Okay, I haven't blogged about the new boat because our first launch didn't go as well as I'd hoped it would. (No, it didn't sink, but it was not a good weekend. I will write all about it when it has a happy ending--which hopefully won't be too long. This, my friends, is what we in the sitcom business call a "teaser." And no, I'm not really IN the sitcom business--but that's what it's called, anyway. Cheeky monkeys, all of you.)
Instead, I'm going to offer you random bits of random thoughts--my blog, as Forrest
Gump would say, is like a box of chocolates,
yada yada yada (as Jerry Seinfeld would say). Here's one: They are putting a new four-lane highway in near my house, and as such, we have a couple of "
flaggers" who flip their signs from "Slow" to "Stop" when the heavy equipment needs to cross the road. The female
flagger DIGS HER JOB--I mean
dah-
higs it. She emphatically thumps her sign on the ground when people drive too fast, gives a thumbs-up or a nod of approval if a driver is going appropriately slow, and WAGS HER FINGER at those who are going too fast. I get the thumbs-up because I fear the wag, I really do. She's brown as a berry from being in the sun all day, obviously gets her nails done on a regular basis so they will look pretty for the
thumbingorwagging, takes time to jam on her
ipod on occasion, and wags that finger to beat the band. Wouldn't it be nice if we all decided to just love the job we're in and make joy out of it, no matter what crap gig it may be? I admire her, a bunch--two thumbs up.
Last night I was awakened at 3:30 am by the shrill barking of my Corgi. She is not, by and large, much of a barker (though she did pick up the nasty habit of howling at the trains that go by from our now-deceased Bassets. Not deceased soon enough, apparently) but last night, boy-howdy she was-a
barkin'. I stepped out on the balcony to holler at her and noticed that she and Jane, our extremely stupid chocolate lab, had cornered an armadillo. I kind of like armadillos, and I absolutely like sleep, so I yelled at them to shut up and leave the reptilian mammal alone. This morning when I went outside, it looked like a war zone--my irises were properly trampled, the trashcan was knocked over, the grass was flattened--and my little buddy was curled up as close to the retaining wall as he (or she--I never was able to figure out what it was) could be. Because it is a nocturnal creature and had obviously had a rough night, it stayed in that corner all day, affording me, my kids, my friend's kid, and my friend all the opportunity to "pet" it. Note to all interested: armadillos DON'T like to be petted. Every time we touched it, it would flatten itself out and hiss, and then make the
cutest piggy grunt noises. I didn't realize that its plates were more of a rubbery consistency with hair--I thought it would be a lot harder, like a turtle. Nevertheless, I schemed all day to figure out how to tame the thing, envisioning it on a leash, joining me in a brisk walk downtown as I laughed modestly and replied to strangers' queries, "Why yes, it IS a purebred." I even figured out what to name it: George if it was a boy--and George if it was a girl. Alas, when I got home tonight, I saw that George had scarpered--no doubt he/she was leading a lost person out of the woods. ("What's that?" you say. It's a lead-in to my fave joke: What do you do if you get lost in the woods in Oklahoma? Follow an armadillo to the nearest road--bah-
dum-
dum-
dum.) I miss you already, George--we
coulda had something beautiful.
Mygirl, who hasn't been interested in swimming competitively these seven years she's been on the swim team, decided last weekend she would like to swim at our
Tri-State meet, which means I have to take her to a meet this weekend to qualify, then actually show up for the
Tri-State meet (which I had been looking forward to skipping) the next weekend. Bee. El.
Aee.
Ess. Tee.
I danced like a maniac during my step class last week. I don't know what came over me--I think it is
Shakira's fault--I watched that music video of hers and suddenly my hips didn't want to lie, either. My ladies may never recover from the shock that their hips can move, too.
Just because a pool looks green doesn't mean the kids won't swim in it.
I really, really, really like massages. It was a good day when my husband realized I'd much rather get a gift certificate from my massage lady than a bunch of flowers. A good, GOOD day. She's not gentle, but man, she finds knots I had no idea existed under my skin and works those puppies OUT. And bonus! I smell like rosemary and
patchouli when I'm done with a session with her.
I am done with that
mongo editing job. While I like the money and the work, I don't like how SLOW my "just-for-fun" reading is becoming. I used to be a speed reader; now I have to stop and examine each and every period, comma, semi-colon, and tense to make sure it's okay. Kind of takes the fun out of reading--sort of like looking at a painting and only being able to see the actual paint. But did I mention I like the money?
I received a note from a small literary magazine, saying that they want to publish a short story of mine. This will be my first fiction published--I've had a few essays published, but this is my first fiction. I'll pass the link along for those who are interested.
Yee-haw and all that rot.
You just never knew what you were going to get here at pith, marrow, and
coffeespoons, did you? I hope it didn't all taste coconut-filled to you. Peace out.
So first, we have to talk a bit about Royal Gorge (NOT in Crested Butte--but close). It was royally gorgey, to say the least. My husband and kids HAD to try the "Skycoaster," which is this insane contraption where they got strapped into a harness, hoisted a hundred feet into the air, then SLINGSHOTTED over the Gorge. My mom and I stayed on the ground and screamed. (And screamed. And screamed.)
