Once upon a time there was a baby born. A screaming, ninja of a blond baby. This baby was the loudest baby ever to have graced this earth. Seriously, you have no idea. This baby would just never shut up. Shit you not, no stopping the lungs on this kid.
Wait, I can't write this. I was going to write a sort-of-true-ish fairy tale commemorating the birth of my best friend Sonja. Of course I was trying to do it in a style that would prevent her from getting a fat(ter) head; thus the derogatory comments about her giant lungs. But I just can't do it. Unfortunately my imagination is defunct tonight, but my memory is just fine. Pretty much anyway.
I cannot tell a lie. OK I lied. I can, but what-the-fuck-ever; it's my blog and I will claim un-truths as truths, and as I see fit. And if you understand even a little of that last sentence, you are freaking awesome. For realzies.
"Break 1-7."
"Go ahead break."
"Thanks. Hey! Blondie! You gotta copy on Sunny Day?"
"Yeah, this's Blondie."
"Hey, travel down two."
"10-4."
"Break 1-5".
We were so damn cool.
So here goes. I am going to attempt to make a tribute to Sonja's birthday. We all would like to commemorate the day that she erupted from her mother's vagina with a squall and a fart (that's how I heard it anyway) and say Happy Birthday!
If you had not been born I would have had no one to "teach" me how to fight at Meadow Park while we skipped school.
If you had got stuck upside down and never been born, I would not have had someone to hand me my first cigarette. (gee thanks) lol
If you had not been born, I would be in prison or at least had a juvie record for bashing in Chris McCoy's knee with the baseball bat in high school. Thanks for stopping me.
If not for the fact that your mom actually had the strength to push your fat head out of her orifice, I would have punched that window back then with the wire mesh inside it and I would probably be typing this one-handed.
If not for you, I would never had realized just how retarded I was when I wanted to punch you for laughing at me when I flew off the mechanical bull and landed ass-first on my hat. I was an ass-hat. You were the bigger person. Show off.
If not for you I would have never been scared shitless about a cougar. Imaginary or real, the fear is the same I don't care who you are.
Thank you for not making fun of me for being vegetarian while you sit on the phone talking to me while holding a rifle so you can shoot the deer crossing your yard. And thanks for trying the chili I made with VeggieMeat. (your giant child-man ate two bowls if I remember right)
If you had not been born I would have probably gotten the crap kicked outta me numerous times. I can hold my own, don't get me wrong, but you make my imaginary balls bigger. And not in a "gay" way. Seriously, is there a way to say this shit without sounding "gay"? And when I say "gay" I mean it in the "retarded" sense, not in the homophobic sense. And when I say "retarded" I don't mean it in a derogatory sense, just in the sense that some people are just plain ol' stupid.(It is so hard to be PC these days . . . five friggin pages of disclaimers kinda takes away the moment ya know?) Fuck.
If not for you, I would have forgotten just how awesome I am or can be. I tend to forget and you remind me. "I said what!? I did that? Oh shit I forgot all about that. You are right, that was fun as hell!" How many times have I said it? Never.
If not for you, I would never have known just how much the feel of a dry, warm sweatshirt feels at the end of a long-ass walk, in the dark, down hill, with a POS flashlight, and a cougar-bear-fucking-sasquach stawking us.
If you had not been born this day, I would never had had the occasion to yell, "Fuckng lean! Not my way! Your way, lean!".
If it had been just me out in the hills "Clarkin'", I don't know if I ever would have discovered Ostrich Point without you.
I would have never known that the decapitated head of a deer packed in a box with styrofoam, strapped down in a hurry, could tumble as far as it did, if you were not my best friend.
If you had been given to gypsies after you were spewed and freed from your placenta connection, I like to think that we would have met anyway; wondering about how we oddly we look alike, but also instinctively knowing that this was a person we knew we could trust.
But seriously, if you had not been born, I am not sure how my life would have turned out. At different times you have been my friend, my savior, my conscience, my confessor and my sounding board or even the person that told me "what for". There were moments when I thought all was lost and you pulled me out, so I guess what I want to say is: I'm glad that we were able to recognize our coolness in each other, I love you and Happy Birthday!
I noticed something telling . . ever since the "Occupy Eugene" thing, a lot of the "homeless", "jobless", "stranded,"vet" people are not on their prospective corners. . . I didn't know they were all members ofAdbusters. Go figure.
In case you didn't know ( I didn't at first either) but the Adbusters are the one's that started Occupy Wallstreet. They are a Canadian-based group, that's right I said Canadian, that fights against "consumerism". They also have sister groups in France, Norway, Sweden and of all places, Japan. I won't go into detail about how it all started, however I do find it interesting that there is no sister on the Occupy family tree based in the United States.
The other day some dude in the sauna asked me, "What do you think about this "occupy" thing?". I found that I really didn't have an opinion. At the time, the primary reason was because he had interrupted me while I was very obviously reading a book. Frankly, it took me a second or so to leave the world of Judy Blume and go into the world of politics I care not about. What? Every woman should re-read "Are you There God? It's Me, Margarette?" at least once. I can't believe the difference in the hidden, literal meaning from now and from when I was 11. I also have to roll my eyes at my eleven-year-old self, as you should too.
Anyway, I really had not thought about it. I don't know if it's because I rarely leave my own neighborhood, which is blessedly "occupier" free, and I tend to just enjoy my own space or if I am just too jaded.
We in Eugene have one of the most visible (intersection signs), yet also un-enforced "no loitering" and "no panhandling" laws in the state. The police either have no man-power or no inclination to arrest or cite the people who disobey. Those that disobey this ordinance stand on the curb, sometimes within 2 feet of the cars waiting for the green or for traffic to lag, with a cardboard sign begging for $ or supposedly "anything" because it "helps" and "God bless". They ask for this because they are "a vet", "disabled", "homeless", "stranded", apparently.
Just about any major intersection will have a person with their own sign on every corner. They own their own imaginary property rights for certain corners that they consider a "good one". No joke. I asked a few. Or sometimes they plant themselves at a busy driveway like Winco. There is a dude that holds a sign down there stating, "The aliens are hungry and need a taco. Donations please." Seriously. There is another guy that is usually at the intersection of Ferry Street Bridge and 6th who begs, claiming to be homeless in his nice shoes, Levi's and Duck shirt/jacket. If you see him, just out of curiosity's sake go inside the Good Times bar on the same day, about 50 yds from where he stands, around 6-7 o.clock in the evening. He's usually shooting pool or throwing darts until about 9 then he leaves in a cab. I shit you not. Not sure what his story is.
So anyway, I went down to the latest Occupy camp site and I was not impressed. Half the people that were hanging around the tents didn't even have an opinion as to why they were there. Now, I'm not dissing the people who really do know what they are doing there. Or even the people who have only a vague idea of what they were doing.
So here is the part when I get to spout my opinion on my blog. I get to do this because it's my blog. See how that works? What I saw was a lot of the dirty, skanky, people who have just recently been kicked off of Heroine Hill recently. I know this because I used to work at a grocery store near said hill and said Occupy camp, and the same faces would come in to buy the quart glass bottled milk on food stamp day, go outside and dump the milk on the ground to then come back and receive the $2 cash deposit in their pocket. The same faces that would come in to return the GIANT bags of beer cans for the deposit that they collected at the stadium on game day, only to turn around and buy beer with it. These people are currently taking advantage of a situation to be able to "legally camp" in town. They are taking advantage of the free food that hardworking people donated to the Occupy Eugene political cause. They are taking advantage of the professional medical people that volunteer their services for the true, legitimate rally-ers. I asked one woman what her personal reasons were for being there, and she said, "This is awesome! I know I have a place to sleep and party until the middle of December!". True story. I'm pretty sure she was high.
I also understand that the Occupy people are also taking a stand on the homelessness in our city and across the nation. Funny, it seems a convenient way to make your forces bigger without any drama. "OK gather around . . . smelly, drunk, homeless people camp over there. The rest of us upper-middle class wanna be earth savers will be over here. We won't bother you if you don't bother us. Oh and by the way, we are going to use your lack of hygiene and roof as another platform. Thanks so much." These are not the homeless that I care about. Fuck 'em. I care about the hard-working people who lost their roof, and home due to no fault of their own and are making an effort to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. Those people don't have time to "occupy" shit. They are too busy busting their hump trying to live.
So anyway there it is. The mystery of the disappearing homeless sign guy solved.
If I had a dollar for every time that I have witnessed people who were either phoney or just plain full of shit I would be a fricking zillionaire. Today I was at a place with my husband and a chick came in to start on her first day. Not sure how she got the job, but whatever. As I sat there watching her get trained I just wanted to scream at the manager....FIRE HER NOW! SAVE YOURSELF THE TROUBLE! SHE IS A FREAK!
Yeah, old customer of the hubby. If there is one thing about a smallish town it is this: There are two people who you do not want to piss off, piss on, throw up on or otherwise irritate in any way. One is your doctor/gyno, and the other is your bartender. They know EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU! One has some oath thing, and confidentiality bullshit they have to follow. The other . . . not so much.
My hubby is a nice guy. He tries not to let himself use your drunken behavior against you. Your doctor by law can not tell anyone about the funky rash that you are sporting in the nether regions. But I, my swilling acquaintance, will use everything I know about you to judge you all I want. Freak.
Dear God. Sorry I am a bad person. Please forgive me when I do it again. Thank you. Please stop sending people to online bar-tending school.
This last week I almost expired. I paced the floor. I pulled on my hair constantly. I cleaned. I know! I bathed my dogs. I did all the laundry in the house all in one day. (Which if you know me at all, you know that that is a miracle). I mowed the lawn. I rearranged the back yard. Sounds weird, but it CAN be done.
As I write this I am smelling gravy. Not the crappy, white gravy that you can get on the never the less tasty biscuits and gravy at Dari-Mart, but the yummy brown gravy that you used to get at school on the instant mashed potatoes.
I am using the free wi-fi at Shari's. Thank God for Shari's. Except that I have four bucks to my name and I am pretty sure that the coffee I am going to drink gallons of because of free refills is three.
I have found that being without Internet access at home is damn hard. I am spoiled. I need to have instant access to the information highway at all times. And that is all there is to it!
I had to actually look up something in a phone book yesterday. Yes, I said phone book. That is after I found one. Every year, sometimes twice a year, we receive four to five phone books on our door step. All by different companies. I recycle all but one, and use the last one to use as fire-starter. But yesterday I had to scrounge around the Hubby's man-room to find one that I knew he had stashed. Apparently he wanted to keep it because he liked the picture on the front. Pack-rats can be handy sometimes.
Unfortunately it was from 2003, and not as helpful as I had hoped. So I said "fuck-it" and figured I didn't need the number that bad and went out and had a small fire in the ol' fire-pit while sipping a medicinal glass of wine.
In the last two years I have developed this strange habit of reading several books at once. I call this "strange", because in the past I have only been able to concentrate on one book at a time; usually all at once. Actually, let me rephrase that. I could concentrate on more that one, but I didn't want to. It seemed as if I was consumed by what I was reading, despite all else going around me.
I believe I used reading a book all in once as a type of "escape" from the real world; if only a brief one. For those several hours of getting away from my life, I could be anywhere, be anyone, and do anything. Ever since I was a child this has worked for me. But unfortunately it no longer does.
No longer can I use a book as a ferry to other worlds, other lives. No longer can I be that fly on the wall that sees and hears all. No longer can I hide behind the [book] spine of Nora Roberts, Janet Evanovitch, or anyone else for that matter, to just get away.
One of the reasons this is true is because my life is no longer simple enough to dismiss; no longer seemingly one-dimensional. I am no longer one-dimensional. Yes, that is how I thought of myself.
However in the past few years I have gotten into the habit of reading several books at once. By "at once" I don't mean some super human feat of having eight books spread out in front of me, while my eyes go a million miles an hour devouring every word. I mean that I have two books ready for me in the bathroom, three in the living room, one in the car, one in my purse, and five on my nightstand.
I don't know what's going on in my head anymore, but now as I grow older, my tastes have broadened when it comes to the written word. I no longer look for just the popular (although still good) authors when buying a book. I am taking a chance and reading some independent authors, essays, non-fiction, political, biographies, among others. Now the choice of what I read is based on my mood. And it's nice to have so many ready and waiting to choose from, something that at any time can match any moment in my crazy life.
So in respect to my rambling thoughts, I am recommending the "nightstand book" that I finished today.
So the hubby has decided on a career change. Ish. After nearly 20 years in the customer service industry, he has decided he would rather work in the kitchen, or the "back of the house" as it is called in the biz. He once worked as a sous chef at a very hoity toity French bistro in Colorado and he wants to get back to that. Which I think is great! However, I am wondering when?
So far he is doing a favor for a former employer and working one day a week in the kitchen for him. I think he enjoys it for the most part.
Except, instead of putting his head into getting that new, fantastic job that he is so ready for, he is planning on building me a deck. A deck I don't really want. Actually, I want it, but just not where he wants it. He got all the materials for free, so he figures "why not?". I'll tell you why not. The man called AAA when his battery died in the car and he couldn't get the cable off; after being together for over ten years, I have never known him to build a sandcastle, let alone an entire deck. Ah well, we shall see. He's building it under the apple tree (sigh, I know), so maybe I'll get a tree house. YAY! Oh wait. I had that pruned. Okaaaaaay . . . maybe I'll get a tree house that's only a foot off of the ground.
I, on the other hand have been going through our stuff to have a yard sale. I haven't had one in a few years and I figured we had a ton of shit we could get rid of. My mistake. Just a few pounds of shit.
My hubby is a pack rat. Although I must say, he shocked me when he said I could sell the big-ass, vintage stereo cabinet that has been in my bedroom forever. And the old stereo receiver that hasn't been hooked up to anything even resembling a speaker for just as long. Totally unbelievable.
I am just sick and tired of living in what I see as a storage unit with windows. I like "cozy", but this is getting ridiculous. I am going to keep adding to the pile for the next week and a half and see what else I can get rid of. YAY!
Oh boy, the last few weeks have been filled with everything from doing a stand-up comedy show (bucket-list item of mine), getting my garden going (hard with the seasons changing from day to day), and chicken wrangling.
I'll try not to drone on and on. First off, a few months ago I was approached by an acquaintance of mine that hosts comedy shows. He wanted to know if I would be interested in trying to do comedy. Now, he based this on how he thought my "dry & sarcastic" way of conversing with people was funny. I tried to explain to him at first that that is just how I talk to people that I really don't know. I guess kind of like a defense mechanism. He thought that that was perfect, because I probably wouldn't know the people I would be performing for anyway. Well, he ended up talking me into it, which wasn't hard because it's always been on the low slope of my bucket list anyway. After carrying around a notebook and noting things I thought funny as I walked through life for a few weeks, tweaking them a little and practicing even less, I performed a ten minute stand-up routine. Without throwing up. YAY for me! I've been told that I was funny, and I vaguely remember a few chuckles. It seems that with lots of things that are unpleasant for one reason or another, I have blocked out most of the show. I am thinking about doing another one, but on a much smaller scale at another venue. Maybe. But after seeing myself in pictures from that night that a friend of mine oh so thoughtfully (insert eye-roll here) put on Facebook, I think I need to invest in a full Spanks body suit first. Although now that I think about it, that might not be a good idea. I'm picturing all my fat being squeezed up to the top of the suit like a tube of toothpaste. Not attractive . . . ok, I still gotta think on that one.
I started my garden boxes, and have acquired the use of a large garden bed at a neighbors house, but its not going as I thought it would. The garden boxes are doing great; I have salad fixings to last all season and my potatoes will be stupendous. I planted three different kinds, and on a interesting note, when the plumbers came and dug up my back yard to fix the leak in the pipe going to the septic tank, I found little tiny Peruvian Blue potato starts that miraculously survived being ignored for the almost 8 years since I originally planted them. So I grabbed those and stuffed them next to the others in the box.
The neighbors garden space that I envisioned is not going as well. I am going to have to rent a rototiller, as much as I tried to avoid it. I just cant get the gumption to do it by hand like I wanted to. Not just time, but energy as well. I think that might be an early birthday present to myself. The corn I planted was mostly eaten by birds and about the only thing growing decent are the squash. Big whoop. Even my sister can grow zuchinni. Sigh.
The chicken ranch is going ok. We are still at three hens and one asshole rooster. Right now, at this very minute, Jay-Z the rooster is inside the chicken tractor enclosure. For some reason he has been attacking Lady Gaga, our frizzle hen that happens to be his sister. And when I say attacking, I mean chasing her until she lays down for him, Then he just pecks the shit out of her and there are feathers everywhere. Strangeness. The little chick-a-dee bird things that hang out are happy to use her feathers for their nests but I finally had to say enough is enough. So Jay-Z is in chicken jail.
Jay-Z also decided that Cher was his favorite "ride" so-to-speak. She was started to get sores where his spurs dug in when they mated. He also "hung on" with his beak on the back of her neck, so she was loosing feathers there. I remembered something from a web site about a chicken saddle. Yes, I said chicken saddle. It's meant to protect the hen from being over-mated. I was lucky enough to find a pattern for it on-line. I sent it off to I.O. via email to see if she could make it for me, since I don't sew. If I can't hot-glue, staple or safety-pin it, it ain't gonna get made. Ya dig? It worked out great, but I think it would be cool if she put an "S" or an "SC" on it next time for Super Chicken since it actually looks more like a cape than a saddle. Well, I think it's funny.
Anyhoo, I am off to see what other adventures I can get myself into. Sorry for taking so long to catch up.
Her eyes met mine as she walked down the corridor peering apprehensively into the kennels.
I felt her need instantly and knew I had to help her.
I wagged my tail, not too exuberantly, so she wouldn't be afraid.
As she stopped at my kennel I blocked her view from a little accident I had in the back of my cage.
I didn't want her to know that I hadn't been walked today.
Sometimes the shelter keepers get too busy and I didn't want her to think poorly of them.
As she read my kennel card I hoped that she wouldn't feel sad about my past.
I only have the future to look forward to and want to make a difference in someone's life.
She got down on her knees and made little kissy sounds at me.
I shoved my shoulder and side of my head up against the bars to comfort her.
Gentle fingertips caressed my neck; she was desperate for companionship.
A tear fell down her cheek and I raised my paw to assure her that all would be well.
Soon my kennel door opened and her smile was so bright that I instantly jumped into her arms.
I would promise to keep her safe. I would promise to always be by her side.
I would promise to do everything I could to see that radiant smile and sparkle in her eyes.
I was so fortunate that she came down my corridor.
So many more are out there who haven't walked the corridors.
So many more to be saved. At least I could save one.
I rescued a human today.
In memory of Daisy, adopted at Greenhill Humane Society
I found a letter in my spam box and I was curious. I really can't believe people really fall for these. OK. Well, actually I do know some really stupid people but. Seriously?
HELLO,
How is business in your country? I am Mr huang, Bank Manager of
bank of Taiwan. Please keep the contents of this mail confidential.
A British Oil contractor Mr.Bowen Atkinson made a numbered time (Fixed)
Deposit of $30,000,000.00 for twelve calendar months and not too long he
died in a plane crash.
We have launched an investigation into possible surviving next of kin to
claim his estate but in his bio-data form, he listed no next of kin.
I alone have the deposit details and my bank will release the deposit to no
one unless evidence of relationship with the deceased, which i shall provide.
My bank has no single idea of the history or nature of the deposit and they
are simply awaiting my instructions to release the deposit to any party that
i present to them.
I wish to present you as the direct beneficiary to the deposit. I will
furnish you with detail of this transaction upon your reply to my private
Email: mrhuangxxxxx@yahoo.com.tw
Have you ever just looked at the spam we get nowadays? It's not just Viagra any more people. It's the shit like I just posted, and school stuff, insurance, hot girls, extending devise, you name it. Ick. My email permanently deletes all spam after 30 days. Today I deleted over 1400. Four days ago I deleted 700. There's got to be another way people.
I have been listening to country music all day. I am melancholy. I put my hair in curlers and cleaned my house with a purple camo 'kerchief over my head. I called the radio station to thank them for the good "spring cleaning" music. I figured they would use it for a sound bite. It's been three hours. Probably not, huh? Although, come to think of it . . . I might of said, "cleaned the FUCK outta my floors!". Not sure.
I found this on-line this morning ans thought I would share on this rainy Easter morning.
Do You Live in Oregon?
If someone in a Home Depot store offers you assistance and they don't work there, you live in Oregon.
If you've worn shorts, sandals and a parka at the same time, you live in Oregon.
If you've had a lengthy telephone conversation with someone who dialed the wrong number, you live in Oregon.
If you measure distance in hours, you live in Oregon.
If you know several people who have hit a deer more than once, you live in Oregon.
If you have switched from 'heat' to 'A/C' and back again in the same day, you live in Oregon.
If you install security lights on your house and garage but leave both doors unlocked, you live in Oregon.
If you can drive 75 mph through 2 feet of snow during a raging blizzard without flinching, you live in Central, Southern or Eastern Oregon.
If you design your kid's Halloween costume to fit over a 2 layers of clothes or under a raincoat, you live in Oregon.
If driving is better in the winter because the potholes are filled with snow and ice, you live in Oregon.
If you know all 4 seasons: almost winter, winter, still winter, and road construction, you live in Oregon.
If you feel guilty throwing aluminum cans or paper in the trash, you live in Oregon.
If you know more than 10 ways to order coffee, you live in Oregon.
If you know more people who own boats than air conditioners, you live in Oregon.
If you stand on a deserted corner in the rain waiting for the "Walk" signal, you live in Oregon.
If you consider that if it has no snow or has not recently erupted, it is not a real mountain, you live in Oregon.
If you can taste the difference between Starbucks, Seattle's Best, and Dutch Bros, you live in Oregon.
If you know the difference between Chinook, Coho and Sockeye salmon, you live in Oregon.
If you know how to pronounce Sequim, Puyallup, Clatskanie, Issaquah, Oregon, Umpqua, Yakima and Willamette, you live in Oregon.
If you consider swimming an indoor sport, you live in Oregon.
If you know that Boring is a city and not just a feeling, you live in Oregon.
If you can tell the difference between Japanese, Chinese and Thai food, you live in Oregon.
If you never go camping without waterproof matches and a poncho, you live in Oregon.
If you have actually used your mountain bike on a mountain, you live in Oregon.
If you think people who use umbrellas are either wimps or tourists, you live in Oregon.
If you buy new sunglasses every year, because you cannot find the old ones after such a long time, you live in Oregon.
If you actually understand these jokes you live or have lived in Oregon
These got me thinking a little. Last weekend I remember thinking how funny we Oregonians are when I noticed how many people at the MS Walk brought an umbrella, but didn't even think about using it, even when the "sprinkle" became "real" rain. Guess you had to be there.
Wow. I know it's been a while since I wrote, and I apologize to my faithful readers. Um, all 12 of you. In my own defense, I have been a little busy with life and, well to be honest with you I am also a Facebook crack-head, junkie. I'm thinking about going to meetings; doing the 12-step thing, but I am not ready to give it up yet.
So in the mean time let me tell you what I've been up to other than Cafe World. About a month ago, we decided to get some more chickens. The three we have here at The Super Star Chicken Ranch seemed to be getting a little bored with each other so we thought we would ad some more to the mix.
"J-Zee", our rooster has frankly been kind of a asshole, and I figured it was because he was getting bored with only two hens, "Cher" and "Lady Gaga", to leap upon at random. So off to the feed store we went. The chicks we got were barely two days old and the cutest things ever. I don't remember what kind they were but just cute.
The Man-child decided that he wanted to keep them in his room until they were ready for the outside world. He even wanted to name them. Sigh. Skeletor and Xavier.
To make that part of the story short, Mazzy got into the room and "protected" us from one of these strange new creatures that had come into our house. R.I.P. Skeletor. We went to the feed store a few days later and got "Megatron", since Xavier was lonely. A week after that, a door was not shut all the way, and I came home to be presented with two limp chicks at the front door. R.I.P. Xavier and Megatron.
Now, I want something to be clear here. I do not in any way blame my dog Mazzy for this. Since she was a pup and we discovered that she had this innate ability to kill nutria quickly and cleanly, she has been praised for this. We used to have them all over the yard and now they rarely come to our yard anymore. The nutria world has gotten the word out to steer clear of our yard. She does not kill cats or anything like that, just the nutria. So the chickens this past year have been new to her. I just needed to learn how to balance the two. Unfortunately at the expense of a few chicken lives. But they have sacrificed for the greater good I think.
So now, Man-Child has learned to build a chicken-tractor. I'm kinda of excited about this. No more chickens in the house.
I will try and update more on the success of the Super Star Chicken Ranch at a later date. In the mean time I am hoping that "Lady Gaga" goes broody so I can have some cute, little banty chicks running around. Tata for now.
And in case you forgot, here is my first video of them in their first snow.
I picked up a book that I had already read a few years ago. I found some marks I made in the margins every time I liked something. Here is that list, in order of appearance. Let me know if you can recognize the book without Google-ing it.
At one time, she'd been proud of her beauty. Now she wondered why she had taken so much pride in something that required no effort, no slightest sacrifice.
The woman is either nuts or higher than a Navajo shaman with a one-pound-a-day peyote habit.
If looniness could be converted into bricks of gold, [she] would provide paving for a six-lane highway from here to Oz . . .
[His] first thought is that he's standing in a genuine, for-sure, bona-fide, dead-right, all-wool-and-a-yard-wide, for-a-fact-amen ghost town in which no one has set foot since twice the century had turned, where all the citizens were long ago planted in the local boot hill, and where the ornery spirits of gunslingers walk the night itching for a shootout.
In the interest of a snug fit that was flattering to the figure, her white pants had no pockets. Polly tucked three spare [shotgun] shells into her halter top, between her breasts, grateful that nature had given her sufficient cleavage to serve as an ammunition depot.
None of us can ever save himself; we are the instruments of one another's salvation, only by the hope that we give to others do we lift ourselves out of the darkness into the light.
Anyhoo. I had forgotten how much I liked this book. Would you read it based on these few lines?
Last year my husband somehow got it into his head that we (him, myself and the man-child) needed Nerf guns for Christmas. The guns are plastic and shoot these little yellow bullets that are made from nerfy-spongey stuff with a purple, plunger like tip, that if shot up real close, they will stick to your glasses. Trust me on this.
The little "mock" battles that we had were fun for like um, a minute. So I, in my infinite mother's wisdom, took it upon myself to hide them after the third day of being ambushed from behind the recliner by my husband. One would think that I would have started to anticipate the impact of the spongy bullet once the giggling had commenced from behind the furniture, but alas, he was just too darn quick for me.
Now this year, he once again took it upon himself to ensure that we, as a family had many more hours of fun. He bought us the Three-Shooter Pistols. Yes, yes, I know! I was thrilled (I say this while rolling my eyes so far back that I almost pass out).
Now these might not look that cool to you, but apparently the hubby thought so. Most of Christmas day was spent in a Nerf battle of epic proportions. Between Man-Child and the Hubby ganging up on me and then me scrambling around trying to collect all of the ammo off the floor, it was a sight to see I assure you. But then I remembered something.
Mwahahaha, I laugh while rubbling my hands together in evil glee. I have suddenly remembered where I hid the SHOTGUNS!
I barricaded myself in the bedroom so I could get to my secret weapon stash. The Hubby is concerned and contrite. "Seriously, I am done playing guys." I say in my best "Mom" voice. "You guys can play but I don't want to be hit anymore." I could hear the Hubby telling Man-Child that I was getting irritated and they decided to put the guns away and watch a movie. That was their first mistake.
Their second mistake was completely reloading their pistols and leaving them on the kitchen counter, out of sight from the living room where they sat. I quietly snuck into the kitchen and snagged them, and went back into the bedroom to prepare. I now had three, fully loaded pistols, and two double barrel shotguns. They, well, they had nothing. Hee Hee.
The pistols have convenient little clips so you can hang them from your belt. Which I was eternally grateful for since I had a shotgun in each hand. They never saw it coming.
I waited outside the kitchen door, shotguns at the ready. I knew that it was just a matter of time before one of them got thirsty. Poor Hubby. He was the first to get hit. Straight in the neck as he drank milk straight out of the carton with the fridge door open. All he saw was a flash of purple velour robe as I ducked back out of sight. But not before I saw him reach for the pistols that were no longer there. Then he ran.
"Take cover!" The Hubby and Man-Child barricaded themselves behind the sofa cushions while I pelleted them with the Nerf bullets. Man-Child showed some brains and started picking up the ammo and throwing them at me. Considering his bathroom skills, I was surprised by his accurate aim. But it also gave me the opportunity to re-load. Thanks.
The war raged on for a grueling ten minutes. We then called a truce. Well, sort of. I rounded up all the ammo and reloaded, then put the guns away. The next day while the guys were out, I hid them all around the house. Now when they are being douche-bags, I like to randomly shoot them with the lovely little, yellow spongy bullet. Take that!
This video here has nothing to do with me but it's funny.
