like everyone was havin fun

December 5, 2017

Today when dropping Momo off at doggie daycare (the cat had a glorious afternoon) I was suckered by a festive display and the creeping guilt that pervades when something makes you aware of a potential lack in your dog’s life.

I bought a tin of winterizing balm to rub on the dog’s paws to prevent cracks.

They each sweetly let me apply it, although they displayed much confusion over the entire process. What is this crazy woman doing now, I am sure they were thinking.

Now they are walking around like they have slippers on and it is cracking me up. Not cracking up, however, will be their little winter paws. And my own fingertips are delightfully silky.


who am I to disagree

November 27, 2017

I midway wake up a couple times a night, and ruminate drowsily on the most recent of my dreams.

Last night I halfway woke up trying to remember the name of a real world acquaintance: Felicia…Christina…Clabberstein…

I’m sorry, what, my brain enquired of itself, now fully awake. Did you say Clabberstein? A word that has probably never in human history existed as a surname, and you’re offering it as a possible first name for this lovely twenty first century woman?

My brain does not know where it gets this stuff from.

and talk about their homes

November 14, 2017

Order has been reestablished.

all serene

All serene.

something about porridge

November 7, 2017

I was standing at the sink just now, washing dishes and thinking about a story I read recently called Some Like It Hot, about how some people use hot water to wash dishes and some people use cold water, but really it doesn’t matter because the soap is what kills the germs anyhow. Let it be known that I am vastly suspicious of this reasoning. As I stand here typing with fingers whose upper layers have just been scalded away by dishwater hot enough to melt crayons.

Anyhow, I was thinking to myself the words ‘some like it hot’

and suddenly my brain just took over and rushed in all of its own accord to add

some like it cold; some like it in the pot, nine days old.

How many brain cells do I actually have just sitting around up there keeping track of nursery rhymes and the plots of Poirot episodes and Babysitter’s Club character’s names? Either I am not using enough of my brain cells in my day-to-day life or I have a generous allotment to use on nonsense. (yay).

Furthermore, now I am wondering if we are being too uptight about our food use-by dates these days. Nine days in the pot sounds pretty nasty to me, but if people back then had as many issues as we currently do with gut bacteria, they don’t seem to have documented it very well. Or maybe we just haven’t tied it all together? I am considering leaving porridge in a pot for nine days and seeing what happens. I am not considering eating it.

the other is gold

November 4, 2017

Nobody in the world but my family members starts an interaction with

‘so you want to hear a funny story about Bob Hope?’

and the heartbreakers

October 29, 2017

Justice has dropped her scales again Butterfingers

Tuna tins hit the floor

It is real now, 

this is our backyard.

I feel pretty all right

October 24, 2017

It’s the end of the world as we know it.

This is Mia’s new bud Ramona. The carpet is, if possible, even more disgusting.

Not insanely stoked: