Thursday, April 23, 2015

Poetry in Motion

Yesterday I went on a day-long tour of Muir Woods to see big trees, and then on to Napa and Sonoma for good wines.  

It was a fun day.  Because wine and giant trees. 

The first winery we stopped at made the most delicious dessert wine, which come on, wine made especially for dessert equals win. But this particular wine was really good, good enough that I purchased two bottles of this port. 

Every time I think of port wine, I remember my friend who was totally off, in a "goes perfect with me" kinda way. We were like the wine with dessert people version.  Anyway, this friend, we'll call her Becky, because that is her name, loved loved loved port wine cheese with crackers.   

And then she joined the Army.  Where they don't serve port wine cheese on crackers. 

While in the Army, she wrote me a poem. This was thirty years ago, Reader. Thirty. And I still remember these lines:

"I dream of nights with port wine cheese on a cracker" 
"And now all I can think of is some guys*  pudwhacker" 

She rhymed cracker with pudwhacker. 

Reader. I hope you can appreciate the genius of that kinda poetry.  

And now every time I encounter port wine, that verse runs through my head. 

I think that is the hallmark of a great poet. One who makes you think, long after you've read the poem. 

Kudos, Becky the Poet.  Walt Whitman's got nothing on you. 


*I changed the real guys name that she referenced in the poem, because it's kind of a common name and I don't want anyone to get confused thinking that maybe it's their pudwhacker, so we've been mysterious on purpose. 

Stay Tuned...

....I'll be back to my regularly scheduled nonsense soon.  

Just not tonight, I"m bushed. 


Thursday, April 9, 2015

Relocation

Well, Reader, it's official - I'm moving! 

Not really, but it made it exciting for a moment, huh.  

Anyway, while I'm not actually moving, I feel like I'm moving because I am going to be G.O.N.E. for quite a long time starting soon. I'm being evasive because you don't need to know absolutely all my business, unless you're on Facebook, and then you know all+more=probably-too-much of my business. Friend me up if you wanna know what I'm doing. Or keep guessing, your choice. No pressure to be my friend. I've actually realized recently that sometimes it's better to stay out of touch with people. This doesn't mean YOU, Reader, unless you have reason to think it does. Then it might mean you. But probably not. 

But that's not even the reason for this. The reason for this is so I don't leave you without my words before I jet off for the wild blue yonder. Because I'm revisiting beautiful Caribbean islands starting in the morning. Drat, I was supposed to be evasive with the "when." I sort of suck at elusive. Well, be that as it may, after the wild blue yonder I'm heading straight from San Juan to San Fransisco, because most people really are worth staying in touch with, and one of them happens to live in the San Fran area. So yay! I get to visit and stay in a swanky-danky apartment right downtown for several glorious weeks.  And pretend/practice living there, to see if I in fact do want to move from my cold, crusty, cloud-covered home-sweet-home. 

I realized while in Florida last month that FL may not be the place for me. Yet. It's so gol'darn* hot there. Even in March. 

So that's what I'm up to. I still have to pack. I'm unemployed, with a lady-of-leisure lifestyle, and I still can't seem to get ahead of the game. In my defense (excuse?) I've had quite a busy week. We're dog-watching, so I have a six month old husky in the house, which has driven the cats completely over the edge. Completely.  Gussy, the littlest of the bunch, went right into House Protector mode and started to break bad all over that pups ass. He was taking a running start from across the room and parkouring right into the dog.  So we had to lock 'em up in the bedroom. The cats, not the dog. 

I've also been enjoying the hell out of company lately. I've seen more people in the past two months than I've had the pleasure of seeing in the past three years.  So yeah, visiting vs. finishing the office, etc. And it's been a good trade. Pictures will come of the nearly-finished office. Some day. Probably Mayish. 

I've also promised, and not delivered on Cats in Easter Costumes. I know I've just broken your hearts out there. I could hear them crumbling. Maybe, if I get done packing and drink a glass or gallon of wine, I'll post. I feel I owe it to you because I'll be gone so long.  Try not to miss me too much. I'll do the missing for us. 

*I've decided to start using gol'darn more often, because I've been watching The Last Man On Earth and one of the characters says it, and it's cute and I'm going to be cute and less sweary too. Or not. We'll see how that works out. I did tell my friend she gets to kick me in the pussy if I'm still packing at 1 a.m. tonight, and at the rate I'm going I'd better get 'er prepared. Because I have a feeling I'm going to be getting a gol'darn kick right in the pussy tomorrow morning. 


Sunday, April 5, 2015

She Is Risen....

....at eleven a.m.....because she's a little lazy. 

Or a lot lazy. 

Does her bedtime count at all? Because she's become a night owl.  Owl-ing around til three and four in the morning.  

Anyway, she was up in time for Cats In Costumes, Easter Edition.  Here's a sneak-peek*.  




**your dummy blogger had to edit peak to peek. she knows better. she just didn't do better.

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Who's That Girl

Hey-Ho, Reader! I've been gone for what seems like months, when in fact it was only half a month. Which is a really really long time to be away from home for me, by the way. Even while I was off doing Fun Things, it was still a long time gone. 

I'm spending the day making to-do lists, laundry, unpacking, making appointments and doing general catching-up shenanigans. In between all that, I thought I'd share a few words with you here because you've missed me. Don't try to deny it, I know you have.  At least that's what I'll tell myself so I don't hurt my own feelings. 

And because you've missed me so much, Reader, I'm sharing a somewhat embarrassing little tale with you here today. Consider it your vacation souvenir, only you don't have to put a ten-cent sticker on it and try to sell it in a garage sale two years from now.  

This is not the story about how my skirt rode completely up past my undies in the bar while on vacation, and no one had any common decency to pull it down, instead they just took a picture of it (at my drunken insistence, but still, they suck as a wingman or whatever a skirt-puller-downer would be called). That's not the story or photo I'm sharing with you here. You're welcome (for skipping that photo, which is a little horrifying rather than titillating). 

This story happened yesterday evening. After traveling for half a month. And having an erratic sleep pattern, consuming mucho alcohol, wearing not enough sunscreen on my frecklie-face, and was in the heat just long enough to convince myself I looked fine without make up. Because the heat fried my common sense. 

Reader, I do not have a wash-and-go face. My face is a face that benefits from a little attention. My hair, too. 

Because last night while going through security at Orlando International Airport, the TSA guy spent a longer-than-usual amount of time looking at my passport and boarding pass. 

I thought maybe he was in love with me and trying to figure out how to ask me on a date. 

Finally, he looks at my passport one last time, holds it up to eye-level to better compare it to my face and says, "I guess that's you," before stamping my boarding pass and sending me on my way.  

True story.  And no, it wasn't because my passport photo was so bad he couldn't believe the goddess before him was the same person. It's the opposite reason.

In the spirit of giving, I'm showing you the picture of me just moments after this happened, which is totally embarrassing, even more so than my panties-clad vagina having a drink at the bar in Florida. Because that, I barely remember. This? I remember quite vividly. 

So yeah. Sweaty, matted-haired, baggy-eyed, no-make-up'd Me vs. Passport Me.  


So bad, I confused the TSA agent. At least now I know what to do when I'm famous and need to travel incognito. Just be myself. 



Friday, March 20, 2015

The Blame Game

I belong in a sunshiny state, Reader. Because I'm just happier. My hair is frizzier, my face is sweatier, but my smile is happier. 

The first leg of the journey has been spent at Patrick Airforce Base, which is mi Papa's Casa. See how I went all international on you right there, Reader? Because I'm a showoff, that's why.  

And I'm also a Creepy Old Lady. And I would most definitely be Debra Winger's sluttier friend from An Officer and a Gentleman if I had grown up near an Airforce base. Because the clean-cut, hard-bodied boys? Make my pants wanna fall down.  I know, I know - wrong. My very own nephew is in the Airforce, so I am well aware of the creepiness level. It's at Code Orange.  Because I'm old and they're young and it's gross. 

But my pants don't know that, so don't blame me. 

Blame my pants.

It makes me feel less creepy to lay the blame elsewhere. 

We get all the Airforce privileges while on base, including protection from bad guys as well as eating at the cafeteria-style Riverside Dining hall. You can get your choice of meal for a few cheap bucks, and it's delicious. I would never ever cook if I had everyday access to that. 

The meal comes with a waterfront view. 


And great company.

So basically, perfect. 




Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Sunny Days Ahead

Hey, Reader. Hi. 

I am procrastinating. I don't know why I struggle against the act of packing as much as I do. But I do. And I like where I'm going, but still I hate the packing part. So much so, that I've got nothing but time on my hands, and here it sits at minutes to midnight, with a seven a.m. flight and I still don't have one things in my suitcase. I have things on the bed, in neat little stacks, but it's not whittled down yet. I need to cull the herd of shirts. It's too many. I have three sets of pajamas. I don't know what I plan on doing exactly to warrant the need for three pair of pajamas, but I'll be ready just in case. 

When I'm a millionaire I'm going to have a professional packer. 

And a hairdresser. 

And a chef. 

So basically a lot of good people to do things for me, because I have other things I'd rather be doing. 

Like typing words that mean nothing. 

Or watching t.v.

Or reading. 

Or kissing kitties. 

So yeah. I'll be gone for weeks and weeks. Don't try to rob me, Bad Guys. I've got people at the house, per usual, because eight cats. They demand live-in help. Because they're demanding that way. 

I'd like to say that I'm going on vacation, but it's not a vacation if you're not working, is it? Don't you go on vacation to get away from the stress of it all? I don't have the stress of it all at the moment, so it's just a trip. To warm and sunny weather, where I shall process the hell out of Vitamin D. 

I bought new lotion for myself on my trip and tried it out. I am silky soft and can't stop touching myself. On my arms, Reader. On my arms. Sheesh. 

Stay in touch, Reader. Maybe I'll bring ya back a crappy t-shirt.