Mr. Froth's Wild Rides

You are never too old to learn some new blackmailable detail about your spouse .Luckily, statues of limitations for scorching ridicule expire every 10 years or so, depending on the leverage value of the story. Especially when self deprecation is the motif to begin with.

When Mr. Froth was an assistant manager at Burger Chef (something he reiterates daily when I try to cook something like French fries or onion rings-reinforcing my sous-chef position as opposed to his ASSISTANT CHEFFINESS Burger Chef status), he would be the closer of the restaurant on weekends.  The restaurant had an off-duty cop stationed there regularly to regulate the massive hordes of out of control teenagers craving Burger Chef goodness, I guess. They were buds.

After Mr. Froth would persuade Booger, a slightly mentally disabled regular to score him some Stite Beer, he’d stash it in the ice machine. The same machine from which he’d fill customers’ soda cups. No. Really. He did.

Well, hell, this was before ebola. Whatever.

He and Bob, the cop, would, after closing, hop into Mr. Froth’s 57 Corvette and cruise. Before cruising they’d empty the remaining ice into the fiberglass convertible top and pop that magnificent aged six pack into it.

Then—they would RRRIDE!

Mr. Froth in his white Assistant Manager pants and white Assistant Manager jacket with his name and the prominent Burger Chef patch on the pocket, reminiscent of a straitjacket and very, very snappy. A studmuffin released from the local institution. Bob in his off duty cop uniform and cop hat. Very snappy, too.

They’d purr up and down Classen—pulling over chickies after Bob would don his hat and shout, “Pull over!”

“So, ya wanna beer?”

Mr. Straitjacket was not a deal closer at the time. Hmmm. There are men in uniform and, well, men in Assistant Manager at Burger Chef uniforms. With their names on their pockets emitting fryolator smells.

A year  later Mr. Froth, while home on freshman break from OU, pulled up behind Bob the cop, who was sitting in his squad car giving a ticket, to say hey and Bob asked him how he was doing.

“How you doin’?”

“I’m home on spring break. How YOU doin’?”

“Break? Break?!? How the fuck old are you?!?”

“Um, 18? I’m a freshman at OU?”

“I thought you were 21 last year?!"  The radio crackled and he yelled, "What the…here, strap this helmet on  and the seatbelt!”

And Bob and Mr. Froth took off on a high speed chase at 4 g’s to some accident or other, with Bob reflecting on his fortunately undiscovered contribution to the delinquency of a minor.

“YOAWWWAWOOWWWHHHH!”

This could not happen today, you realize.

Schizophrenia r us

Yesterday it was 80 degrees. And perfect for sitting out on the deck, crosswordpuzzling, sipping some wine and checking for eggs on the floor that hadn't been eaten by Dot.

Right now, it's 60, perfect for wearing my fuzzy Sam's jacket so that my goosepimples don't become smorgasbords for the mosquitoes that seem content with the flipflopping weather.

This is wrong.

Ah. But, it's a full moon tomorrow which explains it all, along with the massive stupid and dumb that is swirling about us in the current election mode that we are in.

New shoes would remedy this.

Egg with hair

Continuing with the egg theme...
Today I got my pic taken for our "badges."  We need "badges" on lanyards because that way everybody with whom we work will recognize us. Of course, most of us already know with whom we work, but, hey, minor point. It's not like we work in a nuclear plant or are preparing for a high tech IPO, just your regular quasi-governmental entity.

The thing is, I've come full circle. Back in junior high my school picture resembled  an egg with hair.Very blonde hair, but still, eggish, with hair. If it were on Facebook today one might ponder "Hmmm. Poor thing. She'll grow into that there hair thingie there..."

So today I get my picture taken for the badge and it is like any mug shot or driver's license photo or passport abomination. The only saving grace is that I wore red which made it, well, perkier. Yes. Perky egg with hair. Genuinely reblonded hair, of course.

Full Puppy Mode

Oh boy.Mr.Froth bought a couple of dozen eggs that we boiled up, some for spinach salad tonight, some for breakfasts. He had put them back into the carton on the counter. Not BACK on the counter, just on the counter.

Silly man.

We love Dot. Dot is a pip. But, she is a Lab in full counter-swiping mode and after we'd worked on a crossword puzzle for awhile I went in to do something. And I noticed three eggs rolling about on the floor. Three out of ten. But of course. Dot had scarfed up seven hardboiled eggs for her aperitif. In my calm, eversoothing voice I screamed "WTF?" "Why were they on the counter?" "WTF?"

We salvaged the three. I mean, a little tooth mark here and there and some slobber shan't deter us from spinach salad.

What we're concerned about are the egg farts later tonight. In our bed. If you never hear from us again it's because they haven't developed a monitor strong enough to alarm us about hovering egg fart gas and thus propel us out of bed into clean air. Like near the cat box.

Salt

In honor of this I'm taking my fancy schmancy salt shaker, the one with the metal bottom and push top that you have to jam down to get the salt to come out, and positioning it over my open mouth and punching it til it breaks.

Salt cascade!

I am planter, hear me roar

Zzzzzzz. Zzzzzzz.What!

Oh, yes, I planted boring portulacas and petunias and vincas today. Merv helped.These plants are the yeomen of the plant world.As your yard morphs during twenty years of sun/shade/sun/shade/roots/hurricane/drought/freeze you realize that what you really want is something that survives with benign neglect. Remember that?

I had forgotten the import of that, especially since Moynahan suggested it. Whateve.

Be that as it may or may not, it works with flora. If you live somewhere that has drastic shifts in climate or weather, like East Anglia!!!, you need crap that lives with minimal attention.

Thus, the regulars like the above. And the ever hardy split leaf philodendrons that began as houseplants, grew to 15 feet, got frozen even after shooting up their lovely phallic blooms, and are now resoundingly coming back.

Butch up plants. Loving the butch up plants.

Can TOO blog on weekends

Crazy-ass woman was talking about her dreams last night on a day that she's not supposed to blog on. So, I shall also talk about my odd dream that I had last night, except it will only be a partial dream because some of the things in it don't have words to describe them.

I, too, have tried to describe some of my dreams to Mr. Froth, but stick to the ones that wake me up laughing now since his eyes start darting to and fro in growing fear that he's been stuck with a maniac all these years.

Last night's dream revealed the secret of quantum mechanics or string theory or 42 or something to me because it involved me standing in a pool of semi-frozen gray water that served as a wishing well. However, it didn't involve throwing pennies in or anything, since it was semi-frozen, but you had to stick nails into the ice around the edges. Which was very satisfying, since as you enlarged the ring of stuck-in nails you could feel the softish ice squeak a little. You know how ice squeaks?

Well, the thing is, I was at one end of the pool, in the pool, yet it was still frozen. I was experiencing all states of matter-liquid, solid and probably gas from dinner last night. I was in the frozen pool sticking nails in while it was frozen. DO YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN?

Then I tried to get out of the pool and couldn't pull myself onto the ledge because I have no upper body strength.

That is probably evidence of severe mental disturbance.

Heaven, I'm in heaven sorta kinda

Here is a poor picture of the star jasmine that clings to a trellis Mr. Froth put up maybe 17 years ago. The plant has trailed up an invasive tree that we should have removed, but since it is covered with star jasmine, well, not so much.

It is just starting to send its aromatic loveliness down the deck.  In a week or so you can go shove your whole body into it and just be happy. Disregard the light cable that Dot has chewed and the pollen-covered spa cover. The jasmine is also all over the ground. Jasmine rocks.

Comments from the Editor

In re the previous post: "jest" was misspelled and the addition of "at night" after 8 p.m. was extry additional redundant.

Oops. I did it again.

A la recherche du temps perdu

Them pesky Proustian madeleines. Of course, that’s all I remember from Proust since as how I fell fast asleep after reading two chapters of Remembrance of Things Past after eating pizza. What a total snoozefest. Great literachuah’s reputation seems to be a self-propelling prophecy fueled by some freaked out introvert in a school tucked far far away in a woods surrounded by sociopathy.

Like that.

But, what prompted all that is that I was reclining in bed, with Dot snoring on my legs, thinking about preparing for the 40^th high school reunion I’m going to. Not preparing, just thinking about preparing. Which led me to the next portion of the maze that included getting representative pictures from parts of my past to show my progression from unformed high schooler to malformed adult. Which led me to realize that all of our pictures are contained in bags in boxes unframed, yet sort of organized. You’ve got your kids pics. You’ve got your kids and you pics. You’ve got your pre-kids pics and you’ve got your miscellaneous pics. No pics from actual high school, since I have no idea what happened with those.

Which led me to reminisce about the fact that Mr. Froth worked for a GIANT photographic sort of huge company for almost twenty five years before the division for whom he worked tanked, and we have hundreds of pictures UNFRAMED. Or non-cd’ed. Or non scanned. It’s a crime.

I was busy during those years. Busy not making scrapbooks and not framing pictures.

Anyway, which led me to remember one totally other wordly recognition trip we took,  for which I have some really cool pics, back in the time before corporations weren’t totally evil and the people who actually generated revenue were rewarded with an atta-boy or two.

Like a trip to the Winter Olympics in 1992. In Albertville.

No shit. They tricked us all out before hand with ski outfits plastered with logos, since it’s colder than hell’s intestines during winter events, and frozen company representatives would be a bad PR situation all around.

We got to see opening ceremonies that preceded Cirque du Soleil in their warpiness.

But, the main point is—rat on a rope and laughter.

We flew the Europe flight, the usual 900 hour marathon, to Geneva, and were actually able to stand on two feet, converse and not pass out upon arrival. We met our group and proceeded to laugh and snort and hoot and holler and hug and be generally jetlagged.

Our hotel was in Talloire, a few miles from Albertville, in the Savoie region , near Lac d’Annecy and many IOC folks were staying at a local abbey. This is a lovely medieval French town. There is no way you can go wrong with any of this. I don’t care if you don’t like the French. France has architecture, scenery, food, style, art and general joie de vivre down perfectly. Those are good reasons to protect them from nuclear war.

We arrived at the hotel and became immersed in the next week’s rituals-bottle of water in one hand, glass of wine in another, unless you’re out in the snow and you up the wine to keep your blood from coagulating.

Surely I gest.

The first night’s festivities included a prix fixe meal of succulent foodstuffs, great galumphing sales peoples’ stories, laughing that puffed out everybody’s eyes for days and the dessert course.

Which course offered flown in fruit and locally made cheeses and sausages. I love cheese and sausage. These were frighteningly unidentifiable French local cheeses and sausages. That melted in your mouth.

Give me more, mister.

The wrapping of them, eh. Not so much. One of the sausages, which became a door prize later in the week because we so rudely called it “rat on a rope,” was a hard, salty genoa like sausage that tasted like heaven. Except it looked like someone had strung a dead rat on a rope. With fur and appendages. It had panache. Or ganache. Or soufflé. At some point we didn’t care, because it was RAT ON A ROPE.

This was the first evening of this journey.

After we all were dying from fatigue and realized we had to get up at 6 a.m. to hit the buses for events the next day we scrabbled to our rooms.  This is an old hotel, as in OLD, though refurbished and stylish, but, still, old. Which means the walls weren’t insulated  and soundproofed like your standard bunker hotel of today. Not that today’s hotels are any better, but. Light between the walls to the outside. That’s different.

Mr. Froth and I hit our room, got our pj’s on. Yes, we did that because it was fucking cold. And then we realized—we’re right next door to his boss.

His boss and wife had the corner room that abutted ours. Was this punishment? Karma? An omen?

Unfortunately, we were so slap happy that we sort of giggled and then couldn’t stop the giggling. “RIGHT NEXT DOOR TO ???? THAT IS SO SCREWED UP!”

Church giggles. The giggles that you get when you’re at a funeral and your emotions are so entangled that you hawk out a massive guffaw when you’re really feeling tears. Look at your spouse after sticking your fist in your mouth to stop the giggles and then spasming from giggles even more.

We lay there with our legs entwined clasping, CLASPING, pillows to our heads to muffle the snorts. If there had been a video cam it would have revealed some strange charismatic shufflings of a cult.

We’d take the pillows off and start snorting again.

Finally we were so worn out that we passed out and decided that we needed to avoid the room as much as possible any earlier than 8 p.m. at night.  

And after traveling to Val d'Isere we didn't have to worry about that anymore because these trips are HARD!

Rack Retriever

That’s much classier than boob retriever.

So I was readying myself for work, having kissed Mr. Froth good bye as he wended his way to observe and report, and I noticed my ladies’ upper body dainty---
Seriously, what does THAT mean? I noticed my bra on the floor, along with a portion of my rack.

No, no. Not like that French lady who lost her face. I’m pretty sure I would have noticed removal of body parts in process a little quicker than she; I hope, jeez, poor thing. That was so gross and weird. I just don’t understand a Lab snacking on my face. Licking, yeah. But snacking? There had to be pit bull in that sucker.

Anyway, having fallen off the literary pathway again here, I was getting dressed and the above, etc. The portion of my rack lying there was a cloth-covered version of the chicken cutlet. For you delicate flowers, who fear too much information, close your ears. For others, it’s just boring backstory.

Explanation (women know this, but I have to fill this space somehow): Back when I had breast cancer surgery I opted not to do any reconstruction, since a lumpectomy, radiation and meds weren’t as physically invasive as a mastectomy. What they fail to tell you is that the nuclear reactor zappage pops a cap up your boob’s ass after the fact. Forget the sunburn. It’s the gnarlage and shrivelage and intermittent spasms that suck. Plus, you list to one side because your right side is dragging on the ground and your left side is wingless. Totally sucks.

Thus the need for the chicken cutlet(s)—numbers may vary depending on original boobage. I, personally have two—one cloth covered and one the saline/silicone/unidentified gel-filled glob that looks like an actual raw chicken breast.

What was missing from the bra and floor this morning was the gel-filled jobber. Hmmm. I wonder who could have gotten that? I’m thinking the Dot was on an epicurean pilgrimage, having unfulfilled cravings after a bracelet and sandals, and was now looking for something that TASTES LIKE CHICKEN. There must be some atavistic something or other within her that recognized the appearance of the boob filler as resembling fowl. I continued on with my normal preparations, blocking out of my mind what could be happening in another room. I just didn’t want to know. Yet.

But, one must be brave while tracking body parts, never give up hope and also be fully dressed when peeking out into the foyer to see Dot sitting quite properly and quietly, looking out the front door windows, with the boob cutlet hanging from her mouth. Intact and pure. Her master’s voice demeanor, only with no cocked head listening, just a sad, yearning attitude, melancholy from a mouth-hanging boob that not only doesn’t taste like chicken, it doesn’t taste like anything. Not even a good smelly sandal.

Dot the Re-engineer

Here is the sandal I purchased at Target-it's Mossimo Wendell, cheap and comfortable. Just perfect for flapping about the house and yard. Cute and sturdy. I cleaned the tops off these with a damp rag after they'd acquired a coating of foot/yard/house floor film. And then I left them atop the desk in the kitchen.

Why would I do that? That was foolish. Because we all know Dot is a style maven and has particular opinions on how shoes should look and be experienced. The experience should include texture, movement and hours of play. Behold the re-engineered sandal below. And since the first one was destroyed I gave her the other. It's not like she'd think "Oh. I totally wrecked mom's shoe. I must not, indeed, chew any other shoes ever. If I should happen upon another shoe I shall know it's not to be chewed." Might as well have a complete meal. Those sandals have a lot of innards. Amazing.

Emissions

I'm quite upset.

If Algore isn't on this immediately we're talking about a carbon footprint the size of movie-making ohmygodimgonnadiebecauseiwatchedthis.

The audacity. The hope-poking snideness of this mountain. What the HECK was it thinking?

And, it's a Scandinavian sort of country.I thought they were all keep our air clean and provide airmasks for everyone and good luck with this with all the ash and shit. 

I've gotchur asthma and COPD rightchere.

Damn. They have perky little noses and blond hair but by golly they're rebels!

Edvard Grieg could compose some good music to all this.

Spring Bark

The local dog park club, in conjunction with various rescue dog groups, Humane Society, animal shelters, numerous vendors, vets and all, holds an event each year at the big park close to us. We had planned to drive the Dot there, thinking that she'd be worn out with all the excitement and would be too pooped to pop home. Nice plan except for the cars parked down to the street from which we would begin walking to get there if we walked...

So, we walked. Tons of peeps on the pathways with their pups en route and once we got there met some very fine pooches and people. Fortunately, it's not too hot yet, so heat stroke was only a whisper in your ear. We got some goodies from some booths and saw our neighbors. I'm thinking that at least a 1,000 or so in total probably attended this in the end. Maybe more.

Anyway, as we were walking along with Dot pulling at her leash a leash vendor guy stopped us and demonstrated his parachute cord leashes, showing us how it corrected Dot quickly as opposed to the lag we have with the regular leash. Mr. Froth proceeded to demonstrate then how, by shortening the leash we had, we would accomplish the same ends. So we didn't buy one. It was pretty and matched her collar, but, eh.

We entered the raffle for a goodie basket and I don't think we've won since no one called us.

Met a guy with a monster Yellow Lab named Brady. His official name includes a Beatles' tune as did all of his previous Labs names. This pup was gorgeous and huge. Massive head and just BIG. After that we met a baby Yellow Lab that looked like Elvis when he was 11 weeks old and we didn't want to tell his owner that, no, he isn't 3 months (unless he's a total runt), but much younger.

And, finally, met the woman who organized the whole shindig and who knows us and Dot from the Save-a-Lab group. She thought Dot had grown immensely from the mere two weeks ago that she'd seen her at the dog park and informed us that Dot's mom had finally been shipped to the northeast for a forever home. Looking at the mom on Facebook I see Dot in the face. The eyes are identical and the sweet intelligent expression has obviously been passed down. Made Mr. Froth tear up.

Cool beans these people. I told the organizer lady to post our photos on the website and she told us to send something telling how much we love Dot. I reminded her that I'd sent a letter, as in an entire letter there, testifying to Dot's awesomeness. Hope they use them.

Then we came home and harassed Merv and I did my toenails and Mr. Froth snipped bushes.

Ode to Joy

Just for you (and you know who you are.)

Le printemps, c'est arrive.

Green, green and more green with some yellow films still hanging.
Dead stuff slightly less dead.
Dog poop revealed.
Mosquito cabanas weedeaten. Bastiches.
Giants schlumping back into formation.
Anole parts artfully strewn. Thank you, Merv.
Craneflies on the countertop. Thank you, craneflies.

Windows not dirty, just "frosted."
Driveway not mildewed, just "antiqued."
You that egged us before the hurricane and that we didn't discover til trees fell away-bastiches.
Blinding white legs not pasty, just "porcelain."

Bunion for all to view until at least December. Deal with it.
Flats of annuals calling like big honking fire sirens. Come buy me. NOW.

Dog and puppy festival in park.
Spring!

Bill Clinton

Bill, bless his heart, the mouthbreather that he is, is an idiot. But I'm sure his pipes are clean.

Merv Present Purfect

I have a friend from another cyber venue who happens to be smart, funny, crazy and totally absurdly talented. The board which I frequent has a lot of members and my friend periodically produces avatars, using Paint (Paint?!?) that detail individual quirks, past comments, hobbies, what have you. I have been fortunate enough to receive an actual real life framed  painting of my persona and just recently I got this gem. A reworking of stoic Merv, as he sits in the tree avoiding Dot slobber and head mashing. The squorrels are MBRS (Miss Beautiful Red Squirrel-a bit of a ho and Angel-an angel, of course.)

Merv looks stoically disconcerted.  Heh.

A Dumber Shade of Stupid

I thought A Whiter Shade of Pale (trademark, etc. etc. etc.)  would be a fun reference for a Dumber Shade of Stupid.

However, having just read the lyrics, which, if I even knew them in 1967, I had long forgotten, concentrating on the music and what it evokes…as in, some nightmaric sophomore dance during which I would be praying for relief.

These are like a More Idiotically Forced Shade of Hallucination. Or, a More Beat-Me-About-the-Ears-with-a-Tuning-Fork Shade of You-Guys-Are-So-Insufferably-Harebrained-Brush-Your-Teeth-and-Trim-Your-Ears.

Oh, Jabberwocky/Clusterfocky and medieval happy meals and fake British quaintliness and weirdity. Romp and stomp through the cobbled feldspar dragon lanes. Hippity hoppity.

My ass. Jeez.

We skipped the light fandango

turned cartwheels 'cross the floor

I was feeling kinda seasick

but the crowd called out for more

The room was humming harder

as the ceiling flew away

When we called out for another drink

the waiter brought a tray

And so it was that later

as the miller told his tale

that her face, at first just ghostly,

turned a whiter shade of pale

She said, 'There is no reason

and the truth is plain to see.'

But I wandered through my playing cards

and would not let her be

one of sixteen vestal virgins

who were leaving for the coast

and although my eyes were open

they might have just as well've been closed

She said, 'I'm home on shore leave,'

though in truth we were at sea

so I took her by the looking glass

and forced her to agree

saying, 'You must be the mermaid

who took Neptune for a ride.'

But she smiled at me so sadly

that my anger straightway died

If music be the food of love [see note, left, about this verse + its opening]

then laughter is its queen

and likewise if behind is in front

then dirt in truth is clean

My mouth by then like cardboard

seemed to slip straight through my head

So we crash-dived straightway quickly

and attacked the ocean bed

Clean up on aisle clouds and sparkles.

Conan the Gingerman

He has the scariest head and the most "unique," as in, ugly, hair of anyone. Ever. In modern history. Maybe even farther back.

What's wrong with him? Is it a condition?

Dot has the pukes

Three large food-infused horks and a couple of dry heaves. Plus a mini nap in between. We were concerned as she lay/lied/lain/sprawled about for an hour and then realized, eh, perhaps she ate some mole or anteater at the park, and it has passed, because she's attempted to get our shrimp and french fries and Merv. That would be a tasty sandwich. Cat/shrimp/potato.

We're thinking she's all right. Just hungry right now.

Tra la la

All right. All right. Fluffy bunnies and grubworms. Now that I’ve had a chance to work out my aggravations the past three days—by hauling heavy objects, walking heavy objects, digging into heavy objects, re-walking heavy objects, re-digging heavy objects and aiding in the assembly of patio furniture accompanied by poorly written instructions (No! Pshaw you say.)—I’m in a much better frame of mind and, physically, just buff as all get out.


As buff as one can be at my age. Here’s how I rate my buffness: all my muscles hurt and I can still type. That’s righteously buff if you ask me.


I’m gonna call one of those Rolo flex peeps—, no, wait. Rolo’s a candy. And a tasty morsel at that. Bowleg flex. No. That’s the ever so short-skirted first lady.


Stabmaster? Hmm. I’ll wait til the end of this week to see if endorsements are in order.


I can still hear the low, throaty moans of stupid just around the bend.


Weather beats the band, though.


What a boring post.

Day Off

 Today I took off. Ostensibly to clean my toxic waste dump, health hazard, soon to be condemned abode. Even sub-ostensibly. But, hovering in the background was my mental arranging of Henckel knives aligned for stabbing
a la certain monkey bloggers, that made me realize I need to take this day off or else I would be news.

People are stupid. And venal. And insane. And total fucking dumbshits.

But, my house is smelling pretty good. I vacuumed, mopped, cleaned the unknown-amoeba-mold-shit-hork ridden carpet and rearranged the furniture to its "other" scenario. There are really only two layouts for the furniture here. This one and that one. I'm totally over both of them. But, whatever. I discovered a weird purple ball and two chewy bones along with a pair of glasses that I lost under the couch. I vacuumed the fucking refrigerator coils. I know. I'm saying fucking a lot. I'm tired. And all of this is just fucking bullshit.

I rehung two pictures I'd painted years ago, those of the boys when they were little. I was very happy with them at the time. Then we had the house repainted inside and I removed all wall hangings and never put anything back up. So, I have/had two boring family sorts of pictures on the wall that were below the Christmas wreaths that I finally dragged upstairs after they'd shed their stupid fake berries. With all sorts of bad empty space above. The pictures, not the wreaths.

I thought, bring down some of my paintings. Tho I'm sick of looking at the few paintings I've done that are still hanging, it's better than cobwebs and space. I opened the door to the attic and thought I'd discovered hell's portal. It's already 900 degrees up there. And, one of the pictures had broken glass.

Did not deter me. I hung them both. The one with the broken glass will serve as a reminder to me to get...MORE GLASS. Hopefully we won't have any earthquakes anytime soon. The broken pieces I left up in the spare bedroom to go with the assorted disgusting detritus that the boys have left and that I constantly step on and over to get to the attic. At least they won't be lying in wait to stab someone unknowingly whilst searching for rotten attic crap. These were BIG pieces. Weapons grade.

BOYS. Come get your detritus, please.

I also bought some impatiens, juniper and caladium bulbs, which I shall plant tomorrow while Mr. Froth has to park ranger at....wait....the Earth Day event.

I know. I know. It's all I can do not to talk about whatshis face who killed his girlfriend, who was a founder, and blah blah blah and Mafia recycling and stick a poker in my brain.

I successfully have not volunteered for this for 9 years. You're welcome.

Monkeys and stabbing. Sounds good. I don't mean to appropriate ,but sometimes one must butch up and just monkeystab.

Happy Easter from the bunnies

These suckers didn't print out well at all yesterday so I couldn't use them for all purpose Easter cards for Mr. Froth and the Frothlets. Therefore, I shall post them for the ages.

I know. I'm a wizard at Paint. It's genetic.

Dot and Merv update

Some pics of the pets. That's Merv in Dot's crate. Dot sleeps on the bed, of course.

Ear worms

We watched Final Destination 3 last night. Now I can't get that stupid Hare Krishna song out of my head. The one playing when the girls fry in the tanning beds? Yeah. It's great. A really pleasant ear worm to have.