Tuesday, 8 am, budget meeting for 4 hours-arrived 6:30 to set up
Wednesday, 4 p.m-9:30 p.m., three meetings back to back
Thursday, 8 am, budget meeting for 4 hours-arrived 6:30 to set up
Tomorrow, 8 am. budget meeting for 4 hours, arrive 6:30 to set up
My but is frozen, my mind is blown, I'm sick of breakfast foods and hearing people talk and say shit.
Ignance is the rule of the day.
And, some venality.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Sunday, July 22, 2012
On our habits
I sense a trend here. So I was lying in the bed this morning watching Mr. Froth on the floor grooming himself. He had his right leg up perpendicular to the floor...
But still-you know how older folks are always talking about their bowel movements, including consistency and frequency? They can do that because they're older and since I'm older now I'm going to talk about farts. I know, it's been blown about, no, really, I meant that, by many other people many other times. But, I don't care because farts are fun and the section of my mind that deals with critical thinking has slid into a cesspool of crap foci. And farts are fun.
Let us dissect our personal farts.Remember when you were younger and the thought of effluvient expulsion in the presence of another human being was just too declasse to be considered? Yeah, me neither, especially since I have two boychildren and a husband and male animals. But I'm talking about when you were way younger and trying to give the impression that your body was a temple of perfection and beauty nonpareil.
Yeah, me neither. Whatever.
Mr. Froth and I have worldclass farting abilities. While he corners the market on shit attacks themselves, i.e., he knows every usable gas station toilet within a five-state area, which parks and preserves have sufficient understory to enable an emergency shit, I feel that my farts hold their own, especially in concert with his.
Point/counterpoint during the night, as it were. Mine are definitely alto and carry a redolence of whatever I ate or drank the day before and usually are safe. His are basso profundo and smell like 85 dead possums in a pile under the spa in 90 degree heat and 80 percent humidity after a month.
Not that that's a bad thing.
He will turn over during the night, offering a bit of a rondo of pooposity and I respond with a chirp of flatulence in staccato. Then we drift off in a miasma of death fumes to reawaken an hour or two later and I coyly plooooffff whereupon he serenades me with a phwraaPPPPPPS in response.
At which point he hops out of bed yelling, "Shit! That was a close one!" and trods to the can.
Eine kleine Nachtmusik
But still-you know how older folks are always talking about their bowel movements, including consistency and frequency? They can do that because they're older and since I'm older now I'm going to talk about farts. I know, it's been blown about, no, really, I meant that, by many other people many other times. But, I don't care because farts are fun and the section of my mind that deals with critical thinking has slid into a cesspool of crap foci. And farts are fun.
Let us dissect our personal farts.Remember when you were younger and the thought of effluvient expulsion in the presence of another human being was just too declasse to be considered? Yeah, me neither, especially since I have two boychildren and a husband and male animals. But I'm talking about when you were way younger and trying to give the impression that your body was a temple of perfection and beauty nonpareil.
Yeah, me neither. Whatever.
Mr. Froth and I have worldclass farting abilities. While he corners the market on shit attacks themselves, i.e., he knows every usable gas station toilet within a five-state area, which parks and preserves have sufficient understory to enable an emergency shit, I feel that my farts hold their own, especially in concert with his.
Point/counterpoint during the night, as it were. Mine are definitely alto and carry a redolence of whatever I ate or drank the day before and usually are safe. His are basso profundo and smell like 85 dead possums in a pile under the spa in 90 degree heat and 80 percent humidity after a month.
Not that that's a bad thing.
He will turn over during the night, offering a bit of a rondo of pooposity and I respond with a chirp of flatulence in staccato. Then we drift off in a miasma of death fumes to reawaken an hour or two later and I coyly plooooffff whereupon he serenades me with a phwraaPPPPPPS in response.
At which point he hops out of bed yelling, "Shit! That was a close one!" and trods to the can.
Eine kleine Nachtmusik
On pets' habits
Cat analysis-an exacting endeavor requiring years of practice in order to achieve true expertise. I know this having had cats most of my life, with a void in my '20s that left me sad and forlorn and almost thinking Kliban cats were cute.
With that said, yesterday morning I was lying in bed watching Merv, who was on the floor grooming himself. He had his right rear leg stuck up perpendicular to the floor and he was going after his nether parts.
When he raised his head up and grimaced with his mouth half open.
He grimaced. If it made HIM grimace I don't want to know what he found down there.
Dot, on the other hand, would have scooped that up as an amuse bouche.
With that said, yesterday morning I was lying in bed watching Merv, who was on the floor grooming himself. He had his right rear leg stuck up perpendicular to the floor and he was going after his nether parts.
When he raised his head up and grimaced with his mouth half open.
He grimaced. If it made HIM grimace I don't want to know what he found down there.
Dot, on the other hand, would have scooped that up as an amuse bouche.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
We are off
Well, that's obvious. But, we're off to play pool, an activity I suggested because it's going to rain some more and fishing would be too humidity laden. I cleaned the refrigerator which neutralized any vaccinations I may have had in my life.
I love colors and my love was requited during the cleaning process. Some of those colors were real purty in an Excorcistic sort of way. I like bas-reliefs of past briskets and cheesy potatoes.
I love colors and my love was requited during the cleaning process. Some of those colors were real purty in an Excorcistic sort of way. I like bas-reliefs of past briskets and cheesy potatoes.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
I love my brother
Because I can rail and propound what I think and he doesn't go all flamewar on me. We totally disagree politically, but I would take a bullet for him. And his wife. Funny how that works. And, it also reinforces my previous post about, eh, at a certain age, it all is horse pucky anyway. Unless.That "unless" is what's worrying me this time, election-wise.
Wowsers
Always eat supper.
But, besides that, take advantage of free pizza at work and then try to stay awake because what you’re doing is so Higgs Boson Particlesque that that very thing would be needed to stave off the narcolepsy that is rotting your brain.
BUT! Wait!
Historical interlude here:
Last year at this time we all were about nine months into the worst drought this area has seen in a very long time. A drought to keep wildfire nightmares constantly digesting your brain until the narcolepsy took over and until the communities adjacent to yours actually DID catch fire and your community is mainly trees.
This year this time, specifically beginning this morning about 4ish, we began receiving the first of what would be about 10 hours of 1-inch-or-more-per-hour rain, with more to come.
Mr. Froth called me at work and said he was going to mow the lawn. I figured his head had finally actually core-dumped, and then realized he was just fuzzy from having lost his way in the rain-drenched St. Augustine that is now eight feet high. Poor Dot took seven dumps and three pees once it finally let up outside. She’s such a sweetheart. If she’d have made a mess inside it would have clashed with the duct-taped carpet and black-formerly-white grout.
It was good pizza.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Here's the good thing
When you reach a certain age, or certain mind set, you realize that you cannot persuade anyone who disagrees with you politically or sociologically. And you realize that that is fine.Some things in life you can't control. You either contain your disdain, moderate your disdain or just say fuck it, and go off on peoples' asses.
But, it doesn't keep you awake at night. You realize that there are people out there who are completely misguided on some things, and, they are, and you say, "Bless your heart."
And then you hope that you can survive their misguidededness by either ignoring their foolishness, vote out their misguidedness or just chucking it up to the human condition and hope that your punishment for being in the crossfire isn't too violent. And you try to mediate the lies and ignorant attitudes, while telling them that, yes, Virginia, both sides are fuckers, but some fuckers will keep you less fucked than others.
I pride myself on my linguistic purity.
But, it doesn't keep you awake at night. You realize that there are people out there who are completely misguided on some things, and, they are, and you say, "Bless your heart."
And then you hope that you can survive their misguidededness by either ignoring their foolishness, vote out their misguidedness or just chucking it up to the human condition and hope that your punishment for being in the crossfire isn't too violent. And you try to mediate the lies and ignorant attitudes, while telling them that, yes, Virginia, both sides are fuckers, but some fuckers will keep you less fucked than others.
I pride myself on my linguistic purity.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Happy 4th of July!
I will have you know that I was a LOT MONITOR during the staging of our local 4th of July parade.
A LOT MONITOR. You have no idea the responsibility that was heaped upon my shoulders that I had to keep heaped and from falling off my shoulders onto the sidewalk. Under the shade bush from which I didn't move much except to answer a few people's questions on where they were and what they were doing.
This job required me to eat Chik-Fi-La and assemble a few lanyards, albeit at 6 a.m. which was stupid since I was only the second person there and nothing could be done about anything then anyway because all of the "stuff" wasn't even set up yet.
My co-LOT MONITOR (aka floater), who happens to be an ex-neighbor and whose husband was the staging director for all the floats and Scout troops and veterans and businesses who were in the parade, and I talked about people and made fun of some of them. We laughed at the Tea Party float getting into it with the local Democratic Party float. As peacemakers (in our mind) we suggested, to ourselves, that they should at least be civil during a parade, since it's a little like a cocktail party and one should not discuss controversial subjects.
Then we lost our train of thought and made fun of one of the Parent-of-Multiples ladies, who was cute as a bug's ear in her tiny shorts and tight top and FOUR-INCH WEDGES that she would be wearing whilst walking the entire parade. The parade is maybe a couple of miles long and it's all in the sun and humidity. And today the humidity is 5,000,000 percent. My official LOT MONITOR papers that included the staging map and entrant lists (both alphabetical and numeric! I'm not kidding.) were shredding from the dampness. What looked like Sm$Jursahed xx...unty Sooo$ubllll, row &1 was probably the Girl's Softball League in row Q7, but ink runs.
I bailed early claiming toe cramps (true) and likelihood of sun-passeroutedness. My co-LOT MONITOR carried on without me trying to shield her head with a paper fan that had 3-D eyeholes in it which will probably fry her hair from sun magnification at some point.
Happy Independence Day!
A LOT MONITOR. You have no idea the responsibility that was heaped upon my shoulders that I had to keep heaped and from falling off my shoulders onto the sidewalk. Under the shade bush from which I didn't move much except to answer a few people's questions on where they were and what they were doing.
This job required me to eat Chik-Fi-La and assemble a few lanyards, albeit at 6 a.m. which was stupid since I was only the second person there and nothing could be done about anything then anyway because all of the "stuff" wasn't even set up yet.
My co-LOT MONITOR (aka floater), who happens to be an ex-neighbor and whose husband was the staging director for all the floats and Scout troops and veterans and businesses who were in the parade, and I talked about people and made fun of some of them. We laughed at the Tea Party float getting into it with the local Democratic Party float. As peacemakers (in our mind) we suggested, to ourselves, that they should at least be civil during a parade, since it's a little like a cocktail party and one should not discuss controversial subjects.
Then we lost our train of thought and made fun of one of the Parent-of-Multiples ladies, who was cute as a bug's ear in her tiny shorts and tight top and FOUR-INCH WEDGES that she would be wearing whilst walking the entire parade. The parade is maybe a couple of miles long and it's all in the sun and humidity. And today the humidity is 5,000,000 percent. My official LOT MONITOR papers that included the staging map and entrant lists (both alphabetical and numeric! I'm not kidding.) were shredding from the dampness. What looked like Sm$Jursahed xx...unty Sooo$ubllll, row &1 was probably the Girl's Softball League in row Q7, but ink runs.
I bailed early claiming toe cramps (true) and likelihood of sun-passeroutedness. My co-LOT MONITOR carried on without me trying to shield her head with a paper fan that had 3-D eyeholes in it which will probably fry her hair from sun magnification at some point.
Happy Independence Day!
Sunday, July 1, 2012
The problem with idiots
Well, hey, hey, hey this is a most lovely entree for me into a discourse about the stupid that abounds.
Angry, Bitter and Petty posted awhile back about some limpdick's attempt at "old people" humor on McSweeney's.
McSweeney's-now THERE's a non self-referential, twee, pretentious concern.
Specifically, it was a jokey "recall of baby boomers." Go read it on her website.
Now. While I do, indeed, agree that baby boomers are responsible for some of the asshattedness that abounds nowadays, I would posit that that exact responsibility manifests itself by virtue of their spawn and the perpetuation of said boomers' juvenile views and analysis of the world. In other words, some boomers had really, really flawed kids. And some boomers just never grew the fuck up. While I understand the prevailing entitlement mentality rampant amongst younger sorts recently and the accompanying inability to think things through logically and maturely, I think some of that is just genetic or environmental and will eventually be overcome; yet, the warped vision of the aging Gen X'rs, Y'rs and Milleniallers or whateverthehellthey're called, ingrained by years of exposure to, well, lotsa Democrats is and will be our pathway for a long time.
That is, of course, assuming they vote. Hah!
Yes, I said it. Democrats. While I've said and continue to maintain that all politicians, from your local commissioner to the President of the US, are corrupt, ego-driven, craven pieces of lint, on all sides, including the Tea Party cohorts, I've noticed that most self-identified Democrats (not Libertarians, not actual discerning people, not open-ended sorts) are sad and pathetic, unable to, seriously, think a situation through, I've discovered they are absolutely loathe to refrain from letting you know what you should and shouldn't be doing with your life, from wiping your ass with what type of paper to how you want to die.
My disdain for these people has grown quite a bit the last few years. And, while I will still love those, close to me, with whom I disagree politically, I still harbor big ol' disdain for their beliefs.
Because they use the same specious, lying arguments and epithets against their "Republican" opponents that they accuse those people of using. They take advantage of the same corporate, monetary and political loopholes that they accuse their opponents of doing. They rail at intrusions upon their non-religious, snail darter conscious lifestyles, yet impose frightening impositions on the "other."
They join in ever hypocrisy available and just say, "No. We're not hypocrites. We're right."
Upon turning 60 I realized that, yes, Virginia, there is a finite time to live (has nothing to do with realizing we could die any moment. Cancer much?) and I'm tired of stupid and arrogant and pseudo-moral superiority.
No. You're wrong. Grow the fuck up and stop blaming everyone else for your failings.
Angry, Bitter and Petty posted awhile back about some limpdick's attempt at "old people" humor on McSweeney's.
McSweeney's-now THERE's a non self-referential, twee, pretentious concern.
Specifically, it was a jokey "recall of baby boomers." Go read it on her website.
Now. While I do, indeed, agree that baby boomers are responsible for some of the asshattedness that abounds nowadays, I would posit that that exact responsibility manifests itself by virtue of their spawn and the perpetuation of said boomers' juvenile views and analysis of the world. In other words, some boomers had really, really flawed kids. And some boomers just never grew the fuck up. While I understand the prevailing entitlement mentality rampant amongst younger sorts recently and the accompanying inability to think things through logically and maturely, I think some of that is just genetic or environmental and will eventually be overcome; yet, the warped vision of the aging Gen X'rs, Y'rs and Milleniallers or whateverthehellthey're called, ingrained by years of exposure to, well, lotsa Democrats is and will be our pathway for a long time.
That is, of course, assuming they vote. Hah!
Yes, I said it. Democrats. While I've said and continue to maintain that all politicians, from your local commissioner to the President of the US, are corrupt, ego-driven, craven pieces of lint, on all sides, including the Tea Party cohorts, I've noticed that most self-identified Democrats (not Libertarians, not actual discerning people, not open-ended sorts) are sad and pathetic, unable to, seriously, think a situation through, I've discovered they are absolutely loathe to refrain from letting you know what you should and shouldn't be doing with your life, from wiping your ass with what type of paper to how you want to die.
My disdain for these people has grown quite a bit the last few years. And, while I will still love those, close to me, with whom I disagree politically, I still harbor big ol' disdain for their beliefs.
Because they use the same specious, lying arguments and epithets against their "Republican" opponents that they accuse those people of using. They take advantage of the same corporate, monetary and political loopholes that they accuse their opponents of doing. They rail at intrusions upon their non-religious, snail darter conscious lifestyles, yet impose frightening impositions on the "other."
They join in ever hypocrisy available and just say, "No. We're not hypocrites. We're right."
Upon turning 60 I realized that, yes, Virginia, there is a finite time to live (has nothing to do with realizing we could die any moment. Cancer much?) and I'm tired of stupid and arrogant and pseudo-moral superiority.
No. You're wrong. Grow the fuck up and stop blaming everyone else for your failings.
What I've learned since I turned mumble age
We are retarded, still, as far as figuring out how to reconnect the dvr to the tv after someone else has disconnected it. All we want to do is rewatch Rat Race. Because we're already slaphappy from doing the crossword puzzle that had a lot of "ou" sections in the answers which caused Mr. Froth to break out in Boomer Sooner. And I laughed, because that's how I roll.
Plus, my head is filled with 8.6 gallons of green sludge which is better than the 15.7 gallons it held previously.
I find snot helps to filter and refine my take on political issues, though. It puts a pretty watercolor edge around the more painful and anger-inducing points and causes me to take heart in my extreme expertise on the finer points of lying that are basic to even non-snotfilled people.
And did you know cats can have bloody ears forever and not die of infection or blood loss? It's true. Poor Merv is so paranoid when I approach him now. He knows if I feed him I'm going to take advantage and slop neosporin, Cortizone D and VIP bug repellent on him while he snacks.
And I got my nails did.
Plus, my head is filled with 8.6 gallons of green sludge which is better than the 15.7 gallons it held previously.
I find snot helps to filter and refine my take on political issues, though. It puts a pretty watercolor edge around the more painful and anger-inducing points and causes me to take heart in my extreme expertise on the finer points of lying that are basic to even non-snotfilled people.
And did you know cats can have bloody ears forever and not die of infection or blood loss? It's true. Poor Merv is so paranoid when I approach him now. He knows if I feed him I'm going to take advantage and slop neosporin, Cortizone D and VIP bug repellent on him while he snacks.
And I got my nails did.
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