Poopy Cake Offering of the Gods

I spent the day before yesterday at my favorite daughters house . She's my favorite on account o' her life is boring compared to her sister of diminished capacity. We did all those girly things like, eat weird food, watch movies and kara-croake until even the kids began to weep. I think they wept because there was no place safe from the resounding echo. Even the lathe and plaster was no match for our pitchiness. Good thing I brought spackle.

We had a good time. The weather was fair and the dog was decent, for the most part, up until he dug up Destiny's flowers, and the kids were...kids, in fact, they dug up the flowers first. Apparently Merlin thought it looked like great fun. There's something about bare dirt that is irresistible to rug rats and ankle biters.

Cats are also drawn to the recently turned earth, yet for an entirely different reason. It's obvious why the feline megalomaniacle are the preferred pets to the Me-me generation. They're furry little reflections of the American Urbanite. The typical pygmy lion is born absolutely convinced that the sole reason for any creature to till the earth is for them to have a convenient place to store their cherished excrement. The way the ailurophile rushes in upon impact, swooping down, pooper-scooper in one hand and ziploc baggy in the other, they must think we like it...a lot. My cats are of the common barn variety, yet they don't hesitate a moment when they see me on my knees turning the earth for their lordships. The automated autocratic stealth imperiously attempts to slither up beneath me and into the pre-fluffed sod for the excreta offa donum ille de dei (poopy cake offering of the gods).

You'd think they'd eventually take a hint. Eight generations of feline deities have domiciled on this humble farm, and every one of them has gotten the same treatment, a dirt clod up side o' the head for attempting to activate any bodily functions within the walls of my sequestered garth of sensory delight, let alone within whiffing distance.

Dogs, on the other hand, no matter how chummy they are with the children of Bastet, still have to hover and patiently await the anally retentive felines to grant them an audience with their poo-poo. Cats are okay with us lowly creatures bowing down on our knees and praising their gifts while whisking them away discretely, but dog, the lowly, is more of an eat-n-run diner. No ritualistic servitude, just a big slobbering mouth rummaging for viscera cakes.

All-of-a-sudden, I know why cats stick their butts in our faces!
word count 453
4/30/2005 1:48 AM

Discombooberated

I was going to go to town today and buy those Work Tunes ear protector/radio things John wanted for Fathers Day. They were on sale at the farm store in Nevada. It was too cold to go anywhere though, so I stayed home and did more house work. I forgot to spend $13 so my drive was at a low. I have to either be angry or happy to have the kind of energy it takes to keep up around here. Spring brings a lot of happiness when the weather is accommodating. When it's not...it may as well be February as for the funk I fall into. I was feeling funky today for sure. I puttered and A.D.D.'d quite a bit, leaving things half done and discombooberated in my wake. Such is life in Hog Waller when I'm going through gardening withdrawals.

Merlin did some excessive whining too. It's not really his nature, he's more the silent type. Not like the yappers you find in town. I think he was looking forward to wearing his new shades and going for a cruise in the pimp-mobile. I promised him one before I sell it. He also missed the hunt...the mushroom hunt. We had to give that up early this year. The grass got way too tall, and the ticks got way too cheeky. So we will leave the rest of the 'shroom crop to the Driads.

Tomorrow we'll take that ride. He'll get decked out in his Doggles and flashy bandana and we'll rubber neck some used cars, get a wienie at Sonic and then go visit Destiny and the boys. Merlin may even go for a swim in her river. If he does that, he had BETTER bring me a fish, at least a two pounder!
word count 314
4/27/2005 0:55 AM

The Pimp-mobile & Merlin the Magnificent

'64 Fairlane and Merlin running interference with the farm felines.

Merlin's Doggles; Ain't he cool?

Ph-LLLLT!

Bladder Busters and Chore Choppers

I woke with a jolt, the phone was ringing and I heard truck doors slamming shut out in the drive. I would have loved to just roll over and forget about it. It was gloomy and wet out. The Noah radio said it wouldn't be passing anytime soon either. I try to listen to it each night before I retire so I'll know if I should bother staying up after my first daylight trip to the john, and that's what it said last night. What's the point of getting up if all I can do is house work? Like they say, it'll still be there later. The domestic bondage of womanhood is a horrendous injustice if you ask me. I figure if I ignore it long enough, like my ex-husband, it will disappear, never to be heard from again.

I'm not a jumpy person, but my bladder is a little high strung and has taken carte blanche over other wonton bodily desires. The underhanded organ filched the power long ago. I believe the doctor said it had something to do with my caffeine dip stick reading a quart high.

It was mostly curiosity that drove me from my bed...that and I had to pee. Two truck doors slammed and then the engine turned over while at the same time the phone was answered and then someone came in the back door. Hmmm....a bit too industrious even for John. It wreaked of multiple personages and here I was flopped across my bed twisted up in my bedspread with my door wide open and my jammies hoisted up around...a part of me they shouldn't be hoisted up around.

Grumpily I surrendered to fate. Lucky for whomever it was making all the sounds of the living, they were gone, except for John. He's immune to my morningness anyways. He keeps me placated with an offering of a fresh pot every morning. I'm just not any fun to be around, let alone coherent without my Java.

If I'd of cracked my eyes a little wider I would have noticed the plastic runner in the hall, someone had kicked a corner up and those little rubber spikes were begging to make contact with my tender tootsies. It felt like I was walking on choya.

I screamed, "Who left the frickin' cactus in the hall?"

No reply.
John was a little out of ear shot and hard of hearing. Must be why we get along so well.

The mailman pulled away as I was filling my mug so I moseyed out to fetch whatever it was he was stuffing in the box. Merlin's new shades had arrived. He looked so cool in his Doggles. He's a dog, so he likes to stick his head out the window. He is unlike most in the respect that he doesn't like the way the wind makes his eyes water. He also seemed a bit envious of my Foster Grants so I thought, Why not?

That goofy little thing put me in such a mood that next thing I knew I had cleaned the majority of the basement, rearranged a couple rooms and did a bunch of laundry, dishes and did some ordering for a friend and made all the calls on my list. I wish every $12 I spent did that for me.
So I'm sitting here thinking that if the weather robot says it's still gonna be raining in the morning, maybe I'll spend $13 dollars tonight and see what kind of productivity that provokes. I figure eventually I will find the perfect expenditure to formulate the right reflexive response resulting in the completion of pending drudgery that awaits me at the onset of each day. I can't wait to see what gets done when I buy a new car!
word count 627
4/26/2005 0:44 AM

Beating Other Hamsters To The End Of The Wheel

Sponge Bob set sail today for a file box in the basement labeled Bikini Bottom. The Pineapple mobile has been stripped of all relations to the sea, except the Bob floor mats. No more surfing Bob seat cover, no more Patrick or Gary in the back window and Squidward will never again say "I HAVE a-rrived" when I hit the brakes. It was fun, but like all good things...

I'll live. The first time I don't have to do yoga before getting behind the wheel, or slather on SPF 2000, or tape a battery operated personal fanning device to the rear view mirror on a warm day, I'll find solace, freeing me of my guilt ridden decision to sell. I miss the modern conveniences that come hand in hand with such money sucking holes as computer brains, automatic everything, air conditioning and really bad gas mileage. The more auto-whatever's you have, the more there is to break... and brake it will!

I'm letting my Ziggy show, aren't I? Well, as long as I don't start looking like a poorly dressed ping-pong ball, I guess I can live with the personality similarities.

I am right about it though; the more complicated the technology, the better the chances of catastrophe. A person can pay dearly for the opportunity to get screwed. I was browsing vehicles yesterday. How else will I figure out what a good deal is if I don't investigate my options prior to the actual cash-in-hand shopping trip? It was a constant reminder why I bought a classic car in the first place. Low maintenance, insurance, gas mileage and a lot less junk under the hood. When I open the hood to the Fairlane, I can identify everything I see and see everything. I could hop in there with the engine it's so bare-bones, that nostalgic pre-technics inundation of the engine ossuary. I'm gonna miss that...and the do-it-yourself repair option available with older model cars. Besides, when I go anywhere, all heads turn, I get more attention than a Hummer, or a Jaguar or any other vogue yuppy status symbol. The best part is, as cars go, it was cheap, even when it was new. When someone driving a $100,000 frivolity rubber-necks my modest little old lady car that they wouldn't have been caught dead in a few years ago as a post adolescent, I give myself kudos for robbing all the Joneses of their high-priced investment in social standing.

It's time the yuppy machine ground to a halt. Such flagrant disregard for long-term security for the sake of impressing people they probably don't like to begin with. It's a bit self-destructive, yet socially acceptable to any short-sighted me-me cliquee's bent on beating the other hamsters... to the other end of the wheel.
In case you're interested in making a wise investment of my wistfully charming set of wheels, here's the info (yuppies welcome):

1964 FORD FAIRLANE
blue/green, three-on-the-tree,
6 cylinder 170, NOT suped up,
67,900 ACTUAL miles,
Very nice eye-catcher, runs great,
looks great. But, alas, I am disabled
and am finding it difficult to drive
sometimes, so am searching for
newer vehicle with automatic everything
(especially power steering).
Maybe an SUV I can take grand-kids and my dog in
(which isn't an option with my present car. I love it too much to do that to it. I like Riviera's too.)
$6,000, will consider trade
hogwaller@interlinc.net

SOLD!!!!!!!!!!

straight across trade for a 1999 Ford F150 Sport

Neener-neener-neener hopefuls
word count 574
4/19/2005 1:19 AM

Bon Voyage Sponge Bob

Dragging my sagging, but not withering (withering could be a good thing at my weight) carcass in with barley enough energy to drop my rags in the machine and take a long overdue shower, my mind raced. It was the only part of me up for the task. The water felt wonderful. I'm just a big fish... a big fat fish. I closed my eyes and prayed to the water god that I didn't pick up any ticks while out hunting.

Mentally checking off my to-do list and physically scrubbing a layer of flesh off kept me too occupied to answer the ringing telephone. It was just somebody calling on the Manure Spreader John had put an ad in the paper for. It sold to the first guy that was smart enough to realize he lived too far away to make it here before it would be sold. He called a friend 8 miles from us and had him run over and buy it. That's how fast things move around here once they hit the paper. Which takes me back to why I am so darn tired and stinky.

I spent the last two days detailing my car, preparing it for the inevitable sale. Finally coming to the realization that procrastination has allowed me to keep my precious `64 Fairlane a while longer, but it has also prohibited me from buying a car with the creature comforts I morn. And if I want to not die of heat prostration (no air conditioning) and second degree burns (no tinting on the windows) again...this August, I'd better get a move on. So I began the arduous task of peeling away all my Sponge Bob's from the vehicle and began restoring it to it's pristine, yet boring state, a four door with vinyl/fabric seats and rubber flooring. Neat and tidy, a blast from the past complete with plaid trunk liner and the smiley face ping-pong ball with purple troll hair topping off the manually adjustable antennae. I just couldn't do the big fuzzy dice thing. Too caliche'.

Today I waxed, and waxed, and waxed, until a neon orange flash was caught in my peripheral. It was Merlin's hunting collar, he was impatient. Usually by this time of the afternoon, we're down by the creek poking around after mushrooms, not in the garage. He began verbalizing. A low whiney rumble emanated from his doggy chest. He did his little run-to-whatever-he-wants-my-attention-on thing, in this case, the direction of the creek. I hit the remotes and closed up, grabbed my snake stick and a bucket and we moseyed. This time Freya joined us. She's been a little tied up with her recent litter of hair balls with eyes lately and has had to stay behind, sending her eldest two daughters with us in her stead.

The 'squiter's were thick and annoying, but so was my 'squiter repellant. We found no 'shrooms, but we did come back with a yellow golf ball and a couple beer cans. This time I couldn't even drag my legs of lead down to the May Apples like usual.

So, like most weekends, on Johns only day off work, I will be totally spent. My arms feel like jello and my legs are heavy and unresponsive, but my car is shiny, the dog is happy, and the cat got away from the kids for a few invigorating minutes. It's all good...unless I got a tick.
word count 575
4/17/2005 0:0 AM

Looks Like Heaven's Out!

Have you ever had a dream about being dead? I had that experience last night. It was when the dream became lucid that my fascination with my predicament yanked me back into the present and out of the dream state. I was a bit disappointed. Part of me felt I should check to make sure I was still alive and that my reality was in fact not an illusion, making the dream the true reality. The Matrix flashed in my brain. My first thought was, I love that movie but what a stupid thing to be thinking about? I sat up and looked around my darkened chamber, the night light from the bathroom filtered in like it always does. I needed to test something. I slipped into my pink fuzzy slippers and headed for the living room. I pilfered the remote control from Johns chair (that should have clued me in) and flicked on the tube. Standing there grinning to my silly self, waiting for the 1970's console TV to warm up, I fought the urge to start babbling to myself. I lost.
"Okay, if I'm dead, I'm either up there, which would be okay except for I'm not really dressed for the ball, or down there, which would totally suck without my survival gear and there'd be nothing but horror flicks and soap operas on the boob-tube."

I squinted my eyes and focused on....a really bad commercial for hemorrhoid cream. I needed to investigate further. I started the chaotic surfing I'd seen John do every Sunday. There was nothing on I hadn't already seen in 1972. That told me nothing about whether I was still living or in the death denial syndrome. The question of time travel however entered from somewhere in the right-brain.

I needed to try something else. The Matrix kicked me in the frontal lobe one more time. Off went the TV and on went the computer. I dialed up. Nothing out of the ordinary there. No lightening speed, no top-of-the-line peripherals I don't have in my earthly existence (that would mean I'm in heaven). No pop-ups and no influx of spam, no flashing Anti-virus program screaming corruption (that would be my equivalent to burning in hell).

I found nothing out of the ordinary anywhere.

I had a brain-storm.

I went down the hall and swung Johns door open. It stuck and then creaked loudly. The back-draft created a momentary gust. I squared off and prepared myself for the worst yet still clinging to the hope that I'd find Mel Gibson sprawled out on the bed...naked...and giving me that come-hither smirk. The night light cast a soft glow over the foot of the bed.
"Are you asleep?" I ventured.

"Why the hell would I be sleeping...in bed...in the middle of the fricking night?"
I just cringed and pulled the door back shut.

"Looks like Heaven's out", I mumbled.

Right about then I decided it would be best if I did something constructive before I blurred the line on my mental stability any further. I went back to the computer screen and stared blankly at the screen saver which made it seem like I was shooting through the stars.

" I think that means Hell is out too. Oh goody."

I had to journal my bizzare dream. Clicking on Life Journal 2.0 I realized I couldn't remember anything about my dream except that it made me do some really stupid things...and that I was dead.

"So much for doing something constructive".
word count 590
4/15/2005 11:57 PM

A Day of Edenistic Perfection

My daughters in-laws came to visit from the cheese state a few days ago. They were expecting nicer weather. Wouldn't you? What they got was cold and wet and windy, kind of like ice fishing. Wisconsin is so much more...northerly, so of course the temp's should be milder here and the sun a little warmer and the bugs a lot more active.

In places like that people think it is great fun to pass the cold months on the ice in various attempts at entertainment. What else is there in the winter? Ice, snow, and more icy-snow. They ice fish, play hockey, ice skate and my favorite....ice hopping. You may not of ever heard of that one since I just made it up.

This is how you play: When the ice begins to melt and break away from the shoreline it can leave a watery gap betwixt land and ice cap. So, what else do you call it when someone gets it into their head that they are going to drive a fully loaded vehicle fast enough towards the frozen lake that their car will become airborne long enough to get them over that widening wetness, landing safely and dryly atop the frozen expanse of whiteness?

SOME-body has been watching too many action flicks.

That's what my son-in-law did. You're wondering right now, "Did it work?", my answer, "Of course not!". To actually spawn such risque ideas out of pure fool-heartiness (or laziness) one should never go unpunished. You could say he was knee deep in it.

They eventually got the car out with a little help from some laughing hyenas with four-wheel-drive and a twelve pack. They even caught fish, a cold, and a good razzing.

Such are the stories we parents love to share after our spawn has grown ( his mother told me that one). Once they reach at least 60 inches tall, are terminally embarrassed by us anyway, and they begin asserting themselves in an attempt to be accepted as our equals. It's our little way of saying, "I know all your secrets kid, and if you want them to stay secret ...heal!" (So, I spend a lot of time with my dog, whatever).

The drizzly chill finally gave way to Edenistic perfection. We had a great day today telling tales, and hunting mushrooms and flowers gone a-wall. Then they went on to Prairie State Park in Liberal ( I bowed out to continue planting) to watch the Buffalo that languish within it's boundaries.

Last time I was there I got stuck behind a wooly old hunch-back, big fat cow of a road hog. I could tell she was a cow on account o' her teets and the nappy little mini-me at her side yanking dinner from her sagging nipples. I hope they get as lucky. The kids would love that. And me? I'm going to bed early for a switch. Nightie-night ya'all!
word count 482
4/14/2005 11:20 PM

Cataclysmic Melt-down of Biblical Proportions? No Thanks.

It being Spring, my computer time is somewhat limited. So my entries can get a little sparse. Rural power lines and phone lines are the last ones to be upgraded, so potentially electric storms (pretty much all of them) cause outages and surges fairly frequently. If you like having a computer and don't have deep pockets (i.e. farmers), like myself you would prefer to be inconvenienced in a small way (techie down-time) instead of in the big way ( the snap-crackle-pop of lightening making it's way through your surge protectors, into the integrated circuitry, frying all your solid state components and shooting out your DVD drive, satellite box, stereo and Flat Screen High Def TV you got that second mortgage to buy. Using the telephone system to complete the circuit, causing a cataclysmic melt down of Biblical proportions and fusing the phone plastic to your furniture).

It has something to do with there being 50,000 critters and only 12 people in a square mile...and two dogs. I don't include dogs in the animal census since they walk that fine line between man and beast. Yeah, I know they aren't the missing link...well, maybe they are. The relationship man has with dog goes way back, linking modern man to his prehistoric predecessors, dog with his own.
Who was by mans side, cleaning up the after dinner bone yard, his ambrosia? Dog. Who was there to keep the slightly less hairy man-beast warm before he knew how to chip flint? Dog. Who helped the inferior hunter to provide for his human pack and was content with his role as sentry for his humanoid erectus bipedal god? That's right, dog. So you could say that although an ambiguous one, he is the link to our sordid evolutionary past.
Would the power companies move us up the priority ladder and replace our antiquated lines if we could get them to acknowledge dog as a valid part of human populace in po-dunk? Even if they did award our canine side-kicks social standing, I don't think two dogs would make a hill `o beans.

I miss getting on this machine daily and rattling off at the keyboard, it's a therapeutic compulsion, remotely productive and kind of feeds the need for human contact, in a detached sort of way.
At least it gives me a little time to play tag with the native dust bunny warren.
word count 410
4/11/2005 8:51 PM

Open Season On The Missouri Sea Sponge

Morrel mushrooms grow 'round these here parts, which is cool. That means free, beefy shrooms for the table AND yet another Easter Egg type hunt and the adults can partake in it. We really look forward to these few days of shroom hunting every year. My grandson Haven, Merlin (the smartest dog in the world) and I are the hard-core hunters. Merlin has the nose, so he zeros in on them, I have the birds eye-view so I'm the spotter and Haven picks and totes since he's close to the ground and has thumbs.

You may be thinking that a four-year-old and a big mutt might not be the best folks to take into the delicate habitat of the Missouri Sea Sponge, but my boys are unique. They move slowly and deliberately, carefully eyeballing every inch of ground before committing sole to earth. That site alone is a rare treat. Picture it, boy, three-feet tall, Spiderman attire, bug print baseball cap (on account o' he likes bugs...a lot), meticulously picking his way on tiptoes in his Nike hikers with a Blue Bunny ice cream bucket and a sunflower walking stick (the old stalks make great pokey/walking sticks for squirts), while the ever-faithful Merlin (big yellow/brindle/whatever with a Science Diet physique, a city reject of questionable decent) mimics my gate fanatically, like the little pooch stepping over cracks in As Good As It Gets, with Jack Nicholson, like every obsessive compulsives canine should.

It being the first productive day and not getting out until dusk, I feel we did okay finding 16 Morrel, one tick and no snakes. Tomorrow I won't be able to get past dinner time without deep frying our finds and serving them up with a sloppy pile of ranch dressing. I've never seen anyone eat as many of those things as that scrawny kid can in one sitting, so it will just be a tease, a tasty one.
word count 332
4/9/2005 1:7 AM

Gaggle of Giggling Breasts

Revelling in my freedom from the manuscript that has consumed the majority of my time, a future centenarians life story, I spent this evening checking little to-do's from my list while nonchalantly browsing Writers sites. I noticed earlier in the latest issue of Writers Digest that the 74th Annual Writers Competition is upon us, so I had to check out the rules page. On my way there my A.D.D. detoured me. I decided to see what The Assignment was at WD online. Starving Writers all know it's a way to acquire some of those Writers Digest publications for free. That is, if you can shine in 75 words or less.

Assignment #183 "The Most Likely To..." ( What would it say under your picture in your High School year book?).

The Most Likely To...

...Remain a lone Malibu Barbie
On the outside of our resident gaggle of giggling breasts,
Bouncing off each other like Pachinko balls, all shiny and dense to the death.

Don't `spect I'll win, but at least I gave myself a good giggle.
word count 189
4/6/2005 10:23 PM

Embryonic Socialite Super-hero's

Little kids are cool. Their sleep habits can be molded, the faster the food, the more apt they are to eat it, they'll wear anything, and their favorite birthday present is the box, and best of all, they are extremely easy to impress. Can there be a more perfect companion? I had to mature some to learn to appreciate all that makes these embryonic socialites such supreme sidekicks to the matriarchal.

I can say in all honesty that my true appreciation for the diminutive came about soon after I was told a house cat was out of the question. Being a woman I like to cuddle, but only with something just as willing to cuddle back.

I was aloud to have a fish. While he is beautiful to look at, he is wet and cold and is content to breath the very water he defecates.

I love my dog Merlin, but I don't want to sleep with him. Although he adores me and wouldn't be happier if he could actually crawl inside my skin to be near me, he licks his butt, thinks cat doodle is an hors d'oeuvre, and his favorite cologne is Odeur de Road Kill. So I try to identify any strange odors before doggy/ human contact. Not something I want to have to do every time I feel like a hug, so I was really pressing the why-I-need-a-kitty argument.

You see, John is not very cuddly. In fact he is so not the cuddle-Meister that he likes his own bed...in his own room. It's not a totally bad thing given that he is a restless bed hog, snores, feels the need for an alarm clock that triggers my shock module to such an extreme that bladder malfunction is a given, and that he sleeps on a concrete mattress under so many blankets that it would crush a small child. I, on the other hand, enjoy few blankets and a pillow-top mattress so soft that a cat would sink, a timid clock that coerces me to consciousness with the melodious sounds of the rain forest and most importantly not waking up with a black eye.

After a few years I started getting very lonely. He still wouldn't give ground. In the meantime my children began the period of procreation attractive young people are known for and started producing little tiny people. Really cute ones. I soon lost interest in the furry friend thing and started borrowing babies for company. One of them in particular loves Grandmas big fluffy bed so much I'm having a hard time weaning him in the post toddler-hood state.
These days I have an endless supply of human lap-cats all standing in line clad in super-hero PJ's with their favorite story books tucked under their arms and I wouldn't trade them for anything.
I'd still vie for the puddy-tat on those off days. There's just something about the mutual contentment of the relationship that rounds out the household.
word count 490
4/1/2005 2:18 AM