IT IS SPRING!
I have daffodils. I have vinca. I have snowdrop and crocus (somewhere) and best of all, I have a wreath of gentle, fragrant clematis armandii around my front window framing my little slice o' paradise.
I also have moles. No, not personal moles, you zany madcap person who is wacky, lawn type moles. Moles overrunning and undertunnelling my front and back yard. Moles chewing through the tether holding the water meter housing in. Moles burrowing around in my flowerbeds. Moles making little volcanoes everywhere.
Last year when this situation first began I decided to put the hose down one of the mole tunnels and turn it on full blast. Up washed a mole on a column of water, just like in a cartoon. The cutest, snubby, chubby, velvet soft little animal you ever saw, just like a hamster wearing catchers mitts.
As soon as he hit the grass he was off again digging away. I picked the little guy up by the tail and he just kept on furiously digging away in midair.
Awwwww!
So I let him go in the hay field across the street.
This year, everyone on Front Street has moles.
Yesterday the guy across the street ran the mechanical Opie around on his property. This is a chubby, hindslung tank full of strained cowshit that drives around and around spraying seagull food behind it in a great fan, like a peacocks tail. Guess what my house smells like this morning? Patchouli incense. 15 tons of patchouli incense. With more on the fire even as we speak.
Springtime means time to mow. Now I finally put my foot down after living here for a year and demanded a riding lawnmower because 1. our property comprises four city lots, and 2. I am 45 and I DESERVE A GODDAMN RIDING LAWNMOWER. Which at present sits unused and dead of battery in the shed. Meanwhile, the grass is getting tall and lush. I may have to hire a stout young native with a machete and a good knowlege of the forest before I venture out again. In fact I may do that anyway.
(Yahoo! Last minute update! The yummy biker just this moment got the rider going! They're playing my song!)
Across the back fence from my yard is the community soccer field. Right now it is covered with gulls, overflow crowd attracted by the green rain of food across the street. And in that flurry of white and gray there is one black spot. A crow. A crow with romance on his mind. And the object of his affections is a gull.
This little drama gets played out every year. To me, adult gulls look identical. But for some reason this poor crow singles out a lady gull and follows her and her alone for days, bowing and cawing and strutting and offering her nightcrawlers the size of anacondas. He has even tried to mount her. She just dips her bottom and steps around him. And this is the treatment he receives every year. But hope apparently springs eternal in the corvid breast.
Is it spring where you are? ( Oh, well, for the love of Mike of course it is. But does it show?)
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Friday, March 24, 2006
I couldn't resist! I had all these great songs saved!
This one goes out in honor of Noshit Sherlock, my top coon. Wielding a disciplinary spoon and living with her cheddar-abusive sister in the land of the wily waka-rere-rangi*, Ms. Noshit survives in apparent self-sufficence despite her tender years, performing singlehandedly all the necessary household tasks and simultaneously playing a number of wind instruments. One assumes the neibors who are aware of this fact are buried in the back yard under the kiwi vine, a' la Jodi Foster in 'The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane'. She attends Miskatonic University along with Our Saviour, Jesus, his twin brother James, and any number of fun-loving lesbians who play rugby and drink a lot. Ms. Noshits' favorite beverage is one which has the word 'proof' on the label. Do visit this amazing prodigal here at http://drivingthebustohell.blogspot.com/ but be nice, or I'll find you and hurt you. And your dog. In fact I think I'll kick the shit out of your grandmother too if I can catch the old sow.
THE NOSHIT POST
....................Last night was dark. Today finds me full posession of my faculties once again, dammit. I keep trying, but nobody wants to lend me their fish.
"In the morning
Laughing, happy Fish Heads
In the evening
Floating in the soup
Ask a Fish head
Anything you want to
They won't answer
They can't talk
I took a Fish head
Out to see a movie
Didn't have to pay
To get it in"
Fishheads, by some group
I hit my sister thirteen times today with the rear bumper off a Buick but she still wouldn't shut up about the flies. Wwhy do the flies keep annoying me? I don't like the flies. Make the flies go away.
I know they're watching.
And waiting.
" Oh Lydia, oh Lydia, say, have you met Lydia?
Lydia The Tattooed Lady.
She has eyes that folks adore so,
and a torso even more so.
Lydia, oh Lydia, that encyclo-pidia.
Oh Lydia The Queen of Tattoo.
On her back is The Battle of Waterloo.
Beside it, The Wreck of the Hesperus too.
And proudly above waves the red, white, and blue.
You can learn a lot from Lydia!
La-la-la...la-la-la.
La-la-la...la-la-la. "
Lydia the Tattooed Lady, the Marx Brothers
The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs.
The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs.
"smelly cat, smelly cat
what are they feeding you?
smelly cat, smelly cat
it's not your fault
they won't take you to the vet,
you're obviously not their favorite pet.
you may not be a bed of roses,
you're no friend to those with noses
smelly cat, smelly cat
what are they feeding you?
smelly cat, smelly cat,
it's not your fault"
Smelly Cat, by that goofy broad on Friends
I met my friends outside the emergency room and we all ran in and pushed over all the wheelchair people. We switched catheter bags with Ringers' lactate. We sang foul ditties and smeared food on the walls of the cafeteria. Later, we wondered why. We wondered why.
"I woke up this morning with a bad hangover
and my penis was missing again.
This happens all the time:
it's detachable.
This comes in handy a lot of the time:
I can leave it home when I think it's going to get me in trouble,
or I can rent it out
when I don't need it.
But now and then I go to a party, get drunk, and the next morning
I can't for the life of me
remember what I did with it."
Detachable Penis, Primus
Tomorrow I will go to school the same as always. I long for the day when my kind will rise again, up from the primordial slime and muck which shrouds the bed of the obsidian-dark fathoms, up from below the leaden grey and icy waves of the ocean, up from the seaweed-garlanded spires and temples where once the Elder gods were worshipped in their foulness......until then, i wait.
No, wait.
I mean, I wonder if Billy will let me copy his homework?
Geeze, what comes over me?
* translated: airplane. they're untrustworthy however you look at it but never moreso than on newzealands' soil.
THE NOSHIT POST
....................Last night was dark. Today finds me full posession of my faculties once again, dammit. I keep trying, but nobody wants to lend me their fish.
"In the morning
Laughing, happy Fish Heads
In the evening
Floating in the soup
Ask a Fish head
Anything you want to
They won't answer
They can't talk
I took a Fish head
Out to see a movie
Didn't have to pay
To get it in"
Fishheads, by some group
I hit my sister thirteen times today with the rear bumper off a Buick but she still wouldn't shut up about the flies. Wwhy do the flies keep annoying me? I don't like the flies. Make the flies go away.
I know they're watching.
And waiting.
" Oh Lydia, oh Lydia, say, have you met Lydia?
Lydia The Tattooed Lady.
She has eyes that folks adore so,
and a torso even more so.
Lydia, oh Lydia, that encyclo-pidia.
Oh Lydia The Queen of Tattoo.
On her back is The Battle of Waterloo.
Beside it, The Wreck of the Hesperus too.
And proudly above waves the red, white, and blue.
You can learn a lot from Lydia!
La-la-la...la-la-la.
La-la-la...la-la-la. "
Lydia the Tattooed Lady, the Marx Brothers
The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs.
The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs.
"smelly cat, smelly cat
what are they feeding you?
smelly cat, smelly cat
it's not your fault
they won't take you to the vet,
you're obviously not their favorite pet.
you may not be a bed of roses,
you're no friend to those with noses
smelly cat, smelly cat
what are they feeding you?
smelly cat, smelly cat,
it's not your fault"
Smelly Cat, by that goofy broad on Friends
I met my friends outside the emergency room and we all ran in and pushed over all the wheelchair people. We switched catheter bags with Ringers' lactate. We sang foul ditties and smeared food on the walls of the cafeteria. Later, we wondered why. We wondered why.
"I woke up this morning with a bad hangover
and my penis was missing again.
This happens all the time:
it's detachable.
This comes in handy a lot of the time:
I can leave it home when I think it's going to get me in trouble,
or I can rent it out
when I don't need it.
But now and then I go to a party, get drunk, and the next morning
I can't for the life of me
remember what I did with it."
Detachable Penis, Primus
Tomorrow I will go to school the same as always. I long for the day when my kind will rise again, up from the primordial slime and muck which shrouds the bed of the obsidian-dark fathoms, up from below the leaden grey and icy waves of the ocean, up from the seaweed-garlanded spires and temples where once the Elder gods were worshipped in their foulness......until then, i wait.
No, wait.
I mean, I wonder if Billy will let me copy his homework?
Geeze, what comes over me?
* translated: airplane. they're untrustworthy however you look at it but never moreso than on newzealands' soil.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Bread
Today I am making bread (and actually I should be proofing the dough right now.)
Baking used to be something that I found difficult, but in the last five years I've become something of a dab hand at it. I think once I let go of the scientific method and started going by feel is when it all came to me.
Most baking books preach absolute precision. You must rigorously measure and weigh and temp and dither and worry. Now, that's in disregard of the fact that perfectly lovely bread was being produced for centuries before it even occurred to anyone to invent clothes. My grandmother (fully clothed) made it in a zinc tub and baked it in a wood stove 'until it smelled done.' Guys in the Klondike made it in a hide bag they wore on their belly under their shirts. And once you've sat back and entertained THAT mental picture for a moment or two, you never look at a loaf of sourdough bread the same way.
If I didn't have a Cuisinart (a robocoupe) my shit would be sunk, though. Not only for bread, though. I use that sapsucker at least once a day; in fact I've chainsawed my way through three so far. I'm on #4, and #5 is waiting in the cupboard for its debut. Fork blending? Yeah, right. Kiss my what?
I love the smell of the ingredients. A nice egg, a little yogurt, water, yeast, the flour, the sugar and salt...they all have a perfume. And I love to handle the dough. I knead with my eyes closed, going mainly by feel to determine when enough is enough or things are too sticky or need dampening up.
Bread dough as it begins to work is a magic substance. Warmth begins to flow from it as the strands of gluten lengthen and the structure becomes silky. It's the same warmth a baby gives off when it's sleeping on your chest. A fragrance like heaven must smell early in the morning (when Jimi Hendrix is making toast) rises in little wisps as you turn and fold and turn and fold.
I make a french-style loaf once a week just for a giant hoagie sandwich dinner. So that all the goodies and yummies will fit and not squit out the sides, I tear out some of the fluff with a fork. For the rest of the evening the Yummy Biker and the Goonybird sneak into the kitchen and pick at the 'bread guts' for a snack and feel like they're getting away with something.
This is one of the priceless pleasures in life. Bill Gates has nothing I want.
Baking used to be something that I found difficult, but in the last five years I've become something of a dab hand at it. I think once I let go of the scientific method and started going by feel is when it all came to me.
Most baking books preach absolute precision. You must rigorously measure and weigh and temp and dither and worry. Now, that's in disregard of the fact that perfectly lovely bread was being produced for centuries before it even occurred to anyone to invent clothes. My grandmother (fully clothed) made it in a zinc tub and baked it in a wood stove 'until it smelled done.' Guys in the Klondike made it in a hide bag they wore on their belly under their shirts. And once you've sat back and entertained THAT mental picture for a moment or two, you never look at a loaf of sourdough bread the same way.
If I didn't have a Cuisinart (a robocoupe) my shit would be sunk, though. Not only for bread, though. I use that sapsucker at least once a day; in fact I've chainsawed my way through three so far. I'm on #4, and #5 is waiting in the cupboard for its debut. Fork blending? Yeah, right. Kiss my what?
I love the smell of the ingredients. A nice egg, a little yogurt, water, yeast, the flour, the sugar and salt...they all have a perfume. And I love to handle the dough. I knead with my eyes closed, going mainly by feel to determine when enough is enough or things are too sticky or need dampening up.
Bread dough as it begins to work is a magic substance. Warmth begins to flow from it as the strands of gluten lengthen and the structure becomes silky. It's the same warmth a baby gives off when it's sleeping on your chest. A fragrance like heaven must smell early in the morning (when Jimi Hendrix is making toast) rises in little wisps as you turn and fold and turn and fold.
I make a french-style loaf once a week just for a giant hoagie sandwich dinner. So that all the goodies and yummies will fit and not squit out the sides, I tear out some of the fluff with a fork. For the rest of the evening the Yummy Biker and the Goonybird sneak into the kitchen and pick at the 'bread guts' for a snack and feel like they're getting away with something.
This is one of the priceless pleasures in life. Bill Gates has nothing I want.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
hassled by the man
Not one to pattyfoot around, I emphasize the following:
hey! yeah, you! leave a fucking comment! It's mandatory now! Thats right! House A' Pain, baby!
I had to appear in district court yesterday for a mitigation hearing. Remember back when I went dashing up to the Stainless Steel Amazons's house to pick up the Goonybird (out of the kindness and generosity of my heart and a genuine concern for the welfare of my grandson because I am a woman with a beautiful soul) and got stopped by the cop? Yeah. He was kind enough to drop the speeding ticket-and I was flying low- but he felt compelled to cite me for the expired tabs*. That, I'm assuming, had something to do with the fact they had been expired for nearly half a year.
So anyway I had to show up in court at 8:30 a fucking m.
At the vestibule I get wanded in and pass through the metal detectors; fine. Then recall that I'm carrying a pocketknife on my keyring. Back I go to the security guard like a good little citizen. She examines the knife (sharper than madonnas tits, too-I use it to purloin cuttings.) "Oh no," she says, handing it back. " You can keep it. It has to be a little longer than this." Now the thought occurs to me to point out that the human heart lies a mere two inches behind the sternum, a plate of gristle easily punctured with a determined blow- and anyway you can kill somebody by sticking a pencil in their eye, and here I am wandering around at large in a public building with a cranium full of prozac and a knife for the love of fuck, but I decide not to. I am smart like that.
When it comes my turn for judgement I run a quick wedgie check (nope!) and then step up to the bar.
"I'd like to see your license" the judge states.
I rummage around in my purse and pull out my wallet. And the fucking zipper sticks. Bad enough; but the pull is a stupid skull with a rose in it's teeth. I'm trying to keep the judge from seeing that since I'm disguised as a responsible adult and I'd like to maintain that impression as long as I'm in the hands of the law. I managed to wriggle the vinyl thing holding all my cards out of the side of the wallet. The vinyl tears, and as all my identification and photographs go sliding across the bench I present my license to the judge.
"Oh,' he says. "I didn't want to see your license. I meant your license."
I pause. A small blood vessel in my brain begins to swell.
"Did you get them? he asks."
"I have a license", I chirp helpfully.
"I don't want to see your license. I mean your license", he says.
I shuffle through my papers as though I know exactly what this smiling busload of rectums is trying to get at. But then-
'Aha,' I realize. 'Not license. Buckwheat means 'tabs.'
"Oh, yes. The expired tabs, yes. I had new ones on the car 45 minutes after I received the ticket" I reply.
"Oh. Then I'm reducing your fine to 60.00"
He smiles all crinkly, obviously about to deliver himself of a bon mot. "Oh, and, by the way, nice license."
Plumb fuckin' eludes me, too.
* 'Tabs' are reflective stickers with a date you have to attach to the license plates of your car. They're due every few years. It's a form of extortion.
hey! yeah, you! leave a fucking comment! It's mandatory now! Thats right! House A' Pain, baby!
I had to appear in district court yesterday for a mitigation hearing. Remember back when I went dashing up to the Stainless Steel Amazons's house to pick up the Goonybird (out of the kindness and generosity of my heart and a genuine concern for the welfare of my grandson because I am a woman with a beautiful soul) and got stopped by the cop? Yeah. He was kind enough to drop the speeding ticket-and I was flying low- but he felt compelled to cite me for the expired tabs*. That, I'm assuming, had something to do with the fact they had been expired for nearly half a year.
So anyway I had to show up in court at 8:30 a fucking m.
At the vestibule I get wanded in and pass through the metal detectors; fine. Then recall that I'm carrying a pocketknife on my keyring. Back I go to the security guard like a good little citizen. She examines the knife (sharper than madonnas tits, too-I use it to purloin cuttings.) "Oh no," she says, handing it back. " You can keep it. It has to be a little longer than this." Now the thought occurs to me to point out that the human heart lies a mere two inches behind the sternum, a plate of gristle easily punctured with a determined blow- and anyway you can kill somebody by sticking a pencil in their eye, and here I am wandering around at large in a public building with a cranium full of prozac and a knife for the love of fuck, but I decide not to. I am smart like that.
When it comes my turn for judgement I run a quick wedgie check (nope!) and then step up to the bar.
"I'd like to see your license" the judge states.
I rummage around in my purse and pull out my wallet. And the fucking zipper sticks. Bad enough; but the pull is a stupid skull with a rose in it's teeth. I'm trying to keep the judge from seeing that since I'm disguised as a responsible adult and I'd like to maintain that impression as long as I'm in the hands of the law. I managed to wriggle the vinyl thing holding all my cards out of the side of the wallet. The vinyl tears, and as all my identification and photographs go sliding across the bench I present my license to the judge.
"Oh,' he says. "I didn't want to see your license. I meant your license."
I pause. A small blood vessel in my brain begins to swell.
"Did you get them? he asks."
"I have a license", I chirp helpfully.
"I don't want to see your license. I mean your license", he says.
I shuffle through my papers as though I know exactly what this smiling busload of rectums is trying to get at. But then-
'Aha,' I realize. 'Not license. Buckwheat means 'tabs.'
"Oh, yes. The expired tabs, yes. I had new ones on the car 45 minutes after I received the ticket" I reply.
"Oh. Then I'm reducing your fine to 60.00"
He smiles all crinkly, obviously about to deliver himself of a bon mot. "Oh, and, by the way, nice license."
Plumb fuckin' eludes me, too.
* 'Tabs' are reflective stickers with a date you have to attach to the license plates of your car. They're due every few years. It's a form of extortion.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
...a nation conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that chocolate, lard, white sugar and caffeine are all health foods. and beer.
As the level of gleeg in my lungal regions decreases, my level of wanting to do things increases. Drawing of crows picking hideously at a severed head? check. (Turned out good, too.)
Dishes washed? check.
Hair tinted in a sad attempt to appear as though I HAVE hair? check.
Messers. Piggy and Tazzy get the tip o' the hat for todays post. Everyone go see http://www.tazzyandpiggy.com/nsfw/ right now and give them both a big ol' blow job, won't you?
Yes, that means you too.
P and T suggest....
"1. Blog about your deepest sexual fantasies,
2. or poo,
3. or that woman down the road that you don't like the look of,
4. or the person down the street that you DO like the look of.
5. Or how about telling us your thoughts as you masturbate?
6. Or even something as dull as your favourite socks?
7. What about that tattoo? Tell us about that!"
1. Geeze, guys, my daughter reads this.
.........Nyeh, so what!
My deepest sexual fantasy took place in Ape Caves National Park (you see the 'deep' connection here?) which was located on Mt. St. Helens, also making it the highest sexual fantasy I ever had. Having retreated to a small bell-cavern off the main tunnel to moke a doink, I briefly but vividly entertained vulvar visions of vaginas and full body fucking when I became temporarily lodged like a fat boy in the almond-shaped passage back out. Soon afterwards the entire mountain exploded. Coincidence?
2. Already done poo, and rather well I think. I promised another story concerning horses and dogs, though, and that one's in the works.
3. Did that too. But God knows that well aint dry.
4. Geeze, which direction? And how far down the road? In my little corner of heaven there are people I dislike, people I kind of dislike, people I tolerate occasionally and to date 5 people I actually like-like. (not counting you, my darlings.)
5. Who thinks? Do you think? Isn't that distracting? Are you suposed to think? Nobody told me. Now I'm all paranoid. Thanks.
6. Toe socks. They're like cozy little gloves for your feets. I like 'em.
7. Which one?
And thank you to everyone. I really felt like deep fried dogshit last week and you cheered me up.
Dishes washed? check.
Hair tinted in a sad attempt to appear as though I HAVE hair? check.
Messers. Piggy and Tazzy get the tip o' the hat for todays post. Everyone go see http://www.tazzyandpiggy.com/nsfw/ right now and give them both a big ol' blow job, won't you?
Yes, that means you too.
P and T suggest....
"1. Blog about your deepest sexual fantasies,
2. or poo,
3. or that woman down the road that you don't like the look of,
4. or the person down the street that you DO like the look of.
5. Or how about telling us your thoughts as you masturbate?
6. Or even something as dull as your favourite socks?
7. What about that tattoo? Tell us about that!"
1. Geeze, guys, my daughter reads this.
.........Nyeh, so what!
My deepest sexual fantasy took place in Ape Caves National Park (you see the 'deep' connection here?) which was located on Mt. St. Helens, also making it the highest sexual fantasy I ever had. Having retreated to a small bell-cavern off the main tunnel to moke a doink, I briefly but vividly entertained vulvar visions of vaginas and full body fucking when I became temporarily lodged like a fat boy in the almond-shaped passage back out. Soon afterwards the entire mountain exploded. Coincidence?
2. Already done poo, and rather well I think. I promised another story concerning horses and dogs, though, and that one's in the works.
3. Did that too. But God knows that well aint dry.
4. Geeze, which direction? And how far down the road? In my little corner of heaven there are people I dislike, people I kind of dislike, people I tolerate occasionally and to date 5 people I actually like-like. (not counting you, my darlings.)
5. Who thinks? Do you think? Isn't that distracting? Are you suposed to think? Nobody told me. Now I'm all paranoid. Thanks.
6. Toe socks. They're like cozy little gloves for your feets. I like 'em.
7. Which one?
And thank you to everyone. I really felt like deep fried dogshit last week and you cheered me up.
Monday, March 20, 2006
the nation in review
In the breaking up stage of things today. I will spare you the descriptions.
-Oh all right; fine.
Ever had a fishtank? Think of the worst fishtank you have ever seen. No, worse than that.
...and hold that picture...
Thats it.
Yeah.
Thinking seriously about not doing the blog thing anymore. The weather is changing and I am turning my attentions to other things....That, and I feel 'all talked out'. I guess I have a limited need to communicate? I dunno. Ideas and suggestions and questions and stuff welcome.
But mostly, tissues.
-Oh all right; fine.
Ever had a fishtank? Think of the worst fishtank you have ever seen. No, worse than that.
...and hold that picture...
Thats it.
Yeah.
Thinking seriously about not doing the blog thing anymore. The weather is changing and I am turning my attentions to other things....That, and I feel 'all talked out'. I guess I have a limited need to communicate? I dunno. Ideas and suggestions and questions and stuff welcome.
But mostly, tissues.
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