[m4w] frantic

(I keep automatically typing in "rto"...)

I rarely get the sort of frantic she describes. I used to, when I lived in the "mansion". Sure didn't feel like a mansion then, but, any lingering doubt went away when I went on a quest to find The Slippers this weekend. "No, those are the ones use in the hospital. Where are my black ones?" But, we both agreed they'd do until the black slippers decided to make an appearance. Which they did, once they realized their absence was not a crisis for us.

As a kid, when I couldn't find something, I would essentially acknowledge the poltergeists, point out to them that I'd acknowledged them, and having done that much more than most people, could they stop fucking with me now please? And it worked!

(Back when Aaron's drumkit lived in our basement, the poltergeist would start drumming at ungodly hours of the morning. Not old house settling noises, but snares, and cymbals and a steady beat, heard from two floors away. No one has ever really explained that any other way to me. Mice just don't have that sort of rhythm.)

::

The long weekend has completely wonked my datestamp. I took one day off of work. Therefore today is Tuesday. So, I haven't missed the free screening or the pre-emptive Chaoflux celebration. ... o... drat...

My old roommate, the vegan, offered me dinner last night if I stopped by to visit on my way home. It was his stinky-vegetable casserole of legend, which really is quite tasty. But rather a juxtaposition after my omnivorous weekend. (I scored some nice cuts of frozen beef and lamb. Mom needs to cut back on her Omaha Steak consumption. More to the point, isn't enthusiastic about just cooking for herself. I ended up doing no cooking. She was glad to have someone to cook for. I probably should've packed up a lot of stuff for a soup kitchen, since her diet has so changed.)

I spent the drive home especially aware of the rumblings of my colon -- after its (comparatively) quiet weekend, grateful that no one else was in the car, muttering curses about vegan food, and inwardly mantra-ing about Atkins being a low-fart diet. The vegan defense would probably suggest that clearly I was in dire need of fiber and wow did I get some.

Of course, it could be all that licorice dad wasn't going to eat anyway. Licorice helps speed things up, as it were. Not that I usually need help in such matters. I'm already freebasing ginger and peppermint to mellow all that... stuff... out.

::

Close to Home is a school kid donning a bully defense-grid "porcupine suit"

Women's Wit is Marie Von Ebner-Eschenbach: Being young is beautiful, but being old is comfortable. And, luckily, I could cut and paste this from google, because I can already tell all of those links are blocked here.

[m4w] frantic

(I keep automatically typing in "rto"...)

I rarely get the sort of frantic she describes. I used to, when I lived in the "mansion". Sure didn't feel like a mansion then, but, any lingering doubt went away when I went on a quest to find The Slippers this weekend. "No, those are the ones use in the hospital. Where are my black ones?" But, we both agreed they'd do until the black slippers decided to make an appearance. Which they did, once they realized their absence was not a crisis for us.

As a kid, when I couldn't find something, I would essentially acknowledge the poltergeists, point out to them that I'd acknowledged them, and having done that much more than most people, could they stop fucking with me now please? And it worked!

(Back when Aaron's drumkit lived in our basement, the poltergeist would start drumming at ungodly hours of the morning. Not old house settling noises, but snares, and cymbals and a steady beat, heard from two floors away. No one has ever really explained that any other way to me. Mice just don't have that sort of rhythm.)

::

The long weekend has completely wonked my datestamp. I took one day off of work. Therefore today is Tuesday. So, I haven't missed the free screening or the pre-emptive Chaoflux celebration. ... o... drat...

My old roommate, the vegan, offered me dinner last night if I stopped by to visit on my way home. It was his stinky-vegetable casserole of legend, which really is quite tasty. But rather a juxtaposition after my omnivorous weekend. (I scored some nice cuts of frozen beef and lamb. Mom needs to cut back on her Omaha Steak consumption. More to the point, isn't enthusiastic about just cooking for herself. I ended up doing no cooking. She was glad to have someone to cook for. I probably should've packed up a lot of stuff for a soup kitchen, since her diet has so changed.)

I spent the drive home especially aware of the rumblings of my colon -- after its (comparatively) quiet weekend, grateful that no one else was in the car, muttering curses about vegan food, and inwardly mantra-ing about Atkins being a low-fart diet. The vegan defense would probably suggest that clearly I was in dire need of fiber and wow did I get some.

Of course, it could be all that licorice dad wasn't going to eat anyway. Licorice helps speed things up, as it were. Not that I usually need help in such matters. I'm already freebasing ginger and peppermint to mellow all that... stuff... out.

::

Close to Home is a school kid donning a bully defense-grid "porcupine suit"

Women's Wit is Marie Von Ebner-Eschenbach: Being young is beautiful, but being old is comfortable. And, luckily, I could cut and paste this from google, because I can already tell all of those links are blocked here.