Hot dog!

Leave it to Didgeridoo Boy to find something so wonderful. Trust me - it's good:

Rock on, and enjoy your weekend! (And have a chili dog!)

Hushpuppied...

So, just *how* much do we love hushpuppies, aka "koppins"?

Didgeridoo Boy is a very big fan of hushpuppies, which he calls "koppins". He dances while I'm mixing the batter, cavorts during the heating of the deep fryer (of which he is king), and tries to eat them while they're still so hot that he has to go off and stomp. However, he's always been insistent that we purchase a bag of House Autry brand mix for them; no matter how many times I tell him I have what I feel is a better way, he wants the red bag of stuff. To him, it's easier - add water, stir, spoon, plop, sizzle, drain, cool (for the love of the gods, cool those bad boys), and eat.

Last night Didge wanted "zee koppins", and told me to prepare the mix. I told him we had no mix, but that I had a bag of Martha White buttermilk cornmeal mix (with HOT RIZE!), and that I could mix hush puppies from that. I have told him this before, and he said it would not work. My mother makes hers this way, I told him, and he told me there was no way. I left it alone, as I felt no need to stomp his pinkie toe flat at that particular juncture.

Since he didn't feel like going to the grocery store, a wonderful thing happened: In the absence of his beloved red bag, I got to mix the hushpuppies mom's way. And then, in an exercise of cosmic balance, a terrible thing happened: I became aware of them as he was cooking.

(Bit of an aside - I am on day four of Baron Baptiste's 40 day program. Yes, I was very sick last week, so this might seem foolish - but considering that stomach flu followed a severe cold and that I remain stressed to the gills about all sorts of things in spite of a regular yoga practice, I figured the time was absolutely perfect. I'm kind of sort of supposed to be eating a little more mindfully, and grease has never been my friend. Okay. So now you know that. Back to the hushpuppies.)

I actually caught a whiff of them first. Best I go to the kitchen, I decided, so I could make sure that Didge didn't burn it down with the deep fryer only he is allowed to deal with. He said they were actually pretty good, so I had to make sure. And I will be darned if they didn't taste like the ones my mom makes. So I had another.

If you want to see what happens when I am in the presence of hushpuppies (particularly *those*) being cooked, take a cat to a fish fry. I nut up. Send me away, I will come back. Shout that I am about to burn my fingers, I will wait for a second and try again. Get in my way thinking you'll block me, I will get around you. Once I get one, I will run off to a distance of about five feet, eat it while watching your every move (because you're not going anywhere with that plate), and come right back. I can't help it.

Didge held up well. I don't think he was quite prepared for all of that, because he's never seen me enter the hushpuppy frenzy, but he made it through. He went through the whole thing like a champ - warning me that I would get burned, trying to get in my way, telling me to watch out. At the end, we had a little waltz while he tried to keep the plate away from me in a way that wouldn't make me think that was what he was doing. (HA!)

All told, I only had about three - my aim was, and has always been, for the small ones. (There is a particular size that I hunt.) When I was finished, I took a precautionary shot of Pepto before my very baffled beloved and got him something to drink. Leaving him with his plate of hushpuppies, I jotted off to the bedroom to avoid further temptation - I swear he looked relieved.

Kitten meets water bottle...

It was inevitable, I know. Jupiter Jones, our precious orange and white kitten with the gargantuan paws, has had run ins with the Evil Kitty bottle before. But just lately, he's been testing his boundaries. He responds very well to my impression of the buzzer from the Operation game, and seems to grasp that the word no means that he is to back away with great purpose. But he's a growing boy, branching out into his world, and that means he has to double check every single thing he's been informed he is not to do eight times over.

This means frequent encounters with the Evil Kitty bottle. Here it is:

He's taken to finding great sport in batting stuff off the breakfast bar for giggles. If he's not up to that, he's keenly focused on having some of that lunch you're enjoying, and once shoo'd away from the plate he's stalking back down to the floor, he'll damned well try to climb your leg. (Toughskins jeans. We need those to come back.) If made to leave something alone, he'll stalk around, walk right back over to whoever made him stop, and take a couple of swings at their shin.

So he's been a very clean kitten lately, you could say. Totsi the Dog hasn't felt the need to give him nearly as many baths. And I need a wrist brace, because guess who he won't respond to one whit when it comes to discipline? Didgeridoo Boy. If Didge trys to rock the Evil Kitty bottle, Jupiter either plays with the stream or tries to drink it. And for all of Didge's lamentations, howls, and shouts of "STOP IT!!! NO WE'RE NOT!", the kitten thinks of him as a giant toy. (But I'm the one who doesn't know cats.)

(Did you get that?)

But he's learning. I have to give the kitten credit, he really is learning. He might attempt something forty seven times in as many different ways, but he eventually stops, sits down, and purrs. And then he'll just go play - or climb Didge. Perpetually damp he may be, but our boy's getting it.

Clerks and Silent Didgeridoo...

I need a guide to all of the dialog from the "Clerks" films, and I need it with great expediency, because Didgeridoo Boy has a new language. That's right, darlings, he is only speaking Clerks. Every single question, every potential expressed, every request, every statement about the weather, any and every thing you can imagine gets Clerks as a response. He has the movies memorized, and they are all he will say.

Perhaps the situation is the key some of the time. Perhaps not. It's hard to tell - and I really don't know why he said, "Inter species erotica!", when I asked him to turn the television down a smidge. Sometimes he just says that at random, in the way of the Didgerifurbee, but in plain talk. Well, I say plain talk. It's not plain. It's English, but it is not plain. So back to exploring this idea of the situation determining the line/response - actually, hang that up. That's not it.

It is clear he enjoys the movies. But after a spat of simply imitating Jay in public, he is living and breathing them now, picking out the finest points to play repeatedly. While he speaks to everyone else normally, all I get is Clerks. He's told me them white boys will get those white girls to do anything, and forcefully said that something just centers him. (Alright??) I could ask him if he would like some French fries, and he would come back with asking me if I am trying to get fired. Sometimes he will dance.

I think he is somehow trying to embody every character. Idea! Let's encourage him to just go with Silent Bob! Do you think that might work? I could present it as a challenge, a bet that he couldn't channel Silent Bob for, oh, six or seven years. I mean days. Let's say a week of Didgeridoo Boy being Silent Bob and no one else. (Of course, that might mean that he just followed me every damned where, staring. Clearly, there are some kinks to be worked out.)

Silent Didgeridoo. Hm.

Let the sun shine...

Some entries write themselves.

I shared a song on Facebook. Didgeridoo Boy did not care for it, and said so. An exchange ensued.

And off I go (I couldn't get this all in one readably-sized snapshot):

(He says that a lot. I hear that he is going to put his foot in my posterior several times a day.) But, anyway, that exchange inspired me to post a status update:

Like I said, some write themselves.

Signs...

I started to take pictures of the living room yesterday evening, when I could stand it no longer and decided not to wait to clean it. This week, since I've been stuck in bed, I have been turning the proverbial blind eye on it any time I walked through - left to his own devices, Didgeridoo Boy can make (ahem) miracles happen. But I took a good, hard look around in there yesterday, and discovered that not only did I need to run the vacuum, that there was a crash during Didge's NOS-fueled Wednesday night. (I mentioned the possibility yesterday and wondered if I had imagined it - nope.)

Here's a little of what I saw when I finally decided to let myself look: The coffee table was askew. A bowl containing a few popcorn kernels was sitting on the coffee table. Beside that, there was a sticky patch. On the floor in front of the coffee table were the remainder of the popcorn kernels, about a billionty. By the chair in which Didgeridoo Boy sits while playing video games was a chocolate Tootsie Pop wrapper and stick - the stick was stuck into the carpet, and the wrapper was on top, stuck to it. Over in the corner by the entertainment wall was a peanut - one single, solitary, roasted peanut in the shell, fully intact.

So what happened? The kitten dashed across the coffee table, crashed into and knocked over the bowl of popcorn remnants (which contained additional snack wreckage), and played like crazy with what came out. I don't know what Didge did, beyond the fact that he didn't clean it up.

Can you tell I've been watching "Twin Peaks"?

Oh, need to mention this - a billionty popcorn kernels sucked into the canister of a vacuum cleaner make one of the most interesting sounds in the universe. That was a new one for me.

A little a.m. NOS banter...

GKG: "What time do I need to wake you?" (Repeat three times.)

Didgeridoo Boy: "CAN'T YOU FIND SOMETHING TO DO??? JEEZ!"

***

So, that being said, let's flash back to last night. Didgeridoo Boy went out at about 5pm and bought himself a colorful can of NOS energy drink, a strangely fruity concoction that leaves him as happy and jacked up as a four-year-old on Skittles at Halloween. Once he'd consumed some of it and danced, he happily settled in to watch "Toy Story III" while I wandered *back* to the bedroom to continue resting out my stomach bug.

A little while later, he popped into the bedroom door, jiggled his leg (regular readers will know this is a sign), and asked me for the tape. I told him where to find it, and asked what he was up to. He jiggled his leg some more. Then he told me that he would be rearranging the speakers to the television and stereo again. I stared. He assured me he wouldn't be needing me to help him, he just needed the tape so he could rearrange the speakers. Then he swore again I would not have to reach or crawl through anything. I continued to stare, and told him I would not be moving. He jiggled his leg. I said, "At all."

So off he went to take care of the entire project without me, and fast. Once finished, he watched what he swore was the greatest superhero movie he'd ever seen ("Kick-Ass"), if not one of the best movies he'd ever seen in his entire life, and danced even more - partially from excitement over the movie, I'm sure, but mostly from the zippity goodness of his NOS. Around 10pm, I left the bedroom for food, and found him engrossed in "G.I. Joe: The Rise of the Cobra". He was decidedly not enjoying that one. The dancing had turned to pacing, and what had been gleeful enthusiasm had turned to a very accelerated form of something resembling angst. I ate and ran - well, walked at a normal pace, which qualifies as running at present.

While I was asleep, I was aware of sounds of movement and conversation - I'm assuming he was on the phone. I also heard something crash, but that might have been a dream (here's hoping). When I got up at 8am, Didge was still awake, sitting on the couch looking at something on his computer. In the two minutes it took me to take care of the furboos and get a glass out of the cabinet for my iced coffee, he managed to fall out where he sat. I asked him what time I should wake him. He turned a full aerial roll, landing in the same spot, and said nothing. I asked again - because I need to know these things. He kicked. On the third time, he told me to find something to do.

So, yes. I can find something to do. Mom and I are going to have lunch and work on a battle plan for painting the house, and I think I might go to a well-stocked purveyor of toys for a hula hoop that rattles. We have a very spacious living room with a high ceiling that will be perfect for remastering an activity I loved so much as a child. Isn't it wonderful to have your beloved so greatly inspire such rediscovery?

Keep calm...

Okay, seriously. Enough of the sick nonsense. In keeping with my vow to post five times a week and write in the moment, I will tell you precisely what I am doing right now - but when you're sitting in bed drinking rehydration fluid and nibbling on crackers, life can tend to be a tish dull.

I'm knee deep (figuratively speaking) in my cute little hot pink Filofax (hush) which I have, as of yesterday, given a KEEP CALM theme. Might as well hop on board the trend a little late than never, right? I even ran up double-sided to-do pages that say "KEEP CALM and DO THIS", with little crowns where check boxes should be. Sections have been set up, complete with a pertinent KEEP CALM sigil - the blogging section has "KEEP CALM and BLOG ON", and the yoga section has "KEEP CALM and CARRY OM". Again, I would ask that you please hush, because you need to reserve your energy for reacting to what I put on the front of the contacts section: "KEEP CALM and HELLO KITTY". Oh, yes. I surely the hell did. (We say "hello" to our contacts, do we not?)

I drew the line at "KEEP CALM and CARRIE BRADSHAW", but find the inclusion of "KEEP CALM and HAVE A CUPCAKE" absolutely vital. Where, I don't know, but it'll be in there. I also found "FREAK OUT and BREAK STUFF" and the stellar "STRESS OUT and THROW VASE". I'm kind of considering combining those three into a little collage.

At the very end of this organizational wonder I plan to put in a nice piece of cardstock emblazoned with "I'M GETTING BORED with THIS POSTER NOW".

Let me think - has anything else happened? No. Other than the facts that I am almost all the way through the second season of Twin Peaks and have rekindled my love of potato soup. And, hot damn, I do love a nap. I did manage to get upstairs yesterday, have my legs turn to utter Jello, and greatly entertain Didgeridoo Boy trying to get back down (I won't let him help me with things like that). But that's all.

So I'm going to get back to all of this loveliness. In honor of my wobbly legs, have a vintage Jello advert:

Not saying anything...

I swear. I'm not saying a word, not one, I am not going to say one blasted thing about Didgeridoo Boy's plans for the home theater. Actual theater seats? Sure thing! Five of them? I'm not saying a thing.

I am not saying a thing about the fact that there is not enough room for that many seats, and that he promised not to make it ugly in that room. I'm not saying anything. I am going to trust him. And would you like to know why I'm not saying anything and why I am going to trust him?

Because, as I mentioned before, he said he would run no interference whatsoever with the rest of the house if I let him do that room to his liking. Okay. Okay. I am breathing deeply, and I am finding a place of being centered and at peace and I am not saying anything. But the subject I am avoiding is no longer the seating overload. Oh, no. The subject I am now avoiding by not saying anything about it is the paint color I have chosen for the bedroom.

Isn't it funny how I can take myself from raving to smirking in just a matter of seconds?

(In case you're wondering, yes, I am still sick. Doesn't show at all, does it?)

Great gawdamighty...

And a happy good day to you! I'm sick as a dog with some variety of tummy nightmare that is, I am convinced, trying to kill me. Yesterday was an interesting ride through hell, during which I lamented that fact that I had only just recovered from a cold and was really enjoying my evening Kundalini yoga sessions that I would probably never be able to do again, as I was sure death was imminent.

In true Casa Didgeridoo fashion, however, the day wasn't without a highly surreal moment - we don't really know normality here, we live in a blur of cartoonisms. When one of us is sick, it's no different, and is actually somewhat enhanced. When exactly I did this I do not know, but I made my way up the stairs to my bathroom (aka the Temple of High Maintenance) and made a little bed on the floor. I even took a pillow, although I cannot tell you how I managed to get that upstairs with me - - I can't walk very well, so I'm having to take stairs on all fours. It's likely I had it in my mouth, but we'll be leaving the subject alone now. I got my very warm Hello Kitty throw and a rug, put my pillow on the floor, and set up nap camp right by the commode. And there I slept.

I was dreaming that I was in Hawaii. This tapping noise struck up, and I couldn't figure out what it might be - was it a bird? Might it be a helicopter from the helicopter tour place down the road from the condo? Wasn't it a strange time of day for the grounds crew to be mowing? I realized I was on the bathroom floor as Didgeridoo Boy opened the door. He was holding Jupiter Jones, and Totsi the Dog peeked in around him. All three of them were staring at me goggle-eyed, and I said, "I think I'm really sick." Didge said, "Ya think?", and told me to come set up camp on the couch and that he would get me something to sip. So that's what I did, and then I toddled right on back to bed.

One might think I would have quit such unseemly behavior with being discovered sacked out on the floor of the bathroom, but I didn't. Oh, no. I took it out amongst people this morning, on a run for sickie food. As if basically staggering through Publix wasn't enough, I noticed that my wane appearance wasn't the only reason people were staring at me as though very concerned - I had somehow managed to smear my Eyeko Strawberry Fat Balm all around my lips. So, yes, I just traipsed through the grocery store, wobbling, propped up on my shopping cart, perspiring, with lipstick smeared on my face, smiling and saying hello as if nothing was amiss.

I'm officially putting myself on retreat until I can stop behaving this way. I have ginger ale, the makings of my favorite rehydration beverage, oyster crackers, and some other things that I can't remember at the moment. Those will be nice surprises, I'm sure, after I take in a Twin Peaks marathon and figure out a way to keep the bed from spinning.

In which I figure it out...

And, might I add, in which I think Didgeridoo Boy got what he wanted all along. I just realized that. I just realized he totally won while letting me think I won. Hold on while I go off and scream in a pillow for a second. Check out this picture of Totsi the Dog in the alien hat to entertain yourself:

Alright, I'm back. I think I can address this sensibly now - screaming into a pillow has a way of restoring sanity.

For weeks, usually around 11.30pm, Didgeridoo Boy would set himself up to listen to Coast to Coast AM, select a video game, and begin fiddling with the great infernalness that is his array of speakers. His chair would be positioned just.....so. He'd get up to turn a speaker at just.....the right.....angle. He'd walk around the living room to consider. And then, as soon as I wandered back to the bedroom to turn in and had settled into bed to read, he would appear in the bedroom and do this:

What's that? Well, that's a dance. Those are clips from a video I took of him dancing to the noise air makes when it's blown through the space between his two front teeth. The video is sideways thanks to how I held the camera (duh!), so when played it gives the impression that he's flailing around like a fish out of water, and in that is actually a little disturbing. But stills? Oh, the glory of a still.

Back to the matter at hand. Didge started casually strolling into the bedroom a few times an evening and doing that dance. And then he would position himself on one foot, leaning towards the bedroom door, with that same expression on his face. He would then walk around the bedroom, and leave. His arrival back in the living room would be heralded by interesting fluctuations in the volume of his video game or movie. Very interesting fluctuations, actually, and always resulting in the volume being just a wee tish higher. And then he would come back and perform the entire routine again.

He said he was coming back to say goodnight and play with Totsi the Dog one more time before she went to sleep. Horse absolute scat - piles thereof, even! He was checking to see how high he could get away with cranking up the volume on his nightly entertainment choice.

After several lively discussions revolving around his scientific explanations pertaining to acoustics and me being called a dunce, I finally came up with a solution: Turn the back room, which is now the dining room, into a home theater. It's perfect. Sealed off from the rest of the house by a heavy door, and sharing no walls with either of our neighbors, Didge could play his games and watch movies in his own little almost-soundproof zone. In exchange? I could decorate the whole rest of the house at my whim with no interference or objections from His Didgeliness.

I have been prancing proud over this for a couple of weeks, and I'm still really happy with the outcome. But I've just realized he drove me to it - I didn't come up with a damned thing on my own. So did I still win? Just tell me I did so I don't have to scream into a pillow anymore. My throat hurts.

Snake...

Yesterday, I decided to do Didgeridoo Boy the favor of pulling the monster trash can up the very big hill and to the driveway for garbage day. After that spot of fun, I went back down to the back yard to make sure the gate was closed. Where the trash can had been, I noticed something and walked right over to the spot to see what it was.

That something turned out to be a snake. Not a very big snake, and a manic Google spree turned up that he probably wasn't a venomous snake, but a snake nonetheless. A mother flippity flipping snake, that I'd just happened to walk within about three inches of - - in flip flops. There was a, "What IS that?", moment that merged seamlessly into mute panic, and I hopped on one foot while silent whistling (you know, when you purse your lips and blow in a way that nothing comes out) to the base of the stairs that lead up to the deck. I very deliberately stomped up those, got to the top, and announced, "Oh, my word, it is a mother ******* snakesnakesnake." Then I went in the house, walked straight to the bedroom, and freaked the hell out.

This morning, following a friend's recommendation, I went to Tractor Supply and purchased a large container of non-toxic snake repellant that smells very like cloves and spices. It's kind of nice, actually. And as soon as the rain has cleared, I'll jot right out and mull the back yard with it.

Didge is going to have such a fine time moving that trash can back to its home.

Five little minutes, ten easy steps...

How can a kitten and a dog destroy a living room in five little minutes?

First, they jump backward from each other, landing in such a way that their butts are in the air.

Then, one will run, with the other giving chase.

They will pause, jump backward from each other again, scooch down to the floor and do the bouncy wiggle hop back. This is a powerup, the level of which is indicated by the degree to which their eyes start gleaming with crazy.

They will run laps, many, many laps, around the living room. This is a secondary powerup, the longer they go, the greater the speed, and the higher level of energy they are storing for what is to follow.

Side to side jumping ensues, indicating power stores are leveling out and being distributed for maximum release.

Kitten leaps from center of living room to the back of the sofa, and begins running back and forth, while the dog anxiously spins in anticipation.

When the kitten leaps, landing suspended upside down from the side of the sofa, the dog sails to the couch, landing on it in such a way that most of the cushions are knocked free and the slipcover is completely pulled off one end.

The kitten makes his airborne way to the coffee table, clearing the top as he dashes across it, jumping off the end, and running back through the shelf underneath - clearing that as well. He exits in a way that knocks it crooked.

The dog jumps over the coffee table from the partially destroyed sofa, and chases the kitten down the hall, back again, and in a trotting lap around the very, very outermost perimeter of the living room.

They decide to run through the kitchen, lose control coming around a sharp turn, and slide in tandem into the water dish, sending it (no kidding) sailing into the living room where it douses the carpet.

And now you know.

Heat beating...

Didgeridoo Boy and I decided to beat today's ghastly high heat and humidity by heading out on errands nice and early.

Translation: I thought it might be a good idea to hurry up, get out, come home, and hide before all unholy hella-hot hell busted loose in the great outdoors, and wound up chasing a Monster-fueled Didge around Target.

When I lose him, which is inevitable, I will find him perusing either electronics or toys.

Look! He's Thor! Those didn't come home with us.

This, however, did:

The dollar bins are great for finding things that can turn your husband into a cat toy.

Enjoy your day.

I'm free...

This is a momentous day, everyone. Totsi the Dog, with a little assistance from Didgeridoo Boy and me, has finally weaned her kitten.

And what do I mean by "a little assistance"? Well, confinement, basically. We had to keep them separated. I have been pretty much living in the bedroom with Totsi. Didge has been, apparently, camping in the living room with the kitten (three cheers for FlyLady!). This seemed like a really great idea at first, something simple that would work quickly and get everyone squared away, on track, and with every last proverbial duck in the correct row. That did not happen. Instead, it took about two months - Jupiter Jones is very strongwilled, and Totsi has a very strong work ethic.

But today, it's all over. I am writing in the living room, on the sofa. Totsi is tending to Jupiter, but he is not nursing. Didgeridoo Boy? He's asleep. But he is in the bedroom.

I think I'll go skip all over the whole house - because I can.

About last night...

As I've mentioned, I have been taken through the wringer by a cold that showed some signs of graciously leaving me alone last night. Didgeridoo Boy, who's been down with it as well, also found himself feeling a little better, so we decided to do some housework. (Gooooo, TEAM!)

We were in the dining room, muddling around, purposefully procrastinating, when the lights blinked off, and back on. Didge and I looked at each other and bobbed - you know, that bendy knee bobbing movement. We both put our arms out like dj's about to put the needle on the record. They blinked again, and we bobbed again, looking up. (It's amazing the level to which he and I can unintentionally synch ourselves.) And then we looked out to the woods behind the house, to the side of the road where the power lines are, and noticed that a power line was bobbing up and down right along with us.

"What the hell??", Didge asked, as I pushed him out of the way and started to go out to the deck. He pulled me back and made it to the door first, and just as I ran into his back there was a SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS sound. Smoke was billowing out around the top of a power pole. A series of loud pops followed, featuring gigantic sparks that flew about fifteen feet up into the air. I yelled, "NINE ONE ONE? FIRE? SHIT? OHHHHH MYYYYYY GAWWWWWWD!". Didge called 911, claiming I was far too excited to talk to them clearly, finishing his conversation with them just before I stopped jumping up and down, moving from the dining room to the deck and back again. I seem to remember yelling, "TREEEEEES!" during the call, as the line is very, very close to some trees and I was very concerned that they would be set ablaze. Never mind that it had been raining on and off. Just disregard the fact that after the smoke and sparks, there were no flames.

(So, yes, I was jumping up and down on the deck yelling "TREEEEEEEES!" - but only for a second. There. I've admitted to it. I just wanted him to tell the 911 person that there were trees, because I thought somebody needed to know.)

All told, we were only without electricity for about an hour, and as soon as it was back on we cleaned up, had dinner, watched a movie, and ended the evening with Didge playing Grand Theft Auto as Totsi the Dog and I wandered back to bed. Other than the bird or squirrel we think likely caused the explosion (.....moment of silence.....), everything is fine and nothing caught fire. Not even the trees.

An afternoon with Jupiter Jones...

Apologies in advance if this is muddled - I'm still wrestling a cold and am not having much success in getting out of its headlocks.

Yesterday marked a first for me. I have never been sick on the couch while having to attend to the attentional needs of a kitten. For the first few hours, he slept on my knee, burrowing down into a nice patch of my favorite duvet, occasionally stretching and blinking very sweetly. Totsi the Dog, napping at the end of the couch, would wake up for a second and nudge him, and he would drift back off. I thought maybe he would stay calm like that all day, and marveled at what a mellow little kitten Jupiter has turned out to be.

To hell with that, though. Once his batteries were recharged, he hopped off the couch for a round of havoc wreaking fit for a tasmanian devil. For a warmup, he retrieved a series of kibbles out of Totsi's bowl, batting them around the kitchen floor like mad until they zipped under the refrigerator. When one was lost, he would go back for another. I tried taking them from him, but he only scored another replacement. This went on for a good while. Once he bored of that, he teleported into the living room and hurled himself against the paper over the fireplace repeatedly. This had the effect, somewhat, of a drum. He seemed to enjoy that immensely, resulting in a few well-aimed sprays from the Evil Kitty bottle.

Jupiter sought revenge for the spraying by getting up under the slipcover on the couch and running sideways, back and forth, along the back. He would wind up by my head, and go back down, finally winding up so confused I had to get him out. And then the little so-and-s0 pounced right upon my head, bounced off, landed in the middle of the coffee table, and tried to sink his teeth into the power cord for my computer. Back we went to the Evil Kitty bottle.

And back he went to seeking revenge. Totsi left the room. She had been trying to distract him, but finally could take no more, trotting very purposefully right down the hall to the bedroom. I tried to get her to come back out, and she refused to move, giving me the same look she does when I am trying to get her to relieve herself in the rain. Left to Jupiter-sitting on my own, I was treated to everything from him getting back up under the slipcover and biting my big toe to him popcorn jumping all over me with his claws fully extended.

He polished off his performance by hopping down, running a few spinny circles around the living room, hurling himself into the paper over the fireplace again (more Evil Kitty bottle), and finally, FINALLY, deciding it was time to climb the wire shelf known as "Mothercrap", (which is now totally bare and waiting to be taken elsewhere):

I couldn't stop him. For at least half an hour, he tried to scale "Mothercrap" while I panicked and hopped up to stop him. The best he could do was make it to the second shelf, where he would hang, swinging, until falling flat on his back. And then he would get up to do it all again after a period of seeming to rework his strategy. I almost lost my mind, because if you study that picture, you will see the mini lights trailing away from its side that are wound through all the stuff on the mantle. Breakable stuff. Antique stuff. Irreplaceable stuff. Holy hell. I'll stop before I upset myself. (Note to self: Take those lights down.)

I'm back in the bedroom today. I think that says it all.

Denial IS a river...

Bear with me. I am trying to enter a strong fortress of denial, and can't get the gate open.

Didgeridoo Boy was feeling rather squeamish on Sunday, but he eats things that no healthy person should be able to eat - - and thrives. So he wasn't sick. It was just all the overly-processed pseudo food catching up with him. There. Okay, I think the gate's wiggling.

It was actually rather chilly last night. Really. I know this is Augusta, Georgia, and that it is July and that July in Augusta, Georgia is not one of life's pleasant experiences unless you stay in the air conditioning and only leave your house when it's dark (and then it's challenging), but this cold patch we're having is offering a nice respite. For a while, I thought it was January. Ah! I can see into the fortress!

I actually want to be wound up like a burrito in my favorite duvet on the couch this morning. I am not sick, I am having a retreat day with lots of hot tea and miso soup. That I feel like I am dreaming this experience when I am not sneezing is irrelevant. The gate! I think it's open!

My abs are sore from yoga. That's what all this body ache nonsense is about, it is a simple case of over working my abs.

I'm in! I'm in!

Translation: I am so sick I can hardly see. Woke up at around 4.30am simultaneously freezing, hot, and feeling like the room was moving. Totsi the Dog promptly sat upon me to see if I was okay, and when I tried to tell her I was fine, I made a croaking sound - - and it was painful. So I'm sick.

Alright, I'm going back into my fortress of denial now, where this is merely a retreat featuring lots of tea.

Cold brewed madness...

I have recently discovered the wonders of cold brewing my coffee. Iced coffee is an important part of my life, very important, and running across what's touted as something just shy of magic was impossible to ignore. Saturday night, I mixed up my coffee grounds and water, and was actually excited about trying the finished product the next day. I bounced out of bed Sunday morning, put a small amount of ice in a glass (because it's already cold, you know), poured a generous amount of cold brewed goodness, topped it off with half and half, and took a sip.

I inhaled that glass. Oh, it was good. Then I made myself another, and set about writing for a while. Wow, that second one was good, too. Decided to have a third, again, with very little ice.

Just one problem with enjoying that much of it with very little ice: It is a concentrate. Somehow, I had failed to absorb that. For a while, I thought something was wrong. I was shaking and sweating, thought a panic attack was coming on. And then I wondered if I didn't have a touch of a cold, why on earth was I perspiring so? Turned on the ceiling fan, kicked back the a/c....

....and finished that third glass. Maybe I needed to perk myself up a little, I thought, since certainly I had a cold. That was at 10.30am.

At 9.30pm, I had to take a Hyland's Calms to take the edge off. At 11.30pm, I finally, FINALLY yawned, and was so relieved I told Didge about it. He looked at me like I was crazy, and I explained that I'd had the equivalent of at least six cups of coffee. He looked at me like I was crazy some more and remarked that THAT was what had been wrong with me all day.

I am now limiting myself to one glass a day, made with lots of ice.

Happy 4th!

Oh, yes. The 4th of July. Day of Suburban Mayhem. It's time for flag cakes, cookouts, and running like hell to get the hose when good ol' Dad sets the azaleas on fire with a bottle rocket. And, yes, that really happened. Thirty one years ago today, my dad set the azaleas on fire with a poorly-aimed bottle rocket, leading to a frantic scramble to get to the hose - - which was behind the very same azaleas.

A few years before that, on the Bicentennial, I decided to make my own fireworks upon growing impatient for that part of our family celebration to start. So I dug out a toy gun I had been given for Christmas a couple of years before, that had been languishing in the utility room. It made a convincing noise, and produced "real smoke". Out to the screened porch I went, up onto one of the picnic tables I hopped, and opened fire repeatedly. It made its convincing noise, neighbors started looking around for who had the gun, and Mom made me come inside.

Back to Dad. A couple of years after that, he set off a string of small, red firecrackers and had one mysteriously drift up into the air and POP about three feet right over his head. He nearly sat down in the middle of the street, while Mom and I laughed our behinds off. I might have been rolling on the driveway a bit.

We had the ribs catch fire on the grill one year. They burned to pork charcoal, and for a while our entire screened porch was nothing but a big cloud of smoke. Mom and I made a run to Wifesaver, an Augusta institution, for fried chicken.

And last year, Didgeridoo Boy sprayed a pink spot in my hair with spray paint. (I know I've mentioned this before. I also mentioned this: Mayonnaise gets spray paint out of hair.) He still finds this funny, which I suppose makes him feel safe.

Today, we're going to grill burgers, watch "Jaws", and play with two kinds of sparklers, standard and "Morning Glory". I am hoping for a happy, uneventful holiday free of spray paint, burning azaleas, sneaky firecrackers, flaming grillables, and toy guns scaring the neighbors. I also hope Didge doesn't decide to go streaking wearing sparklers as antlers.

Have a brilliant, fantabulous 4th of July even if it's not celebrated where you are.

Fry-day morning...

Didgeridoo Boy and I will be busy most of the day today, so I have no idea if I'll have time to sit down and write. (I don't keep a huge backlog of entries ready - in fact, most are kicked off from a cold, coffee-fueled start every morning. I know, I know. I am clearly insane.) So, there might be a proper entry today, or there might not. Considering that today began with having to get Didgeridoo Boy out of bed early, I might be shaking, bordering on brain-dead, and ready to just sit in the corner and suck my thumb for several hours by the time we return home. (My beloved is NOT a morning person.)

But I'm not leaving you without entertainment. Have some Daria! Everyone needs a little Daria from time to time.

Tags:

Daria, MTV Shows