I hate the word trousers. I don’t really know why, I just do. I also hate the word slacks because it makes me think of those blue old person things- stain hiding, 50% polyester 40% denture cream and 10% scotch mints. I say pants. For those of you in the UK I understand how this can be confusing as pants across the pond refers most often to underwear. This kind of baffles me because pants in reference to underwear gives me the visual of endless beige faux satin material that can be stretched all the way up to ones ribcage. What would you call a sexy frilly pair with just enough cloth to keep themselves together? Surely they can’t also be pants?
**sigh**
This is the shit that runs through my head. No wonder I’m exhausted.
The WHO called it this morning. Swine flu H1N1 is officially a pandemic and considered to be “unstoppable“. Owners of hardware stores can expect a run on duct tape, bottle water and flashlights. Oh, and those little paper face masks that Michael Jackson is so partial to (though I’m sure his are lined with diamonds or the sweat of prepubescent boys.)
When shit hits the fan and we all start wishing we had bomb shelters in our backyards, why do people always buy duct tape? I mean, I know the stuff is handy as hell but if you’re facing a Stephen King The Stand-esque end of the world, would duct tape be that which you covet? Weird.
Anyway- I would elaborate on this disturbing little pandemic but I must begin construction on the underground world that I intend to rule while the rest of humanity deals with all of this crap above. Good luck all, see you in the dunes.
For those of you that do not remember my sad gardening attempts of last year, you can laugh at me here. The toxic pit of doom that is the garden foiled all of my desires for vine ripened tomatoes and grilled young jalapenos, and though I certainly don’t profess to be in possession of any type of green thumb prowess, I was pissed off! Seriously, plant it and it will grow, right?
This year I have gotten wise. I planted a bevy of wild flowers in the area better known as Chernobyl and this is my garden……..
Granted, I won’t be feeding any third world nations with my endless bounty but I shall have my goddamn vine ripened tomatoes and jalapenos!
Fuck you Chernobyl.
I live in crazytown. It’s just a short hopskipjump from fucktard lane and I am happy here. This is a place that I can relax in and just be myself. It is a place that is ok with the fact that I spent this last weekend taking down every single one of the dozens of framed things on my walls and windexing their glass. It is ok with the fact that I dusted every single one of the hundreds of books that I own and staked them in a huge pile in the living room. Crazytown is also alright in the knowledge that I washed and piled up a multitude of knick-knacks and vases and jars and travel mementos. In crazytown, it’s perfectly acceptable that I have done these things that have left my apartment with a distinctly abandoned feel.
In crazytown, no one mentions that the move is still almost 2 months away.
I had the surgery on Monday and all was well until Friday when my face swelled up like a creepy grown up version of a cabbage patch doll. By Saturday, I had reached full fledged circus freak status. As of this morning (Tuesday) my face is pretty much back to it’s normal size but I am still dealing with the flavor in my mouth. Part infection, part medication and all disgusting.
My mouth tastes like Parmesan cheese and death.
The other day as Steve and I were walking I started lamenting the fact that the surgery was 6 whole fucking days ago so;
“Why the hell aren’t I back to normal?”
He looked at me and said “You expected to be 100% by now?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I did. This is ridiculous.”
“Babe, I think you have unrealistic expectations.”
Oddly enough, this isn’t the first time I’ve heard that said of me.
Tis the season around my hood when all of the baby birds are leaving their nests. Not quite able to fly, they hop around the grass while their frantic parents SCREECH continually from the trees above. Some are eaten by cats, but most make it up into the branches eventually.
This is my dogs second favorite time of year (the first being when the fruit trees are surrounded by their fallen rotten bounty which she attacks as though I’ve never once fed her. ) When she sees one of the babies - and these are crows and magpies, so we’re not talking wee little frail things- she runs up to them wagging like a psycho and wanting desperately to play and they of course run for their fucking lives because a freakishly happy yeti is attacking them. Maggi is truly baffled by their response, and even more so by the parent birds trying to dive bomb their beaks through her canine skull. This is all because when Maggi was a puppy, we had Warren.
A mouthful of Warren
Warren was a weird bird, refused to stay in his cage and followed Maggi around the apartment like a little yellow hopping shadow. Maggi would approach him, open her mouth and place it over Warren’s head. They would stand there, bird’s head in dog’s mouth for quite some time. I’m not sure if Warren was picking her teeth or what the hell was going on, but they both seemed to enjoy it. Because of Warren, Maggi (who hates almost everyone and everything) assumes that birds are her buddies and she seems quite put out that these young ones won’t play with her or voluntarily stick their little heads in her mouth.
One day, a small timid black farm cat that was destined to be eaten by coyotes was given to me- Enter Naysa the cat. When she arrived, I showed her the litter box and then took Maggi for a walk so she could gingerly sniff around without Maggi obnoxiously trying to figure out what the hell she was and I would figure out where to safely relocate Warren’s already high and out of the way cage when we returned from our stroll. We were only gone 15 minutes but I’m guessing that Warren was dead before we hit the sidewalk.
Maggi mourns him every year when the babies fall from their nests, and Naysa just sits there purring.