I decided that it would probably be a good idea to hop on the scales this morning. I wasn't expecting any great result, in fact, I stepped up and shut my eyes in order to prepare for the worst. After all, I hadn't checked my weight since the last blizzard. I braced myself and looked down. Imagine my surprise at finding a 3 pound weight loss. How in the hell did that happen. You all may have noticed a certain lack of focus on my weight loss lately. Not many sticks of butter being tallied.
Once again, I've discovered something new in this my Goddamned Diet adventure. Somehow along the way...much without me even noticing it.....I seem to have adjusted to my new eating habits and made the change. I no longer try to work myself up to exercising, but actually enjoy the fact that I can take a nice long walk without feeling the need to wheel along an oxygen bottle. I no longer crave McDonalds double cheeseburgers or Funyuns. OK...so honestly, Funyuns I haven't been brave enough to try again. The memory of eating entire bags before bed are too fresh and the danger of relapse looms large.
Do I realize that this makes me an incredibly annoying commodity? Why yes I do. This is not what I would have wanted to hear 7 months ago. "Blah blah blah Oprah bullshit shut the fuck up and pass the chocolate cake" I can't tell you how much I hate testimonials. All of those slouching, miserable looking fat people who tell me how much better their life is since they discovered the grapefruit/ex-lax diet and lost 300 pounds. I can't surf past the channel fast enough. Somewhere along the line, I actually made a "lifestyle change" Didn't see that one coming.
What I did expect was that my life would all fall in to place once I had lost some weight. This is a typical fat girl idea. Yeah.........no. My life still sucks and I'm still broke and someone is still pooping in my shower and I still wake up most mornings feeling like the train pulled out and I somehow forgot to board. We have this idea that thinner people have cornered the market on happiness and if we can just fucking get there..........Sorry ladies. Oh how I wish it were true.
so here it is....35 pounds...that's 140 sticks of butter. I know I could have lost 180 pounds in 6 months on the banana/motor oil diet but I'm good...........really.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The Wind-floo-endways
My daughter has a theory that you can never really share your life with someone unless you can fart in front of them and know they'll love you anyway. Sharing love in this manner has never been an issue in my family. I remember as a child, my father accusing Mom of "stepping on a frog" It was not until I was much older that I realized that the amphibious population was not in immediate danger of extinction in Mom's general vicinity. I was ever watchful for the unfortunate frog that would cross her path. We loved her anyway
Mom thought "fart" was a terribly vulgar word, and she did so despise coarseness of all kinds. It offended her sensibilities."cutting the cheese" was out as guttural slang. She preferred "passing gas", or "breaking wind", or my personal favorite: "the wind-floo-endways". As she aged, she felt less and less embarrassment at any slight gaseous indiscretion, choosing instead to look up from her dinner plate with an expression of annoyed resignation and shrug her shoulders. That said it all...."sorry guys....can't help it" We loved her anyway.
This was not always the case. I remember one incident many years ago when Mother received the local pastor for coffee. My younger brother Ted and I regaled the pastor with riveting tales of Mom's frog stepping difficulties. After all.....these stories were well known and told countless times within the walls of our home. After our distinguished guest left, Mother, red-faced and blustering, bellowed "You will not discuss your mother's gaseous expulsions with the clergy!!!!" Ted and I were stunned that our ripping entertainment of the pastor was not well received by mom. We loved her anyway and she eventually came to love us again.
Mom and Dad rest peacefully now but our legacy of gas lives on. Hilary will smile sweetly at Justin and say "oops...I tooted", but will glare at him with disapproval when he pours himself an extra glass of milk at dinner. "you're lactose intolerant!!" and will insist that he remove himself to the lavatory to wind-floo his endways. She loves him anyway.
My sister Ann's daughter Ellen insists that her mother can actually make the floor vibrate. My brother Chuck would simply inexplicably wind down windows followed by everyone else in the car silently taking the hint and rolling down windows. I myself never have gas. It doesn't really count unless it scares the dogs....right?
I think the dogs love me anyway.
Mom thought "fart" was a terribly vulgar word, and she did so despise coarseness of all kinds. It offended her sensibilities."cutting the cheese" was out as guttural slang. She preferred "passing gas", or "breaking wind", or my personal favorite: "the wind-floo-endways". As she aged, she felt less and less embarrassment at any slight gaseous indiscretion, choosing instead to look up from her dinner plate with an expression of annoyed resignation and shrug her shoulders. That said it all...."sorry guys....can't help it" We loved her anyway.
This was not always the case. I remember one incident many years ago when Mother received the local pastor for coffee. My younger brother Ted and I regaled the pastor with riveting tales of Mom's frog stepping difficulties. After all.....these stories were well known and told countless times within the walls of our home. After our distinguished guest left, Mother, red-faced and blustering, bellowed "You will not discuss your mother's gaseous expulsions with the clergy!!!!" Ted and I were stunned that our ripping entertainment of the pastor was not well received by mom. We loved her anyway and she eventually came to love us again.
Mom and Dad rest peacefully now but our legacy of gas lives on. Hilary will smile sweetly at Justin and say "oops...I tooted", but will glare at him with disapproval when he pours himself an extra glass of milk at dinner. "you're lactose intolerant!!" and will insist that he remove himself to the lavatory to wind-floo his endways. She loves him anyway.
My sister Ann's daughter Ellen insists that her mother can actually make the floor vibrate. My brother Chuck would simply inexplicably wind down windows followed by everyone else in the car silently taking the hint and rolling down windows. I myself never have gas. It doesn't really count unless it scares the dogs....right?
I think the dogs love me anyway.
Monday, February 22, 2010
"Where's my pen?"
Aside from the intense physical exertion of moving tons and tons of truly unwelcome snow, I have been a little on the sluggish side here lately. My body tends to long for rest, which in and of itself is not that distressing, only I tend to start feeling this way at about 8:00a.m. I'm getting older folks. I forget shit and my mind tends to prefer following a groove. For those of you who are considerably younger than myself, let me fill you in. Keep in mind that whoever you are and wherever you are in the grand scheme of life, rest assured that you will join me in this mental potato soup soon enough.
Here's my example: "Hmmmmm.....new coffee pot...I wonder if we need to turn this on and leave it on.....do we have any half & half? I need to write that down so I can pick some up.....damn!...where's my pen? I need a pen....did I clock in yet? of yeah..here's a pen....what was I going to write down? Dammit." See co worker and ask about her weekend......Look for meds to medicate kitty...can't find them. I need to write myself a note....."Dammit!...wheres my fucking pen!"
Like I said. A groove. One thought tumbling in to another. The truly sad part is that while I'm navigating this synaptic jungle, I'm forgetting to do something perfectly routine like unlocking the front fucking doors!! What can I say aside from "yes....I'm an idiot, and soon you will be too" My father used to say that getting older is not for pussies. Truer words have never been spoken. I can tolerate the hot flashes and my ass falling to the ground and my boobs racing to catch up...or down as it were. But the forgetting and the zippadeedoodaa thought processes just plain suck wind.
OK....the upside. Lord knows, we must look for the positive. Thinking...thinking...thinking. There is the extra exercise I get searching for my coffee cup because I can never remember where I put it down. There is the increasing ability to accept people as they are because "God please....let them accept me as I am" We tend not to sweat the small stuff anymore because there is so much more real shit to sweat. Are we feeling better yet? no?? take a lorazepam and go to bed because.....".after all.....tomorrow is another day."
That's Scarlett O'hara's line from "Gone With The Wind" Love that book. I used to have that DVD. I wonder what ever happened to it. The book was so much better anyway. I wonder if that line is in the book. I've read it countless times....does she say that line in the book? I need to go check. The dogs are in right? is the door dead bolted? What the fuck did I just step in!? where's my carpet spot remover? What did I come downstairs for? Do I need a pen?
Be afraid....be very afraid.
Here's my example: "Hmmmmm.....new coffee pot...I wonder if we need to turn this on and leave it on.....do we have any half & half? I need to write that down so I can pick some up.....damn!...where's my pen? I need a pen....did I clock in yet? of yeah..here's a pen....what was I going to write down? Dammit." See co worker and ask about her weekend......Look for meds to medicate kitty...can't find them. I need to write myself a note....."Dammit!...wheres my fucking pen!"
Like I said. A groove. One thought tumbling in to another. The truly sad part is that while I'm navigating this synaptic jungle, I'm forgetting to do something perfectly routine like unlocking the front fucking doors!! What can I say aside from "yes....I'm an idiot, and soon you will be too" My father used to say that getting older is not for pussies. Truer words have never been spoken. I can tolerate the hot flashes and my ass falling to the ground and my boobs racing to catch up...or down as it were. But the forgetting and the zippadeedoodaa thought processes just plain suck wind.
OK....the upside. Lord knows, we must look for the positive. Thinking...thinking...thinking. There is the extra exercise I get searching for my coffee cup because I can never remember where I put it down. There is the increasing ability to accept people as they are because "God please....let them accept me as I am" We tend not to sweat the small stuff anymore because there is so much more real shit to sweat. Are we feeling better yet? no?? take a lorazepam and go to bed because.....".after all.....tomorrow is another day."
That's Scarlett O'hara's line from "Gone With The Wind" Love that book. I used to have that DVD. I wonder what ever happened to it. The book was so much better anyway. I wonder if that line is in the book. I've read it countless times....does she say that line in the book? I need to go check. The dogs are in right? is the door dead bolted? What the fuck did I just step in!? where's my carpet spot remover? What did I come downstairs for? Do I need a pen?
Be afraid....be very afraid.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Adventure at Hilary's House: Part Duh
So in our most recent "storm of the century" I again went to Hilary's house to ride out the storm. Our first big storm this year was a 15 incher which we all ooohh'd and aahhh'd over. We are hearty snow people here in the Northeast and we had a chirpy attitude about moving that first, light as air, snowfall. Then came the 22 incher, and a week later, the 25 incher. There is not a snow shovel to be had in the tri-state area, and you are likely to get knocked to the ground for an unwelcome "'enough snow for ya?!"
Storm of the century number three was a nightmare of heavy snow and gale force winds creating drifts that had to be seen to be believed. Hilary and the dogs and I settled in for a day or two of reading and muffin making. Little did we know at the time that a monster snow drift was being born on the road to my "empty aside from the cats" townhouse. I worried that I hadn't put enough food down for them, and I worried about my roof, and I worried about digging out...or in. I knew I had a big job ahead of me and was anxious to get at it.
On the morning of the third day, the wind had died down and the sky was bright blue, so I decided to leash up the dogs first thing and brave the walk home. If the drift hadn't been cleared yet....I'd just turn back. Keep in mind here, that I am the reigning queen of the ill-advised venture. I get to the drift and it's about 10 feet high. "There are foot prints in the snow.......well hell!! ...I can get over that" Visualizing a mound that goes up on one side and down on the other....sorta like Charlie Brown's pitchers mound....I headed up.
What I found upon reaching the top, was a 30 to 40 foot expanse of snow drift. A no-man's land of snow. Even knowing that where I go, weirdness follows, I made the "worthy of the ignoramus hall of fame" decision to head across the great divide. The first 10 feet were without incident. The dogs were loving it. Then I took a step and sunk in to my knees. So here's the thing about deep snow: There's nothing to push against to right yourself. Good to know.
I have time to contemplate my place in the universe standing there like that. My first plan was to flop over like a beached tuna and roll across the drift. My next thought was a run through of the call I'd have to make to 911. "Yeah....I'm stuck in the snow on Emmitsburg road" "just stay in your car ma'am...we'll get to you as soon as we can" "Yeah....no car....I'll be the top two thirds of a person waving her cell phone" The possibility for embarrassment of that magnitude inspired my next plan.
I called Nickolai from his frolicking and made him "down" next to me and pushed off him to get out of the snow. It was in this fashion that he and Willie and I crossed the drift. Two and a half years of obedience training saved my sorry ass that should have known better after 47 years on this planet. I get through my neighborhood utterly exhausted from the journey only to find a four foot drift in front of my door. I put the dogs in the half of my car not buried in snow and begin pushing...stomping...and flailing...a path through the drift. I unlock my door and collapse on my back in the entry.
As I'm laying there, attempting to catch my breath, I'm aware of a lack of sensation in my feet and a congregation of cats making yummy noises while walking on me. Yup....they are out of food. I get the dogs in the house and assess my feet. So here's the thing about Crocs.......not so helpful in snow. Good to know. Is it possible that I'm really that sooopid?........why yes it is. The thawing process was not one I'd like to experience again.
Will Hilary ever have me back again? Hard to say. There was the peeing on the curtains thing....and the throwing up on the bedroom floor thing........and the dogs misbehaved too.
Storm of the century number three was a nightmare of heavy snow and gale force winds creating drifts that had to be seen to be believed. Hilary and the dogs and I settled in for a day or two of reading and muffin making. Little did we know at the time that a monster snow drift was being born on the road to my "empty aside from the cats" townhouse. I worried that I hadn't put enough food down for them, and I worried about my roof, and I worried about digging out...or in. I knew I had a big job ahead of me and was anxious to get at it.
On the morning of the third day, the wind had died down and the sky was bright blue, so I decided to leash up the dogs first thing and brave the walk home. If the drift hadn't been cleared yet....I'd just turn back. Keep in mind here, that I am the reigning queen of the ill-advised venture. I get to the drift and it's about 10 feet high. "There are foot prints in the snow.......well hell!! ...I can get over that" Visualizing a mound that goes up on one side and down on the other....sorta like Charlie Brown's pitchers mound....I headed up.
What I found upon reaching the top, was a 30 to 40 foot expanse of snow drift. A no-man's land of snow. Even knowing that where I go, weirdness follows, I made the "worthy of the ignoramus hall of fame" decision to head across the great divide. The first 10 feet were without incident. The dogs were loving it. Then I took a step and sunk in to my knees. So here's the thing about deep snow: There's nothing to push against to right yourself. Good to know.
I have time to contemplate my place in the universe standing there like that. My first plan was to flop over like a beached tuna and roll across the drift. My next thought was a run through of the call I'd have to make to 911. "Yeah....I'm stuck in the snow on Emmitsburg road" "just stay in your car ma'am...we'll get to you as soon as we can" "Yeah....no car....I'll be the top two thirds of a person waving her cell phone" The possibility for embarrassment of that magnitude inspired my next plan.
I called Nickolai from his frolicking and made him "down" next to me and pushed off him to get out of the snow. It was in this fashion that he and Willie and I crossed the drift. Two and a half years of obedience training saved my sorry ass that should have known better after 47 years on this planet. I get through my neighborhood utterly exhausted from the journey only to find a four foot drift in front of my door. I put the dogs in the half of my car not buried in snow and begin pushing...stomping...and flailing...a path through the drift. I unlock my door and collapse on my back in the entry.
As I'm laying there, attempting to catch my breath, I'm aware of a lack of sensation in my feet and a congregation of cats making yummy noises while walking on me. Yup....they are out of food. I get the dogs in the house and assess my feet. So here's the thing about Crocs.......not so helpful in snow. Good to know. Is it possible that I'm really that sooopid?........why yes it is. The thawing process was not one I'd like to experience again.
Will Hilary ever have me back again? Hard to say. There was the peeing on the curtains thing....and the throwing up on the bedroom floor thing........and the dogs misbehaved too.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Adventure at Hilary's House
As a little change of pace during this, our most recent storm of the century, I decided to head off to Hilary's house. She was going to be alone.....I was going to be alone.......why not weather out the storm together? It seems like a good enough idea. The problem here is that we are both fairly independent ladies quite content in our own company. What that translates to for those of you unfamiliar with my vast capacity for bullshit is: she didn't want to freakin' come to my house, and I didn't want to go the hell to hers. Reason got the better of me once I watched the news with their forecasts of doom and decided it would just be safer if we were together.
Hilary's house with it's spare bedroom beat out my craphole with it's plasma screen-soon-to- declare-statehood, eight gazillion inch HD hoo haa. It just made better sense. I filled the kitty bowls and water dishes and loaded my freak dogs in to the car. I packed all of the necessities.....a book I never cracked....painting supplies like I was going to work.......various and sundry food items and drinks.......my sweatpants which are large enough to use as a temporary shelter in the event of a power outage.....and my snow shovel.
I did leave a few necessities at home,which somehow in the rush to get out the door while I was even still able to, seemed to be low priority. These included: my toothbrush, my cell phone charger, dog food, and clean underwear. So I'm not a great packer!....don't judge!......I don't get out much. So with a box full of useless stuff and my slightly panicked dogs, I arrived at Hilary's. She requested that I keep the dogs off her amazingly comfortable couches. Sorry Hil....It just wasn't gonna happen. The dogs hopped up with snowy paws and made themselves to home.
The guinea pigs had to be moved off behind closed doors because the dogs were squaring off to determine who got to eat them. Willow wanted to keep Nickolai from eating them first. She guarded them quite ferociously as her once and future kill. Hilary decided that neither dog was allowed to eat her Guinea pigs. Finny and Grady seemed to be in agreement. Nickolai opened the trash out in the yard and ate a petrified piece of ancient pizza. Both dogs pulled down her curtain covering the glass in her front door because Mom went outside without them. Hilary stepped in poop with her new snow boots, and Nickolai went up to the third floor and made sure that Vivian the cat was completely deprived of food.
We watched a movie and made hot chocolate and cooked dinners and shared her computer and laughed a lot. Hilary was a marvelous host and made sure I had everything that I needed in spite of my general lack of preparedness. She tolerated all the dog drama and damage. The biggest challenge I'm afraid, was putting up with her manic mother who insisted on shoveling during the heavy precipitation to free her car as if she could get anywhere. I needed to get my car free so I could get home and open my walk and at least one of my parking spaces and I needed it NOW!!!!!
It wasn't until I had accomplished this task that I could retreat to Hilary's house for one more night in peace. The plows were busy at work on the street and my poor car would not climb the slushy hill to my parking space. I backed out to the main road and went back to Hil's. We could finally just relax without watching the news people with their little yard sticks poking snow drifts and telling us to stay the hell home. We made a nice pot of turkey spaghetti with whole wheat pasta and settled in.
I'm back home now and have learned a very important lesson: If you are going to pack your shit and go...it's best to go somewhere where they have to love you anyway........and remember clean underwear.
The dogs are exhausted from all that mayhem making, and are now fast asleep with visions of guinea pigs dancing in their heads and I'm being walked on by every stinkin cat in the house who seemed to miss me while I was gone.
.......and someone fucking pooped in the shower.
Such is my life and no one Else's
Hilary's house with it's spare bedroom beat out my craphole with it's plasma screen-soon-to- declare-statehood, eight gazillion inch HD hoo haa. It just made better sense. I filled the kitty bowls and water dishes and loaded my freak dogs in to the car. I packed all of the necessities.....a book I never cracked....painting supplies like I was going to work.......various and sundry food items and drinks.......my sweatpants which are large enough to use as a temporary shelter in the event of a power outage.....and my snow shovel.
I did leave a few necessities at home,which somehow in the rush to get out the door while I was even still able to, seemed to be low priority. These included: my toothbrush, my cell phone charger, dog food, and clean underwear. So I'm not a great packer!....don't judge!......I don't get out much. So with a box full of useless stuff and my slightly panicked dogs, I arrived at Hilary's. She requested that I keep the dogs off her amazingly comfortable couches. Sorry Hil....It just wasn't gonna happen. The dogs hopped up with snowy paws and made themselves to home.
The guinea pigs had to be moved off behind closed doors because the dogs were squaring off to determine who got to eat them. Willow wanted to keep Nickolai from eating them first. She guarded them quite ferociously as her once and future kill. Hilary decided that neither dog was allowed to eat her Guinea pigs. Finny and Grady seemed to be in agreement. Nickolai opened the trash out in the yard and ate a petrified piece of ancient pizza. Both dogs pulled down her curtain covering the glass in her front door because Mom went outside without them. Hilary stepped in poop with her new snow boots, and Nickolai went up to the third floor and made sure that Vivian the cat was completely deprived of food.
We watched a movie and made hot chocolate and cooked dinners and shared her computer and laughed a lot. Hilary was a marvelous host and made sure I had everything that I needed in spite of my general lack of preparedness. She tolerated all the dog drama and damage. The biggest challenge I'm afraid, was putting up with her manic mother who insisted on shoveling during the heavy precipitation to free her car as if she could get anywhere. I needed to get my car free so I could get home and open my walk and at least one of my parking spaces and I needed it NOW!!!!!
It wasn't until I had accomplished this task that I could retreat to Hilary's house for one more night in peace. The plows were busy at work on the street and my poor car would not climb the slushy hill to my parking space. I backed out to the main road and went back to Hil's. We could finally just relax without watching the news people with their little yard sticks poking snow drifts and telling us to stay the hell home. We made a nice pot of turkey spaghetti with whole wheat pasta and settled in.
I'm back home now and have learned a very important lesson: If you are going to pack your shit and go...it's best to go somewhere where they have to love you anyway........and remember clean underwear.
The dogs are exhausted from all that mayhem making, and are now fast asleep with visions of guinea pigs dancing in their heads and I'm being walked on by every stinkin cat in the house who seemed to miss me while I was gone.
.......and someone fucking pooped in the shower.
Such is my life and no one Else's
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
A Disruptive Snow Event
Here we are, bracing for yet another "disruptive snow event" in this the winter of our discontent. I can't help but notice a little trend here. The weather forecast is for no snow to a dusting and we get 6 inches. Now they are calling for 1 to 4 feet for the weekend. What do you suppose the chances are that we'll get off easy with an inch or two? Yeah.....slim to none. It seems that they are only wrong in one direction. Gone are the good old days where they used to look like idiots for estimating large snowfall amounts only to be met with a dusting or less. People were pissed off because they stormed the grocery store and cleaned out every loaf of bread and roll of toilet paper available....for what?! I miss those days. Now they just look like idiots for trying so hard not to look like idiots.
Speaking of idiots, what is it about snowfall that makes people want to eat a shit-load of sandwiches and spend vast amounts of time in the bathroom? I just don't get it. If the power goes out, I think I can manage to survive without a loaf of wonder white. Honestly........if I have to lay in supplies, they might look more like chips and dip, any breakfast cereal with those little marshmallows, a nice hunk of smoked Gouda and a crusty loaf of sourdough. If by some truly unfortunate turn of events I were to run out of toilet paper, I'm sure a reasonably intelligent , middle-aged woman such as myself could manage to fucking improvise.
So here's what a day looks like when I am trapped like a rat in the house with my dogs who do not understand 12 inches of snow as a deterrent. Of course, I can't sleep in because as we all know, the sleep fairy is a sadistic bitch and only wants to come on workdays. It's 6:00 a.m. and it's snowing and I'm up. The dogs are jumping and piping at any movement that may signal a walk at the ponds. Nickolai will want to go out and just get snowed on. He will lay outside on the top step trying to look regal and authoritative as snow piles up on his ridiculous head.
All of the things I should do, I won't do. Instead, I'll find myself watching the great Texas barbecue cook off and wondering how long it's been since the guy with a smoker shaped like a six-shooter has had any intimate female companionship. I'll complain because every movie on is either an old western or one of the Matrix movies, and as we all know by now, something always goes wrong with the plasma screen when Keanu Reeves comes on, necessitating yet another foray in to remote control land which usually ends badly. I'll pick up a trashy romance novel but will put it down again because I find myself envisioning Mr barbecue six-shooter as the hero, ripping bodices in between dry rubs and indirect apple wood smoke. I'll sigh and look out the window to see how much snow has accumulated on Nickolai.
It's usually later in the afternoon, when the dogs have realized that we are not going walkies unless they want to harness up to the old sled and take me out, that I finally manage to sit at the easel and get some painting done that I can feel good about. By then it's time to engage phase one shoveling: The storm is half over and the dogs have taken their place in the window to watch the snow accumulate on my ridiculous head.
Welcome to my world
Speaking of idiots, what is it about snowfall that makes people want to eat a shit-load of sandwiches and spend vast amounts of time in the bathroom? I just don't get it. If the power goes out, I think I can manage to survive without a loaf of wonder white. Honestly........if I have to lay in supplies, they might look more like chips and dip, any breakfast cereal with those little marshmallows, a nice hunk of smoked Gouda and a crusty loaf of sourdough. If by some truly unfortunate turn of events I were to run out of toilet paper, I'm sure a reasonably intelligent , middle-aged woman such as myself could manage to fucking improvise.
So here's what a day looks like when I am trapped like a rat in the house with my dogs who do not understand 12 inches of snow as a deterrent. Of course, I can't sleep in because as we all know, the sleep fairy is a sadistic bitch and only wants to come on workdays. It's 6:00 a.m. and it's snowing and I'm up. The dogs are jumping and piping at any movement that may signal a walk at the ponds. Nickolai will want to go out and just get snowed on. He will lay outside on the top step trying to look regal and authoritative as snow piles up on his ridiculous head.
All of the things I should do, I won't do. Instead, I'll find myself watching the great Texas barbecue cook off and wondering how long it's been since the guy with a smoker shaped like a six-shooter has had any intimate female companionship. I'll complain because every movie on is either an old western or one of the Matrix movies, and as we all know by now, something always goes wrong with the plasma screen when Keanu Reeves comes on, necessitating yet another foray in to remote control land which usually ends badly. I'll pick up a trashy romance novel but will put it down again because I find myself envisioning Mr barbecue six-shooter as the hero, ripping bodices in between dry rubs and indirect apple wood smoke. I'll sigh and look out the window to see how much snow has accumulated on Nickolai.
It's usually later in the afternoon, when the dogs have realized that we are not going walkies unless they want to harness up to the old sled and take me out, that I finally manage to sit at the easel and get some painting done that I can feel good about. By then it's time to engage phase one shoveling: The storm is half over and the dogs have taken their place in the window to watch the snow accumulate on my ridiculous head.
Welcome to my world
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
