in the bowels of a step-up-from-the-slum area of lovely downtown Bumfuck. As I approached the dead end that was this atrocity I kept thinking “Gee, maybe this is why people buy guns.”
When I noticed the bright yellow peeling paint on and off the building, broken out windows, insulation flapping in the humid air and liquor bottles decorating the parking lot I thought “Hmm. Maybe I should have bought a gun.”
Yay for cell phones and for me keeping paperwork with telephone numbers on it. The new Humane Society place was over on the other side of Bumfuck, the newer safery looking side, mixed in with the public works department and close to the regional hospital. Just in case you need care while your pet is getting snipped.
We raced over there and were still early. I raced—Merv was pouting in his carrier, not mewing or purring or squeaking. He just looked morose and resigned and knew I was taking him somewhere bad, bitch that I am.
We were first in line, ahead of a perky little puppy and another perky littler puppy. The one sweet lady who initially helped us had one tooth on her top gums. One. It fascinated me, though not enough to disspell the irritation I felt when they told me the doc hadn’t phoned in yet. What? What? WHAT?!? I’m required to make this appointment two months in advance and the doctor may or may not show up?
“We’ll call you by 10 to let you know if the doctor shows, but leave Merv here just in case.”
So, I left Merv there, just in case, and drove back to work and felt quite nervous. It would be like Mr. Froth throwing me out the car door into the hospital, wishing me good luck and I hope you find a physician. Shit.
It’s all good. I called at 9:47 AM to see if maybe, perhaps, hopefully, someone had rounded up a vet. They had. Not the one who was supposed to be there, but another kind doc who offered to rearrange her schedule and get there by 2 PM.
What? What? WHAT?!?!?
“Don’t worry. You can call at 3:30 and he should be ready to go home at 4.”
I did not call at 3:30. I just went up there at 3:30 and do you know what? Merv was awake, de-bitted and loopy and drugged out like you wouldn’t believe. He had walleyes and his face was scrunched and bloaty looking like after a really bad night.
Since he was supposed to lie low and veg for a bit, after we got home I kept him in the carrier, but eventually placed him on the floor, opened the door and thought he’d maybe ooze out and crash. He bounded out of the carrier and LURVED the carpet. Just got all kinds of happy with the carpet. And then LURVED my hand, which progressed to clutching, scratching and biting my hand and performing a half-summersault, which bounced his body and bitless parts all around. That wasn’t good from what I could see. He was supposed to be calm in order to heal and like that. I sensed a certain targeted animosity expressing itself via little fuzzy paws, stoned as they were.
I guess the vet techs failed to show Merv the memo about feeling punky and weak after surgery and that you’re supposed to loll about and rest.
He was a holy terror all night. Just freaking flipped out. He ate two plates of food and attacked the usual complement of bugs. He kinda missed when he jumped to the counter and I winced at that. While I sat on the floor petting the Beebs, watching tv and trying to pet him, Merv punctured at least three of my veins and my right arm looks like a paper tree.
If you’ve never seen a paper tree it has bark that hangs off it in little shreds. Like paper. Or skin sliced by kitteh-claws.
The lackage of package hasn’t slowed him down.
Today he’s peachy. Just deflated, if you get my drift. Amazing. And I hope has forgotten the fact that I took him to the doc yesterday. I need my blood.
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Okay, so I, too, stole this from Bobgirrl, who stole it from Earl, and on and on,
but, since I normally don’t do memes or follow up on stuff like this, I thought I’d jump outside the pantry corner I’ve been wallowing in and take a shot. My bolding and underlining isn’t consistent and makes not sense. I don’t care.
I’ve scored myself as having read 51.25 of these books. I awarded myself .25 points if I actually had the book in my possession and .5 if I think I read it at some point or it annoyed me so badly that I felt I deserved the half point.
“Take the below list of books, bold the ones you’ve read, underline the ones you read for school, italicize the ones you started but didn’t finish. (If you read it for school, do you bold and underline? I’m not clear on this. I’m just going with underline.) This list is purportedly the top 106 books most often marked as “unread” by LibraryThing’s users. (I have no idea what LibraryThing is nor who its users are.) These are the books that sit on the shelf to make you look smart or well-rounded.”
I’m really bad about starting books and leaving them to moulder on a nightstand, but I figure if I even acknowledge that I know about them makes me really, really smart and stuff.
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Go send Deb some happy Ma’s day wishes and some comforting thoughts after her poking and prodding. If you want some propping up of your own failing energy, look at hers.
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As much as we’re “lucky,” and I use that word so loosely that it would splat on the concrete if it were a bungee cord swinging from a bridge… to have the volume of information available to us that we do, in order to make decisions that may impact our lives in some way, I wonder if the reasons for the decisions that we make, make any difference.
Obviously, I’m not talking about decisions affected by information like “Tornado heading YOUR way right now, YOUR street, #3708 Main Street, Everywhere, please go into an interior room”, which quite simply mean, please make all necessary physical adjustments or you, in all likelihood, based on current laws of physics, will be dead. I loves me my doppler radar and the weather channellers, even though they’re crazy climate change assholes from time to time, but still. Basic “you need to move or else” information is welcome. Or, whether we decide not to blow away our neighbors because they have a barking dog all night or that their kids throw beer bottles on your lawn, only because that is really not a public policy that is conducive to keeping the community healthy. I mean, those are basics. Plus, it’s wrong on a really moral local level. Which is the most affective
I’m talking about all the swirling septic tank of everything that we all get caught up in, from politics to celebrity idiocy to…Wait a minute. I will NOT give up Flavor Flav or Top Chef. Screw you.
Excuse me, I had a moment, there.
Specifically, I wonder if, back in the day, like back in the DAY, as in 1200’s until the present, if the general populace had access to the information that we do now if things would have been different. Voting wise. Electing peoples wise. Shoring up the kingdoms or dictators or feudal lords wise.
My theory is, No. Based on my ongoing personal thesis that there is no progress, only change. Of course that is also based on my belief that the human race has inherent flaws, also based on religious beliefs, that drive us as they’ve always driven us, along with our attempts to overcome those flaws, which account for the good things that happen from time to time. Not necessarily due to us, but still, we try.
So, if the serfs had up to the minute scrawls along their donkey carts do you really think they’d have done anything different? Maybe they’d insurrected faster, but the outcome would have been the same. The same snitches would have been paid off, the same courtiers would have been trouncing around in their push-up empire waist gowns ho’ing out the princes, the same whistle-blowers and government overthrowing operatives would have been manipulating the scene, only at a faster pace, with the same result.
Which leads me to my everpresent thought, in contrast to those who believe voters should be “qualified” in order to cast a vote, or that particular groups’ reasons for voting for whomever is of less import, (mind you, not that I agree with particular voters’ reasons for voting, but that’s why we live where we live, and he who prevails prevails), or should be abolished, that whoever wins an election…just wins.
There are equal numbers of intelligent, informed, rational people who vote on either side of our elections, removed from the crazinesses of a Wright or Ayres or Hagee or alltheClintonstuff, that make the information avalance a wash.
Smart people vote on both sides of the aisle. Stupid crazy people vote on both sides of the aisle. Now, we can just arrive at our decision faster, armed with the machinations, wafflings, hyperboles, titillation and scurrilousness that take minutes rather than decades or centuries. And the results are going to be the same regardless. Absolutely regardless.
True and scary. But, we’re all scary.
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We all know about Proust’s remembrance of things past. Sure we do. We all SAY we do. Some of us have read at least two pages of the tomeosity that is Proust. Before we fell asleep or went out for beers or bashed our heads against the wall thinking “What the hell? This guy not only is on drugs/needs drugs/ but doesn’t write like anyone on or needing drugs.”
In other words, his writing is death on the waking brain.
But, his image or meme, as it were, lives on. The madeleine. That which evokes childhood memories via a simple taste or smell or poke in the ribs. A friend brought me some madeleines back from Paris last year when she visited. I’ve been in the past and never bothered to search them out. But, I was thrilled to receive the tin of Fauchon madeleines.
Oooh! Mais oui! Les madeleines d’histoire! Oh boy. I get to taste one.
They resemble poorly made Twinkies, drily spongy and just really disappointing. They pretty much are crap. But the tin’s cute, so it sits on my counter along with the seventeen drying avocado pits and sprouting garlic heads. That’s sorta French.
Which brings me to my Proustian moments of late. Today’s Thursday, so last Fridayish as I vroomed up the Jeep to go to work I smelled a “smell.” Not off-putting at the time, just a little taint from the usual clean Jeep smell we usually have. Even if I let crud accumulate, like wrappers or umbrellas or receipts, I’ve been pretty good about removing stuff when I get home. Except for the napkin that had the dried out croissanwich bun bits in the money receptacle. But that wasn’t grody and moldy, so it doesn’t count.
The next few days the smell billowed slowly in its rancidity due to the car sitting overnight or in the parking lot in the sun. Once the AC cranked up the nose assault went away.
Tuesday, two days ago the putridity was so bad, as I buckled myself in and turned the key to drive to work, I was transported to days of yore when the children were toddlers and we routinely dropped and discovered either yoghurt cups or half cows on a stick under the seats, only to pull them out when they’d effervesced to Blobbian measurements, interfering with axles and brakepads and such.
It was a memory that almost brought me to my knees in its simplicity and power–dead food can kill you remotely if you let it go too long. Sunblock and juiceboxes will NOT cover the universal smell of decaying dairy. The cherubic faces of your babies can only mask the pain so long. Nasalcort is useless.
But, then. Then.
Today. The smell was gone. Completely gone. And I didn’t even remove anything, not that I could find anything under the seats, but, well, still.
I’ve concluded that whatever had entered its bad place on the floor in the Jeep has now joined its brethren in the rotted items’ Dave & Buster’s in the sky, to annoy those people who end up at Dave & Buster’s rotted items restaurant. Because Dave & Buster’s is putrid itself.
It’s all good. The stinky stuff is gone; my memories are intact and Proust still is overrated and unread by 97% of French majors everywhere.
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Of course we have been crosswording again today. Doh or Duh, one of which was an answer, appropriately describes us.
Earlier we packed up the trusty backpack with corned beef sandwiches and water, and the Texas tracking book, camera and gum. We figure that’s all we need in case we encounter nature. The phone call that had awakened me earlier was from a neighbor trying to find the same preserve we went to (the one we visited a couple of weeks ago and heard the mountain lion) and she and her hub were lost. As lost as you can be around here. All they needed was to turn around and go SOUTH instead of NORTH and then they would find the location.
We let a reasonable amount of time pass before we headed out, because, seriously, walking around with other doofuses wasn’t on our agenda. Once we arrived we traipsed our way through Creekside. This time we went off the official trail, that is still in development, ooh ooh, don’t tell anyone, and wandered around for a good hour and a half. It’s quite serene and foresty and we didn’t hear any more big cats. We did see many feral hog wallowings and tracks, along with a Nike or New Balance or two.
The creek, while murky and just probably crawling with untouchable items, is lovely, and we got closer this time, appreciating the sunlight play and sharper images.
Oh was that so artisticky sounding. Whatever. The last time it was cloudy and it does make a difference when the sun shines.
We confirmed that we saw a yellow crowned night heron and a broad banded water snake from up above on the banks. The snake was swimming determinedly towards something. I heard stuff rustle a while in the bushes next to us and of course had little eerie feelings as we walked. But I’m stupid like that. For some reason walking back across the same areas doesn’t bother me. I truly would not want to be in the preserve at night, and it’s closed of course, because what would one do if one saw a group of feral hogs? It’s like defensive driving. Which one of those straight up 30 foot tall trees with no reachable branches could I climb?
The trail system, when complete, will be marvelous. It goes here and there and I think next week we’re going to try to follow it all the way (if I can get the plans from people I know). We did meet a couple with their pup, who live in the same village as us, who know people in another village who have seen a mountain lion skirting about. Booyah! They also told us about the relocated hundreds of egrets who have decided to nest in a residential area, consuming all surfaces with bird poop. Is this cool or what?
So, the d’oh or duh.
We reclined, as much as we could, on our sprung patio chairs. Pencil at hand (we’ve given up on pens, it’s just too hubris-y) we proceeded to work on the puzzle. The sun was just licking at the right side of the table, mildly warm and comforting. I chopped up some boulder bread and brought out the olive oil/parmesan dip, a glass of wine and put my feet up.
After a word or two, or seven or fifteen, I moved my chair around to the 6 o’clock position on the table and Mr. Froth moved to the 10 o’clock position, because it was getting toasty toasty toasty.
After another twenty or thirty words, some of which were totally misclued by Mr. Froth thank you very much, I moved my ass to the left again. At which point I said:
“Hey. How’s about we put the umbrella up?”
Mr. Froth:”I’d forgotten we had that.”
We guffawed and snorted because we are so fricking clueless that we would have ended up sitting in the bushes avoiding the sun as we worked our puzzle.
Let’s move over a little bit more. Just a little bit more.
Crash.
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Not for the amateur. After a Saturday of walking around another preserve we did our usual crossword puzzle, watched tv, ate dinner, I fell asleep on the couch and went to bed.
This morning I arose at 7 AM, fed the animules, got the paper, turned off the sprinkler. WHAT?!? I turned off the sprinkler. That had been running all night. Why yes. Yes. You ask, why? Are you so environmentally unconscious and irreverent that you would do that?
Apparently so. I had no idea the dang thing was on, so I was immensely surprised to have to go turn it off. It was one of those details we failed to cross reference before falling asleep last night. The koi who have taken up residence on the left side are very appreciative.
After that I went back to sleep, which was just after Mr. Froth awoke, running frantically out to the kitchen asking if I’d turned the sprinkler off. Why yes. Yes, I did. An hour ago. You’re welcome.
The phone rang about 10:30 jacking me out of a most amazing dream.
Somewhere in the dream I was writing theses or reports or articles or posts that were very serious and right. Soothing almost. You know how dreams are-you can visualize what you were doing but trying to wrangle it into something resembling reality is rough at best. The report writing was on the sideline.
Three friends of mine, some who I haven’t seen in a major while, but who regularly inhabit some message boards I’m on and one who I saw fairly recently, had driven to the home of my pastor and his wife. I say my pastor only because his is the church that I most recently attended. More than a year ago. A variety of reasons has stopped me from going to church that I shan’t discourse upon here, but I do remember that in the dream I was a bit wary since I hadn’t been around and there were church folks hanging about. There was also an inside pool and a big screen tv showing the pastor’s daughter’s NCL presentation.
One of the friends had brought her baby-not her real-life baby, just a baby, (Hi Ducks!) and was having to flit about caring for the baby. She went upstairs.
Then, I was down the block in some room with another friend (Hi Pea!) and we were discussing newspaper reports about UFO’s. She mentioned that she had seen things that would make your hair stand up on end and in my dream my hair stood up. I replied that I thought who knows what those lights are hovering about that place in the newspaper. They could be lights, but they could be anything. And then she proceeded to tell me that when she was a child she’d had a ouija board and was trying to clean off a game piece that was in the shape of Jesus. It had gotten smudged or something, when the gorilla piece that also came with the game moved its arm around threatening her.
Well, hello. We moved to the next room where her personal assistant, a Cuban guy who had a pony tail and wore this really cool pink duster, was advising me about her stomach problems. We had been making chili and Pea had put the goop in a too-big pan, so I was scraping and stirring and poured it into a smaller pan wherein it turned into a clear broth. It also spilled a bit and I think this is where I may have been needing to wake up to go pee or something. Don’t worry-I never pee the bed. That’s a good thing since there was a lot of chili in my dream.
Cuban guy said if Pea just ate better her stomach would be okay. I remember thinking, “Eh, whatever.”
Then, we proceeded back outside to reenter my friend’s house, which happened to be a dressshop with some cool purple draped duds in the window. But, before we could reach it, or I could reach it, I turned around and there was one mf*ing tornado on the horizon, which immediately spawned five more.
I’m thinking “Must go warn peeps!” And then some guys parachuted out of the sky to come help everybody with the tornado stuff. They didn’t even have helmets on.
So, I get back to the house and explain that I need to leave because it’s 5:30 (there was a clock in my dream) and it’s a four-hour drive back to Oklahoma City. Oh. There were kittens in the house, too.
Ducks didn’t want to leave yet and the others were sort of waffling. Another friend of mine with whom I used to work said, “This is just like when K*** had to tell them “Get your own office and a car if you don’t want to leave. I’m going.” K*** hasn’t worked in our office in years. At that point the phone rang and I woke up.
And one wonders why one is pooped in the morning. I didn’t even get a start on the trip.
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Dish, dudes and dudettes. What do you really think? Are your nuts uniformly and pleasantly rounded? Are they richly hued–golden brown blending into cream? Do they crisply snap as you try to gently urge their inner goodness into your trembling fingers?
Well, fab for you. Looks and touch aren’t everything, folks.
Mr. Froth brought home a bag of peanuts from his journeys to and from Houston/San Antonio/Austin. What a marvelous souvenir. Truly breathtaking in its grandeur. And the bag looked so good, glistening as it teased one with its contents hidden by cellophane. The nuts were plump and colorful and enticing.
Then, I cracked one open. First of all, the shell wasn’t salted, which ruins the whole experience. Sucking on the shell before chomping on the nuts is the best part. These were totally unsalted.
But that’s okay–perhaps the kernels themselves contained depths of nutty deliciousness unsurpassed in the annals of nuthood. Wonder how that would come up on a blog word search.
No. They did not contain depths of nutty deliciousness. They were big dry ovals of blah. Particle board peanuts. Lovely large juicy looking blobs of construction material.
Therefore, I ate not.
Beware false nuts.
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