Complaint Department

The prompt was to write a one-page complaint. I riffed, instead.

Fava beans – you are pointless. To even get to the bright green diarrhea-producing nugget inside you, you need to be shelled, boiled and shelled again. A pox upon your house.

To the green produce and dog waste bags – I do not believe that you are compostible. In addition, I am horrified by the feel of you in my hand. I literally cannot unfeel you.

To the people who complain to the neighborhood email list about dog owners who put the poop in the bottom of your newly-emptied trash can – shame only works if you catch them in the act. Also, stop smelling your garbage can.

Chickens – I know you’re having an egg. Can you please hold it down?

To the makers of cheap but soft toilet paper – you have embarassed me deeply. You are so soft that I didn’t notice the paper clinging between my cheeks and small bits of your product fell to the floor during a dermatological exam. Thanks a lot. I never understood the commercials with the blue bear until now.

Pilot G-2 07 pen – do you ever write in a smooth line? It takes me three passes to write “butter” on the grocery list. I understand that in this life no person is guaranteed a pen that writes well, but somehow even seeing you next to the grocery list fills me with contempt. You rob me of the small joy of writing.

Two drummers in separate houses on my suburban street – can you *please* get lessons? Drumming is an artform, not simply the act of ownership and doing. You are driving my husband to madness with your as-if-trying-drums-at-guitar-center level of drum hitting. Smite Different.

Cancer – the way you return without so much as ringing the doorbell and then shake things up? Not cool.

Books with the spines turned backward in author zoom interviews = distracting shapes that scream to be known.

-- Joys? --  

Those are abundant.

The color of a new red maple leaf against a blue sky. I told a dear friend how much I love that one thing and she sent me a photo of it. I almost cried.

Turkey vultures circling high above.

Eating the chicken-y vegetables out of a pot of stock I’m making.

Mechanical pencils. They rarely let you down.

Cats. Mine, yours. Doesn’t matter.

The song and video “Guinea Pig Bridge”, by Parry Gripp. 55 seconds of adorableness and delight. When I’m having a *moment*, sometimes people suggest that I watch it because they know it’s my reset. Find it on YouTube.

Also the color pink, and contrasting thread.

Sign Ze Papahs!

From yesterday --

It's supposed to happen today. But the day is not over and it hasn't happened yet.

So I thought I'd go to YouTube and listen to Sign Ze Papahs. Cheech and Chong. You know, that sketch is not funny. But the bro used to say "Sign ze papahs" in a German accent for the entirety of my childhood. It was always funny when he said it. But I was wrong.

As refreshment for my mood center, I watched Guinea Pig Bridge. It never disappoints. 55 seconds of happiness.

And then it happened, at 4:59. Hats off to my sister, our real estate attorney, the ancestral beings and anyone else who made this happen in a way that will not come back to haunt me. I feel like I can see my future in front of me finally.

Thank you to all who have listened, comforted, assisted in any way. I do not care if I see a penny from this transaction. Just want distance and clarity. Here's the building, with my pop in it, on a sunny day.

Freedom and Determinism

Hey. It's me! Waiting for pathology in the offices of the world's tallest Mohs surgeon. I think this will be a quickie. But while I'm waiting, with a bandage on my face and a drippy nose, might as well catch up on the weekend.

It rained this weekend, which was glorious. The boy kitten thanked me for putting his favorite blanket on the sofa. Mrguy has been consulting Key Ideas in Human Thought, one of our best pre-Internet reference sources.

Saturday was Irish genealogy club day. Two hours of good times, hints, things to pursue. 

And then, a little jaunt with the rev. We went for a rainy ride and some hot tea in Sugar City, where mrguy and I got married. That's her fetching elbow on the right, and the bridge in the distance on the left. We drove past the old old place. They've painted it blue. In the window? One of the many neighborhood cats in windows in that town that are distantly related to our old cat, nose. Nose and eyes were, themselves, spawn of a neighborhood ragdoll, mrbrownballs. We didn't get nose until we moved into the house next door to this one, so it's nice that it's now populated with one of his mishpoche.

I totally forgot to mention that our friend from the extinct ukulele band came over on Saturday night. What a treat! He just moved to our town and we're excited.

Sunday was a bagel and lox feast at the house of that nice guy's brother. We got to talk a little bit by ourselves, but mostly the day was spent in stories of their close-knit community. They were so lucky to have one another, and it seems like that nice guy's mom was one of the neighborhood's adhesives. She drove the kids, she edited the newsletter, she was the person who connected and networked, before that word existed. I wish I'd known her better, which is the desired achievement of every memorial.

Her friend had a psychic connection with the livingroom carpet.

The spreads were divine. I even ate my first chopped liver.

And now...we wait.

Color Day!

I am listening to Stay True, by Hua Ha. Narrated by the author. It has reeled me in and now spat me out with grief. I have vowed to come back to this later. Too, too tender. I decided this on the way to the grocery to buy some vinegar for the egg dye.

Arriving home, I appreciated the Scarlet Pimpernel growing in the front yard. I know it's a weed (thanks, Mom!) but its flowers are just about my favorite color. Also I love lawn daisies. I know I'm not supposed to like them (thanks, Mom!) but I do.

When I came back to the store in need of a new and different friend to keep me company while egg dyeing, I went to Libby. Looked for memoirs. Found that Mo Rocca has a book that's not available at the moment, but that he also has a podcast. Thanks, Libby! So I listened to Mobituaries. The first episode was about Laura Branigan. OK. The second is about what I call the Mid-Atlantic Accent. You know, the accent that every American actor used in the 30s-40s (think Bette Davis). Now *that's* fascinating. It included much discussion of what used to be considered an appropriate presidential accent, side discussion on presidential pets, deep dive on the meaning of the "r" sound over the decades, and so much other goodness. Mo Rocca kept me sufficiently entertained during egg dyeing, egg photography and egg dye tie dye.

Did you know this could be done? Please consult these pages (or YouTube) for the answer.

That was just so darned relaxing, I gotta tell you. A great last day of my week off. That, and I got photos from clamdip2020's trip to England, a friend sent a text with Hawaiian sheet music, and mrguy is puttering around making a quesadilla. 

Ahhh.