A Handful of Answers
As called out by The Amazon Iowan in her post of many questions (I’ve gone on a bit… it just happened, quite beyond my control really, so it’s all after the break): Read the rest of this entry »
Dreaming of Tea
I dreamt that I was pouring Arabic coffee into the gorgeous little Persian carpet coffee cups I keep stashed above my refrigerator. The first cup bled tea out the bottom, though I could have sworn I poured in the richly dark cardamom-infused stuff of life, not the glowing honey mint-infused stuff of life. The cup wasn’t cracked, it simply lacked proper glazing across the bottom, which the set in real life does not, as it’s entirely glazed porcelain. I remember making pouty-face (hey, it was a dream, I can pout in dreams) and pouring into the next cup, which held as it should. But I was denied the taste - I woke up just as I was raising the cup to my lips, breathing in the dark spice but not yet burnt.
Canine Secrets
I just walked into the kitchen to add more sugar to my coffee (all hail hot and sexy mens who make me strong coffee) and caught a flash of movement to my right. Both dogs were standing in the den gazing up into the corner of the ceiling with big grins on their faces, tails wagging at half-speed. I asked them what they were so entertained by, and by way of reply they strolled over to me, still grinning, and sat on my feet. Neither looked particularly guilty of anything, nor did they seem to think my attention to the Fascinating Thing in the corner of the den was required.
As I stirred my coffee and sat back down at my computer, they trotted around the house in tandem, as if checking room to room for more of the Fascinating Thing that caught their attention (or perhaps other Fascinating Things - they still haven’t told me), then ran out in the backyard. They seem to have found it out there at the moment, floating in the sunshine, or perhaps tangled in the grass… their big doggy grins have taken on a touch of smug. I suspect within a few minutes of coming back inside Angus will feel the need to scan the bedroom floor for socks just in case another Fascinating Thing is hiding in a wonderfully smelly toe, and Emma will resume her station on the living room couch where she can keep both eyes out for more Fascinating Things.
Toodle-Oodle-Ooo
This week’s Unconscious Muttering:
1. Homicide :: Division
2. Divisive :: Racial Bias
3. Flash :: Point
4. Steaming ::Asphalt
5. Crunch :: Broken glass
6. Look out! :: Duck
7. Anticipating :: Pain
8. Slim :: Shank
9. Navel :: Gazing
10. Help :: Wanted
Who Put That There?
Back from hospital, getting staples removed and the surgeon’s blessing to move freely about the cabin of my life, Aunt Lola’s funeral and concomitant ice storm, coughing fever depths of the flu. Raised the shade this morning on my office door, which is all window, and saw that a rosebush I’d cruelly pruned back two years ago not only survived and thrived, but has sent tendrils become blooming canes full of creamy pink old fashioned blossoms all up and over the ugly concrete block wall behind it. I didn’t think it would be able to reach the scrap of lattice left bolted along the top edge of that section of wall, but there you go. Life will have its way, whether I’d intended it to have its way quite right there or not. Looming in the sky above the persistent roses is an ambivalent fogbank creeping in from the ocean. It’s well draped over Playa but not quite committing to crossing Sepulveda and embracing our neighborhood… a tease for proper rain, which I’d rather have more of anyway. So there. You hear me fogbank? Pfft to you until you grace us with a with softly furred view out every window.
Gmail’s got a habit of putting potentially interesting emails into my spam folder despite my best efforts to tell it otherwise. Today two of them from the same source are titled Accepting Responsibility and Getting Out Ketchup Stains. I can’t quite decide if that’s a mixed message or two steps along the same path.
If I were writing this post on purpose, or with purpose, or in a purposeful fashion, I’d have a third random thing to comment on. But I’m not, and don’t.
Oi 2008!
January will be batting cleanup for 2007 with surgery tomorrow, housecleaning and sorting, and general getting it togetherness. Seems to be a theme… some folks are remodeling their wardrobe, some are remodeling their living room, some are remodeling their banishment chants, and I’m remodeling my uterus.
And ya know what the hell of it is? I have Jingle Bells stuck in my head. WTF? I’m gonna go under general anesthesia to get my innards scooped and hoovered with a cheesy Christmas song by way of accompaniment?
Pishtamabibble. Do Not Want!
Wonder if anywhere on the internets there’s an audio file of Sean Connery reading a recipe for fudge brownies with marshmallows on top? Even better, with the crash of the ocean and the Rolling Stones playing Sympathy With The Devil in the background as he tells me how he’s going to feed me those luscious, gooey, chocolately baked goods. That’s my kind of earworm, that is. Totally conducive to healing and stuffs. Practically medicinal. Even.
Happy Pelvis!
I found out this week that I have a big fibroid that needs medical attention - which explains why I’ve been in constant pain the last oh year plus - and am focusing on not being a hater. My pelvis needs happy thoughts and the universe delivered.
I found this bit of happy pelvic action on the Supreme Goddess’ blog (apologies for not posting the video here, but it’s horking my layout for some reason).
It’s In The Stars, Baby
Somewhere around last weekend I hit 16K-ish on The Pomegranate Bride, which I’m NaNoNoveling so as to make maximum progress. Since then? Bupkiss. I’m a sprinter, not a marathon runner, and I knew this but hoped it applied mostly to my quadriceps rather than to my writermuscleps. After all, consistency is the hobgoblin and all that wot wot… better to be typetive than typed on. Something.
Open Letter On A Breakup
I’m breaking up with you. From now on, you’re just another human being I’m related to, not my poor pitiful long-suffering mother or personal cross to bear or anything else that resembles a shadowstep in the waltz of recursive martyrdom you try and bully me into dancing with you, just because I’m your daughter.