Let’s not talk about the latest bullshit that der Drumpf has concocted to distract from the fact that he is a sniveling manboy in hock up to his eyeballs to Putin; let’s talk about how awesome it’s going to be to watch der Drumpf’s staff blow up each other until all that is left is a pus-filled carcass that is the true heart of the der Drumpf administration. (One word, synonymous with “lighting the stick of dynamite”: Scaramucci.)
Even thinking of der Drumpf probably makes you feel dirty. So let us cleanse our psyches by going to a land where ass-holery is not so highly revered, such as Australia. . .
. . . or Canada . . .
(Just to compare the awesome body language of a real high-quality manly man who is smart and worldly and has accomplished beaucoup on his own v. the weird posing of a snot-nosed mini-turd chip-off-the-block of a cess pool, regardez-vous, s’il vous plait🙂
. . . or my house. Here’s my sweet mama cat Candy with her oaf son, Lickety, on our cookbook shelf in the dining room when it was 95 degrees last week and snoozing in a sun beam was not an option:
That doesn’t look all that comfortable to me but I have to trust that even my cats know where the cool spots are even though, in the brain power department, my cats are rather like the night-lights you switch on in the brain power department when the store is closed and it’s midnight. Because they’re cats: Pure id, fulfilling the pleasure principle.
Speaking of our stemware collection, many months ago Top Cat, for no reason other than curiosity, decided to go gluten-free. Fine: He substituted his half-a-bagel at breakfast for a rice cake, he cut back on the Doritos, he cheated every Saturday with ciabatta, and he lost 5 pounds. Then, inevitably, since he was not snacking as heartily as he used to, he cut out his usual side dish to his Cool Ranch Doritos:
He quit drinking.
So it’s been almost a month that he’s been dry and last Sunday he told me that I should quit drinking, too, because it’s not healthy that I drink every day.
First of all: Every Day??
Oh, how I wish that the usual laws of physics did not apply to me so I could have two glasses of wine (OK, three.) (OK! OK! Four.) every day and not end up looking like this:
Oh well. It’s useless to argue facts with a person once he has entered the Come to Jesus phase of his self-improvement regime.
So now, in addition to making it through the all the school nights of the week (that’s Monday thru Thursday) and counting the hours until Friday’s blessed arrival of the 5 o’clock angel, I will have to enjoy my beverage[s] in private, sitting in my room by myself watching reruns of Deep Space Nine. Which actually sounds like a pretty hot date: I have a thing for Gul Dukat. (Well, who doesn’t??)
I have to admit that my weekendly rendez-vous with my favorite Pinot Grigiots or white Bordeaux is one of the least boring, nay, most fun things I do, period. I’ve never particularly liked the things that other girls liked: the shopping, the make up, the long phone calls, the crafting get-togethers, “networking”, or beer. I tried a book club but the prospect of reading that much fiction kind of made me want to puke. I have zero interest in quilting. Seriously: Can you see me getting into flower arranging?? No, I am NOT joining a church, or a bluegrass band, or, honestly, anything that involves putting up with other people. The things that some people find fun, well, they bore me.
In April I signed up for Sign Language classes at our local library — that’s been . . . well. . . not exactly fun, but not exactly not fun either. It’s been engrossing. I’m not bored! And I found a delightful study buddy in that class: we meet every Sunday to teach ourselves the signs for our favorite Beatles songs, and then we have wine. That’s fun.
So this past Monday I met with the instructor of ASL at Hofstra University for an evaluation, as I am considering taking my interest in American Sign Language to a new level and I was hoping that I’d test out of the university’s Beginner classes. That evaluation was not fun, because it turns out that taking an ASL class at your library does not, in any way, equip you with the rudimentary conversation skills it takes to hold your own with a fluent, native [deaf] signer. She asked me what I did for work and where I lived and why I wanted to learn ASL, and all I wanted to do was show her that I knew the words to Yesterday.
Thank you for your compliments, last week, about my foray into fashion design. I wear that top all the time, and I love it. So, yeah, that was fun. And thanks, Christine, for the nice comment on my hair. I’m letting it get longer for no reason other than my stylist is taking the Summer off. I like it so far, but I don’t want to go long again, I think.
Patricia: When I got home from the hospital emergency room, the raccoon 9see: last week’s post) was still sitting on top of the fence. His foot was not stuck; he was just sitting there. This was not a well raccoon. So I called Animal Control and a guy came and scooped him up in a net and he was euthanized, because fence-sitting for hours at a time is not normal raccoon behavior. His brain was tested and that’s how I got the all-clear re: rabies.
Ann: Would I do that again, put my hands on a raccoon? Nope. I’d call in the professionals at Animal Control asap. I’ll stick to feral cat rescue from now on.
Merci, Margot: Kissing, Tickling, and Being Bored — I’m in. Thanks for the recommendation. *Sigh* I do need more fun. Or more wine.
Have a great weekend, everyone.