Now that's what I'm talkin' about

Today I took PTO (paid time off) with the plan to completely douche this douchebag divepit we call home.  I had grand ideas-floors, cobwebs, toilets, the complete nit-and-gritworks.

So, this morning I was enlisted to make roux for Mr. Froth's gumbo that's currently cooking in our new crockpot. It turned out to be perfect roux, nutty brown and redolent of fried flour.

Then I proceeded to truly clean the guest bathroom. I did not know those things on the floor were actually hovering in the air and were heavy enough to fall and attach themselves to the back of the toilet and baseboards. You know. Those things. The bathroom things. I kilt them all and the bathroom sparkled.

Perhaps I got distracted by Words with Friends or doing a crossword puzzle with Mr. Froth, but I was forced to watch him vacuum and mop the floor whilst I got my nails did.

Then I ate some of the most tastebud titillating hummus I've ever experienced which was a leftover from a work event the other night. The caterer was GOOD.

Then I came here which is to be an impetus for me to take a shower, clean the shower after I take it and then get the rest of my toes did.

I don't know how Merry Maids do it.

Oh yeah I'm a political expert

My general opinion of all politicians is that they are all fraught with strange failings in greater quantities than the general public. Like they screw around, they give and take surreptitiously more so than I do, they "compromise" in ways that would make me squirm on a daily basis and they have egos that are cancerous in size.

With that said I am completely nonplussed at the comparative judgments made on particular peeps' personal lives and how it affects the political process in our real time. I'm not talking about people who fuck around now, or in office now, (and don't even go to the Clinton impeachment process. THAT was for perjury. Not fucking around. Did you forget?)or even within the past few years, but, who have made, arguably, without input from both sides, questionable decisions in their past affaires d'amour. You know, like Newt.

Would someone please tell me how his three marriages with their surrounding circumstances are more condemning than Clinton's peccadillos? In the Oval Office? While he was working?

Would someone please tell me why Clinton and Obama are described as brilliant, when, they are, in fact, mouth breathers and prompter-needers of the first degree?

I don't know for whom I'm going to vote. I know it wouldn't be Ron Paul. He's too old and crazy. If Mitt gets elected, obviously I have no choice because, seriously, anyone other than Obama. But, ol' "erratic" Newt is by far an actual smart person to consider. If you discount his bizarro global warming commercial with Nancy of the botoxed face and his lobbying of Fannie Mae, he pretty much proffers what we're needing to discuss/do about. I also think he could draw the always looming independent vote/spoiler group away more so than Mitt could.

Every single candidate has unpleasant background, and I'm not going to enumerate them all, because then I'd have to enumerate Obama's unvetted, unexamined and bogus life and political experience and then I'd get all PISSY ALL OVER AGAIN.

Ground See Page

Mr. Froth and I continue to do crossword puzzles. With mixed results. I'm this close to giving him a noogie on his bald  part.

It's not even a nasty crossword-just a medium (renamed from easy, I think) in a book.

The clue as given by him was "ground see page." Spoken as if it contained three words. He even spelled it.

No. It was "ground seepage," which is easily figured out. I, however, was thinking "like a "see page" in a book? A clue? A hint? Maybe track or trail or spoor?"

No. It was "ooze." Which any normal non discombobulated person would arrive at if the clue giver spoke English.

Loveseats

Mr. Froth and I are doing crossword puzzles outside on the deck, as is our wont, or pattern, actually...and one of the clues was "love and mercy, e.g." The answer was "seats."

Which lead me to ruminations about loveseats. We have always had some sort of loveseat. It's a nice sized piece of furniture and goes with the sofa (or Davenport as we liked to call them back in the day).

Perhaps I'm making this all up, in which case it's no different than usual, but I understand that loveseats were called that because they offered Victorian sorts a place upon which to perch their bloomers and consider love, while not actually doing anything about it, other than moisten their hidden body parts in preparation for when they went to the illicit "lovebed."

So the loveseat became all disheveled and smelly and the pile on the upholstery got worn and then the young child of the family would go over and sit on the loveseat and drop crumpet bits on it creating a crunchy base for the next round of not-doing-anything-about-love duo.

Eventually the loveseat would go to the attic and be picked by some cable guys and resold for 21st century money, crunchy smelly bits and all.

The loveseat above is not as ugly as I hoped to find on the innertubes but it is evocative of boobs, which I think is appropriate.

Now for Something Uplifting and Piece/Peaceful

My sister in law is an unassuming, loving, dryly quick witted brilliant quilter and artist. I mean, she's a seriously good quilter, as in juried shows, prize winning and like that. She's also essentially fearless, because through her church she has developed an amazing quilting ministry in Africa (Burundi, Congo and has been asked to teach in Kenya and Rwanda) called Peace Through Pieces.  This is a wonderful slowly expanding ministry teaching women skills that help support them and make them teachers. These women have lost family members and friends, been raped and maimed and have lived through hell.




Miss Patty is a wonder. Check out the link for more information. It's astounding.

Crap day yesterday

Just an enervating clusterfuckery day. See, on certain days I have to compile material to be couried to the powers that be. It involves creating a pdf out of a boatload of memos, attachments and assorted detritus. It's not rocket science. But, it's tedious and time consuming and the laws of physics dictate that paper comes out of a printer at a prescribed pace and if there are hundreds of pages and several books of the hundreds of pages and the courier is going to be there in an hour ONE MUST CUT OFF SUBMISSIONS AT SOME POINT.

But, no. I kept receiving revisions up to twenty minutes before it would have been drop dead time. Which meant I had to replace, reinsert, repaginate, renumber agendas, replace, repaginate and finally get a final okay on the finished product that was 250 pages long. And, I had to run seventy miles to the other end of the building to get the shit bound and then run back and then run back again and then do it again and I was pissed. And my feet hurt. And and and. I know, don't start too many sentences with and. I don't care.

I was mentally bitch slapping and "fuckers" at everyone I passed, even if they weren't responsible. They were in my way.

Now it's today and I ranted again and I feel better and wasn't this boring?

How Ideas Become Great Literachuh

Early this morning, during the exodus of wispy, mottled-gray dream remnants and just before sunrise, I lay in bed, curled around my down-escaping pillow. My crusty eyelids were squinched shut, my nose was whistling and my upper back was tensed in fear that Dot or Merv would, once again, want to go in/out/in/out/in/out/scratch door/mew/chirp/in/out/in/out.

And that was when "The Great Unwashed" scrolled across my brain, out of the blue. What did it mean? Is this an essay I should write? A short story of bleakness overcome by glittering hope and free credit cards?

And that was when I opened my mouth into the pillow folds after which escaped breath that defied the emissions from the least-maintained septic tank in history.

My body has its own organic screensaver in my morning head.