Happy Newish Year Almost!

To all of yas that I haven't commented to or did comment to or thought about commenting to and even those who I can't comment to this last week or so--------I hope your next year is blessed. And super duper and fun and not grating and endurable and INSERT WHAT YOU WANT HERE.

This last year has been, well, interesting. Things happened. Or they didn't. Jobs were lost and regained or maintained. Dear animules were lost and others were maintained with gusto. Children were employed and enhoused in their own abodes. Cars were stolen. Fingernails were painted and unpainted.

Interestingly, I thought I needed to acquire some funky, blingy, entertaining rings. For Christmas the eldest Frothlet presented a truly outstanding gaudy shiny silvery rhinestoney ring to me from the store where he works.

Interestingly, Mr. Froth came back from visiting his dad over Christmas with my mother-in-law's cache of costume and real jewelry rings, a couple of which I'm fairly nervous about. If they're real we need to get a gun or something to protect ourselves. Or, I'll just wear'em. The others are really, really nice custom pieces. Regardless, I now have rings coming out my wazoo. It's quite cool.

My father in law has continuing health probs but seems to be hanging in okay and is a sweetie.
Merv killed and ate a mouse earlier today.
I will be an auntie again for Dr. and Mrs. Foom's kidlets. My Antonio.
My  niece and her sweet entrancing girlie, who has some stuff to deal with, are flourishing. Hey, Miss Lily!
My other niece and hub and their growing baby boy are sparkling. First steps are a hoot.
My nephew and wife and huggable kidlets on the left coast are rocking on I'm sure.

Friends. Ah. Friends. They endure, and embiggen and endure and nourish.

I'm sure I'll have something more profound after champagne, but, for now, happy at ya.

Simple Hard Work

 I don't work out. I don't go to a gym. I walk occasionally with Mr. Froth, and, hopefully, if we ever get another pup I'll be regular about it. I walk really fast at work when I'm not sitting on my ass at my desk.

My point is--our grandmothers could probably have pulled out a concrete fence post base by hand without a tool. They may have had flabby bellies but their upper body strength had to have been awesome. I thought I had some decent arm strength going after several years of playing keyboard at the church I used to go to, which required me to practice every day since I played every week. It was fairly rigorous work. Plus, I type every day. There's something to be said about moving your shoulders and arms around while you surf produce memos and such.

But, but the last two days of making 900 thousand cookies and shit from scratch may have been one of my stupider endeavors. Not as stupid as when I made rommegrot ( I lost the link, but just google Norwegian pudding and you'll see the death-defying cream/butter/milk concoction in all its glory) one year using the wooden weirdly shaped beater that was an antique from my family. It took me 75 hours of stirring because I refused to use/didn't have a mixer.

Whatever--creaming sugar and Crisco (lard! lard! lard!) for 12 dozen gingersnaps and 5 dozen Snickerdoodles will get your blood flowing. Especially when it's nonstop since you have to fill up some gift bags for co-workers because you KNOW they'll give you something.

Those cake balls? They taste just fine. They look like crap. But, I don't care. Call me the Picasso of cake balls. Paula Deen can kiss my bony ass. Well, and the fact I couldn't find confectioner's coating so had to use chocolate chips and baking chocolate. And the dipping, twirling and placing of the precious balls didn't go quite according to plan. And I got tired after the first 3 million balls. Balls can kiss my bony ass.

And, the new cookie sheet I bought, one of three, was too large for the oven. That sheet can kiss my bony ass.

My fingernails are destroyed. The house smells divine.

All I have left are lemon bars. They may have to kiss my bony ass.

I'm going to go break something.

Christmas Hubris

I hate to push the poem down (READ THE POEM) but I must repeat what I posted on a message board that I frequent, because it's just so holidayish.

I don't bake because I'm exceptionally bad at it. However, since this year is going to be meager present-wise I thought I'd produce a motherlode of cookies and sweets that would create wonderful memories of mom being a Christmasy sort of baker person.
Oh sure.

Anyway, what prompted it was a friend at work giving me some cake balls that her husband had received as a gift and I ate them and my mouth exploded with happiness. So, she scoped out some recipes and this is the one I'm doing.
http://www.smithfield.com/recipes/recip ... cake-balls

It's not too terribly difficult, just labor intensive. Right now I have two batches chilling in the fridge for scooping and covering in a few hours. What presented more of a challenge is that my oven is small and I only have one decent cake pan. Though I did make do with two crappy ones for the chocolate cake.

Anyway, why not make more stuff? So, I'm cooking Seven Layer Magic Bars (the graham cracker crumb, chocolate chip, coconut bar thingie) only it's six layers because we're anti-nuts.

Then I'm going to make lemon bars.
Then I'm going to make gingersnaps.
Then I'm going to make snickerdoodles.
And maybe fudge. Or not. Maybe those saltine/chocolate toffee faker things.

I can't wait to start doing the balls--you have to freeze them after chilling them and making them ball shaped, before you dip them in chocolate. I'll be doing this at midnight.

None of this may get eaten, but I don't care. I'm on a roll.

The six layer monstrosity is cooling right now and actually looks like what it's supposed to. How did that happen? It may taste like shit, but I don't care.

I'm also baking potatoes for twice-baked and I'm going to freeze the extras (I'm cooking seven) because we've had the frozen ones you buy pre-made and they SUCK.

Somebody stop me. I may just take up mending and darning soon.

A Christmas Poem

TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE HOLIDAY
(Inclusive, Politically Correct and Annotated)

T’was the night before holiday(1) and all through the dwelling,(2)
Spread food-like aromas. The place was good-smelling.(3)
Footwear was stashed by the heat source(4) with care
With hopes somebody/something might show up there.

Small ones were nestled all snug in their cots
While visions of vegetables danced through their thoughts,
And parent figure(5) in headwear, and I in my vest,
Had just calmed our brains for a long winter’s rest.

When outside of the place, there rose such a clatter,
I opened my eyes to see(6) what was the matter.
Away to an opening, I peeked through a crack,
But kept my mouth shut so I wouldn’t talk smack.

The moon on the snow, pavement, grass, sand or dirt
Was so bright that it made my sleepy brain hurt.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But . . . nothing. Just nothing. To say more, I fear.

You might call me names. You may not hurt my feelings!
“Nutso”or “Crackpot” sends self-esteem reeling.
At the top of my voice, and with all of my breath,
I’d report your infraction and sue you to death.(7)

Then, in a twinkling, I heard from above
Some footsteps and scratches made with a glove.
At that very moment, I’d just turned around.
An intruder broke in, yet spoke not a sound.

He was dressed in strange garb from his head to his toes,
His appearance unkempt in those old, unwashed clothes.
Yet, on his back was a bag with bright paper
Perhaps purloined from a previous caper.(8)

[Redaction](9)

And yet I feared not as he started his work.
With a wide, winsome smile, he turned with a jerk
And filled up our footwear with loot from his bag –
Wrapped boxes and fruit. What beautiful swag!

Then the man left the same way he’d come in.
(I won’t be specific; I won’t tell you when.)
But I heard him exclaim as his form left my sight,
“Happy Something to all, whether daytime or night!”

__________________________

(1) Because not everyone celebrates the same religious/historical events, the generic “holiday” has been used for the sake of diversity and inclusiveness. A White House spokesperson has approved this footnote.

(2) Some places of residence may be best described not as houses, but as huts, apartments, mansions, tents, sewer pipes or bordellos. – ACORN

(3) People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) has requested that “creatures” of any description not be subjected to involuntary servitude, even in the service of poetry. For that reason, the whole “mouse” thing has been replaced.

(4) As various sources of heat may be related to economic status, none will be specified. The Environmental Protection Agency has expressed a preference for renewable, climate-friendly energy sources, where and when necessary for survival.

(5) Gender roles within families should not be assumed, nor will gender-specific garments be assigned, according to the Secretary of Education.

(6) While predominant methods of information gathering in many societies, nothing in this or any poem should indicate that sight, hearing and/or the ability to smell are necessary or superior methods of sensory input. (Advisories from the Department of Labor Office of Disability Employment Policy and the National Endowment for the Arts.)

(7) In this example, the word “death” is intended to be metaphorical, not literal. “The intentional infliction of end-of-life on another person, by whatever means, is a felony throughout the length and breadth of this great nation.” – spokesperson from the Office of the Attorney General

(8) All persons are innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. – Department of Justice

(9) All verses relating to the use of tobacco products and/or judgmental comments about the physical aftermath of chronically unhealthy eating habits have been deleted by request of the Office of the Surgeon General.

 

Presented by my friend Sliver, judymurphy@aol.com

She's quite brilliant.

Truckin', like a doodah idiot

Great week. Just fucking great start to a week. Sunday morning I hear Mr. Froth speaking with the eldest Frothlet. He thinks his car is stolen.

It was.

While Mr. Froth was taking a dump the Harris County Sheriff's Office called him, since we own the car and pay the insurance and have title and all the attendant bullshit. Yes indeedy. Eldest Frothlet had come home from work Saturday evening, parked his vehicle in his apartment parking lot and on Sunday morning, when he got up, planning to return to work, it was gone.

Whichever detritus took the car stripped it of the door panels, part of the front suspension and the wheels, which were new. And left various electronic bits and pieces hanging and the fucking car running in a Walgreen's parking lot. It was, operative word, WAS, a 98 Honda Civic. I know they're popular with chop shops, but Mr. Froth thinks it's because there were brand new tires on the sucker.

So, we're going to probably let it go to the police impound lot. The towing, fees and daily rates will let us have it, since the salvage value is pretty minimal and it certainly isn't fixable. Plus we didn't have comprehensive on an 11 year old car.

I'm happy I cashed out my PTO at work since that will pop some funds into the coffer to consider a new junker.

He will then be on his own for insurance and title and etc.

Moral to the story is, don't put new tires on anything you own. Don't have a Honda. Have a junker. Be rich, if possible.

The Froths' Christmas Letter

It’s been a year! We here in the Froth household like our years and we got a whole one!

2009 started off with January 1^st and continued on for several months after that, which allowed us to embark on a multitude of activities that enabled us to not live in cardboard boxes under the freeway (more about that later).

After celebrating our 28^th anniversary on January 10, Mr. Froth and I got blotto drunk on January 21 in celebration of hope and change. We had communed much too late in the summer with experts who had already moved their mutual funds into the cash market. This year we plan to drink better Nostradamus-infused vodka.

We are so blessed to have traveled to several exotic locales during 2009, including Tulsa, Fort Myers and Shenandoah, Texas. None of these included any OU championships, the sons a bitches. But, we took advantage of our disappointment and thought, in our mortal sorrow, of joining a local mega church. The Easter elephants and Blue Man Group baptism by immersion put us off a bit. We reconsidered, but the waiting list due to pachyderm poop disposal was just too long. We had months to conquer and the recycling market for elephant shit was just in its downturn so no church for us. Get a move on pastors!

Instead we ministered individually to the local feral hog and coyote population. Do you realize the close connection you, as a human carnivoristic animal (unless you’re one of those stinky vegans), have with the porkers and dogs? Well, we do.

What a roller coaster ride for Mr. Froth this past year! He was up for a double Nobel Prize, in peace and chemistry. Yeah. The latter for writing down, on the back of a credit card receipt (Already reconciled, too!), a proposed revolutionary new and improved, one of a kind, gas/oil ratio mixture for the weed eater. The peace deal would have been for his successful brokerage of a hidden truce between the neighbors on each side of the Froth manor as a result of fence atrocities, actual and imagined.

Well, as you know, the peace thingie went to the President. I don’t know who won the chemistry. Yeah. Personally, I’m thinking the prize committee was concerned about perceived conflicts of interest since I’m half Norwegian on my mother’s side. They were probably skittish about certain hooverage of the lutefisk and krumkake displays at the ceremony. But, it was an honor to be in the running!

Oh! Those young Frothlets have been busy, too! We’re amazed every time we look in the mirror and see our grizzled visages and we realize we pooped out some entrepreneurs par excellence! After submitting a business plan to the local Acorn office for funding Frothlets 1 and 2 were approved to run a World of Warcraft Gaming Salon and Cigar Bar. Since Mr. Froth and I don’t use the upstairs anyway we’re leasing it to the Frothlets and are silent partners/consultants in the business. Mr. Froth is able to deduct his cigar purchases now. Most of the flyers advertising this fabulous new neighborhood economic stimulus project are still attached to the street signs (there are only so many deed restriction monitors to go around) so we get continuous publicity. With the white noise machine in our bedroom and the industrial fan on the upper landing we don’t even know the salon is operating. Revenues are picking up and the spliced internet cables have only exploded twice, with minimal damage.

Everyone in the Froth house has excelled this year and that means Merv the Cat, too! Why, he’s been the cat for all seasons and has quite successfully mounted (Well. No. You know he doesn’t have those parts anymore.), or, established a little side extermination business—MBB&LB, Inc. has really taken off (Meece, Bird, Bat and Large Bug, Inc.) and once the neighbors quit bitching about Merv’s offloading of merchandise on their doorsteps he should be able to start charging for his work.

Next year promises to be even more thrilling than this. We plan to travel to all the continents and have signed up for Virgin Airlines space flight, to “attend” some state dinners and we’re going to begin a business!

The company will be called Modular Vacation Home and Pain Relief Dispensary, located in our dining room temporarily, and will offer customized, individually designed refrigerator boxes for Boomers who are looking to downsize before they die. The modules, in concept, fit snuggly pretty much anywhere there is an overpass and can be retrofitted for anthropogenic global warming potentialities. Once we figure out what licenses are necessary to sell repackaged Absolut and Excedrin we’ll be ready to go (Mr. Froth prefers Tito’s, but I think nationally the name recognition might be bigger with Absolut. Anyway, we're really only going to be using watered down Popov's). Let us know if you’d like to get in on the “ground floor” with this.

All of us Froths wish you and yours a Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah and know you wish you could be us, too.

Hum hum hum

Maybe I should try to get something done today for which I get paid. Like work work. Maybe. First I must yak about McDonald’s coffee. I stopped and got the #2, Sausage McMuffin, hashed browns and coffee, on the way in and inhaled the food immediately while driving. Oh, I was putting on my makeup, reading the newspaper that we don’t subscribe to anymore except for online, doing a mani-pedi and plucking my nose hairs, too. Wait. That was the guy in the other lane. He had some nice creamy lipstick.  At each corner I settled the coffee cup in its holder, like scientists settle, you know, science, so’s it wouldn’t spill.


Then, I got to work, threw away my trash hoping no raccoon would pop out of the dumpster, walked carefully up the steps (This is excrutiatingly boring, I know, yet it reminds me of people who tell me, in person, what they do, minute by minute, during entire periods of their waking existence. You know, I don’t give a shit. Get a blog.) As I walked carefully some coffee slopped on my hand.

That mother was HOT. I mean, their coffee really is hotter than hot. I started channeling whats-her-face, the old lady who sued, and almost, ALMOST, felt some sympathy for her.

Then I came to my senses.

However, later, whilst sipping the sludge thinking of what to type right here, I noticed that the coffee smelled like cat pee. It does. It has a bouquet, and hopefully no legs, quite like the Merv’s box. Or our eldest’s wardrobe upon which several cats have relieved themselves. They don’t live with us anymore.

Now all I can think of is cat pee. And how many commas I’ve used today.

Whistle and Blower

My goal today was to post something as a follow up post, or corollary post, or just another-blogger’s-take post to the lovely Joan’s most excellent discussion of all sorts of heady, important, thinky things.


But then I realized I would have to string together two or even more(!) coherent thoughts with supporting documentation or clauses and things, and, like, a point. That would not be happening anytime soon around here certainly.

So, I decided to put my follow up/corollary/just another-blogger’s-take post on the back burner on a stove in another galaxy far away from my brain as it stands this moment on Wednesday morning.

The Back Burner Galaxy. That is now my official blogpost-to-be stash locale. A place where cogency erodes, rational thought loop de loops, wounds fester and new and exciting frightworks are born out of the bubbling ashes! Yes!

Sounds like my kinda place! I'll bring the dip.

Anyway, instead of that cogent business hoohah I thought I’d tell a tale that involves Mr. Froth and is pretty much true with some embellishments along the way. What’s life without embellishment? Or a clean toilet? Or baked brie? Or more sleep?

As you know if you have read a previous entry here, I had a party on Friday, for which I was pretty much responsible, 400 people, etc. A company do and recognition event for volunteers and the passing of the guard. Friday’s weather here was touch and go for awhile so I went home for a few hours before the party just to chill and stew about the possibility of 400 people not showing up because they freaked at the THOUGHT of snow. Not actual sticking on the ground snow. Just the possibility. I went home about 2ish.

Mr. Froth was wandering around the kitchen bemoaning the fact that he’d bitten into a piece of taffy (Who the hell has taffy hanging around anymore? We do, apparently.) and had cracked his front tooth cap. This cap has as its provenance Detroit, hot dog, Jimmy Hoffa's remains. So Mr. Froth likes to say.

He’d called the dentist, but dentists don’t exist on Friday afternoons, so plan your painful dental experiences accordingly. As he wandered around the island in the kitchen he mumbled, “Do you think we could locate a dentist before this thing fal…..”

“Falls out? Falls out did you say? Onto the floor? Where the cat will get it if you don’t pick it up very soon? That what you’re trying to say?”

Why yes. His tooth had fallen completely out of his head onto the floor. Which is a better place than, say, the garbage disposal. Or the litter box. After it fell out it left a really, reaHAHAHHAAAAHlly, er, excuse me, haWWWWSNOrt, um, big hole in HIS mooouTTHHHAAHAAAAAA!!!1111 Oh crap. I thought I was gonna die.

“Haah! Mah nyaame is Froth. Gummy Froth. Pleethedtameethcha!”

We had serious eye-puff issues for a few minutes after wheezing and chortling and then had to get down to the important work of concocting the appropriate story for the PARTY that night. Yes. One, in one’s toothless glory, would be attending the holiday pahty, dahlink.

“Haah! Haryu?” accompanied by a slight whistle because there’s a lotta air in a previously tooth-filled hole.

We tried shoving a miniature marshmallow in his mouth. Too big. Sticky notes weren’t any good. Empty hole it was.

Fortunately for Mr. Froth, Tiger Woods had been screwing half the female (I’m assuming just female)population of North America and had just been found out by his wife and perhaps allegedly had been beaned with a driver or something. It was very kind and accommodating of Mr. Woods to do all that just so Mr. Froth would have a line for the party.

Mr. Froth to whomever he could corner: “Yeah, (whistle, whistle), a buddy and I took a trip to Lath Vegath latht weekend, (whistle, whistle, suck) and played a couple roundth. My bud, hith name ith Tiger, he’th a pretty good golfer (suck, whistle) athked me if I wanted to go up to hith thuite with a couple a babeth for a Taj Mahal (whistle, suck).

Note: I have instructed Mr. Froth that it is "ménage-a-trois," but he was having none of this “literal” sort of description. He felt the story flowed better with Taj Mahal. Righto.

Tho, Tiger and I headed up there (whistle, whistle, whistle) but the Froth got wind of it and when I got back home thhe pretty much took after me with a nine iron. (My contribution was, if I was in the vicinity of the conversation, “No. It was the putter.”) Knocked my tooth out. Whatreyagonna do?”

Twas hours and hours of levity and jocularity.

Then, yesterday, we found out how much it might cost to replace/repair that sumbitch.

It’s cheaper to talk about climategate…

Perfect Happy Dogginess

Dogette has a perfect picture of a happy, slaphappy, dreaming of eating socks or shoes pup on her site.

This will be our first Christmas without the Beebs. I'm working on Mr.Froth to get another dog, or two, actually. We're at the point where someone would be home enough to train. He's just not at that point yet.

I am. I WANT another Lab. Or two. I do.

Merv would be a most excellent cat to introduce the house to it/them.

It could happen.

Previous Post Critique

Poorly written, used "nice" and "funny" too many times. Didn't flesh out anything. More a reminder for myself to remember more stuff.

I need a shower.

Book Reviews Mashup

All I did yesterday was sleep and read in total slobberiness. I just finished Supreme Courtship by Christopher Buckley.I've also read Boomsday and No Way to Treat a First Lady . All three are very entertaining books. The guy is funny and it's amusing, what with him being the spawn of such an arch conservative, and having split idealogically with his dad politically and then sorta kinda coming around again. Whatever, he creates interesting mashups of characters, so much so that while the plays on names and positions make you think you know to whom he's referring, he combines crazyass attributes so well that it's as if you're looking at Repub/Dem chimeras.

Plus, his evident disdain for pomposity in general is encouraging and fairly well evenly distributed.
Plus, he's funny.



His father came to the University of Washington in 1971 to debate the resident pinko-who, of course, was the ruling lion of the left locally-and don't you know everybody wanted to see that show! I went to it. I can't remember anything that was said, probably because it was  buzzwords from both sides, content-wise, and I was a freshman and just wanted to hear a nice crackling smackdown of two quite brilliant people who could eviscerate you with a couple of nicely placed words.


I think it wasn't as entertaining as people hoped, though. Dr. Fooms may be able to help with some historical details.


Anyway, Buckley Junior's books are a hoot.

Exhausted

The party last night went swimmingly. Everybody showed up. About 4 the sun came out and the nasty weather went away except for the 20 degree weather.

Usually the little old ladies from the retirement homes, volunteers, show up a good half our to forty five minutes early. They didn't. Instead, people whom I consider to have better judgment did.

People. Stuff doesn't happen until 6:30. Food's not out. Cash bars aren't open. The main room is still being set up. There aren't enough chairs for you to lounge in right now.Why are you here? It's quite annoying.

But, what was most annoying was the band. Oh, they were great. Once they showed up. We had used this guy and his associates at functions in the past and knew he was, well, quirky. But, when I arrived at 4:30 and looked at the twice-as-big-stage that he had requested, that was empty, and ruminated on the green room we had arranged for him and his group, and ruminated again on his question about how early could they set up, I started becoming peevish.

The folks at work who were his contacts arrived and called him at 5. Our hotel event coordinator had actually spoken to him earlier, so we thought, well, that's good. He's physically in the place. When my co-worker called him he was taking a nap.

Oh shit. He's tired. He's sick. He's weirding out. Who knew.

I was asked if they should call him at 6:05 if he didn't show up. I rather snippily replied, "No. Call him at six. HELLO?"

At 6 he was putting his tie on and would get down to our room as soon as he was able. Great. Just fucking great. People were already there and 6:30 was the start time. I went to get a glass of wine to nurse until I didn't feel like hitting someone.

Another band member shortly thereafter appeared, in a major hustle mode, and got set up in a major jiffy. It was pretty encouraging. Then, our main man appeared and told me I won the OTD.

What's the OTD? Outfit of the Day. And my prize would have been a date with the band. With that exchange I felt better because it meant he wasn't melancholy or sick or preparing to flip out and things would be good.

It still makes me mad. We're paying you bandman. Dick.

They were very good, people danced. Certain people sorta gatored, including a former board member who is my agish, very slender, who wore a tight black tube dress. And I MISSED IT! She even tried to find me before she did it.

Lots of old home week interchanges, good food and then I drove home and crashed after Mr. Froth crashed since I was still wound up.

Today I've been just tiiiiirrrred and have lain about reading.

Wish me luck

Tomorrow is our annual, and probably final, holiday bash and volunteer recognition party at a local site.While I'm not "in charge" I pretty much arrange the deal, meet with the event coordinator, etc. etc. etc. We're expecting over 400 people and assuming the weather doesn't go drastically crazy-ass snow on us we should have a full house. With a band and lots of expensive food.

I just discovered via an email that we need to have a projector and accoutrements for a loop presentation. That was something discussed several months ago but never followed up on to me so that I could, well, INCLUDE IT IN THE BEO? And such as. Like, such as. Pissed me off. Not the having to arrange for it, the last minute arranging for it. My fabulous stellar coordinator has it in hand which I knew would happen, but I'm tempted to be a bit snippy with the emailer.

So, what would you have done had we NOT had the projector and screen available for the 100 slides? Huh? You will, of course, be bringing the laptop and setting it up, no? This is standard modus operandi for this person for things like this. And, if details go sour, they're all "I wasn't responsible." Well, butch up and get your responsibility on.

Jeez.

Anyway, it should be a good party unless we have actual snow and ice, in which case Mr. Froth, I and a couple of other peeps are going to fill up our freezer bags with nine bazillion dollars worth of "heavy hors d'oeuvres." Must find a bigger purse. What they don't know at the hotel won't cause them angst.

Why no. No. We did NOT take the prime rib and miniature beef Wellingtons. And the shrimp. And the dessert display. Not even the quesadilla trumpets.

We don't eat that stuff. Never.

Angliaing for a Blister

Yesterday I walked to work.


Because I’m all about environmental-eco-friendliness-cherish-the-earth, and roads scream when we drive on them and air molecules are drafting up manifestos with which to effect the domination of all that is corporeal. Plants get a bye because they scream, too. Animals, of course, depending on their most recent capacity for sympathy-elicitation might be spared, but they’re still not air and do contribute to its abasement and even though they do scream—I’ve totally forgotten my train of thought.

No.

That all is a big fat horking lie. And when I lie I don't cover it up. Unless I stand to lose money.  I walked to work because Mr. Froth got up at 5 AM to go to his work and I was slept out, so I got up, too. While being in the up state of stature that early in the morning I listened to Mr. Froth try to get the spawn of  High Colonics’ R’ Us, the Jeep Grand Cherokee, to start. So that he could go to work in a vehicle and then I could also go to work. IN A VEHICLE.

That steaming mound of orc feces failed to keep a charge, therefore, being the sweet, long suffering wife that I am I said, “Take the Honda. I’ll call someone to come get me.”

And then I lost my mind. It appears that my raw mental data was DISPOSED OF. Tossed into the shredder of clarity. It was impossible for me to HIDE THE DECLINE of my stability to the point of me WALKING TO WORK. I thought, meh, it’s not far. It’s cool outside. It ain’t raining yet. The ozone layer hasn’t cracked a fissure so large that I’d be scooped up into a vortex of deadly ionospheric radioactive Planet 9 x-rays. Yet. You never know what with all the GLOBAL WARMING possibilities and responsibilities for thereof.

Isn’t the word “possibility” just precious?

CRU-It’s a local fancy schmancy wine bar. Isn’t THAT precious? I bet they don’t toss their data. And you know how those consumption-crazed decanters are.

So I made it to work carrying a nine hundred pound purse and feeling like a bag lady. It only took me 23 minutes and isn’t such a bad idea to do. Unless you have to walk back home at 9:30 pm after a meeting.

Then is when you need a hockey stick.