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Super Fattening Bowl If You Believe That, I have some Swamp Land to Sell You Dead Cow in the Middle of the Road
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February 4, 2007 Well, now it’s Super Bowl Sunday. The air is vibrating with anticipation. I can almost smell all the fattening stuff that people are making to eat during their parties. I'm are going to a Super Bowl party. No, I’m not a
football fan. I’m not not a football fan, I just
don’t care either way. Tonight, So, since this is the end of the football season finale, I think today is a good day to do some catching up on past blog topics. First, I do want to assure everyone that I adore my daughter, and we are the best of friends, despite the hard time I give her in my blogs about how she affected my sanity. I can say that in all honesty because it’s all true—including the thing about my sanity. You see, I must defend myself because of her comment on last week’s blog, which I’m pasting here for those of you who didn’t see it: Yea,
sure. Blame all your mental problems on the child!!
That’s okay I'm used to it, being an only child, I
tended to get blamed for everything! (and of course I
was just an innocent bystander in all of It, I can
assure you!!) And I do
remember that day with the See all that sarcasm? I know she had to inherit that from someone else. Surely, she didn’t get it from me. And mention of my mother brings me to another topic about which I need to update you. Electrolysis. I haven’t mentioned that in a while. Here’s what I have to say about it: IT STILL HURTS! And I’m still getting it done. I usually go with my mother—it’s sort of a mother/daughter bonding thing. And when my dear electrolysist, Pat, gets done with my face, I’m usually crying involuntarily. Then I whine as I crawl off the table. “Mommy, she hurt me bad.” And my mother says, “Suck it up. Build and bridge and get over it.” Or something to that affect. See? Poor me. I’m so abused. Anyway, the hairs are diminishing. The pain is worth it. Really. February 7, 2007 If You Believe That, I Have Some Swamp Land to Sell You I’m beside myself with emotion due to this momentous email I received. I am about to be a millionaire. Yep. Here’s what it said: From The Desk of:Mr. JOHN OWEN Head of Trustee and Depository Institutional Fund ServiceS. HSBC Bank Plc 24th Floor 8 Canada Square London E14 5hq. 7/2/2007. Dear Prospective Partner, Good day. I need your services in a confidential matter regarding money ( US$9.6Million Dollars Only ) that was deposited by Late Mr Morris Thompson in a finance firm ,the next of kin to claim the funds is needed and It will please me if you assist in recieving this fund as the next of kin for onward joint investment in your country under your direction and supervision .Kindly Visit this site: http://www.cnn.com/2000/US/02/01/alaska.airlines.list/ This requires a private arrangement and the funds will be recieved in your country under legal claims.It will please me if you and i can use part of the funds and expand your current business. This will be realized after the funds must have being transfered to your bank account soon .I wwill give you more details upon receipt of your reply to this .I wish you a the best of the new week . Lots of cheers. My Regards , Mr. John Owen Isn’t it amazing that out of ALL of the people in the United States and the Rest of The World, Mr. JOHN OWEN from London has chosen me to be worthy of this honor? And though I’m so sorry that the late Mr Morris Thompson (God rest his soul) didn’t have any next of kin to speak of, I’m glad that I can benefit from this windfall. I know all of this because Mr. JOHN OWEN says, It will please me if you assist in recieving this fund as the next of kin for onward joint investment in your country under your direction and supervision. Wow. This is all very hush-hush. I probably shouldn’t even be telling my blog readers about this because he says, this requires a private arrangement and the funds will be recieved in your country under legal claims. So don’t tell anybody else, okay? And you know what? I never knew this before, but it would appear that the word receive is spelled differently in London. See how he spells it recieve throughout the whole email? And how sweet was it that he wished me the best of a new week. With good cheer, even. So, I guess I need to get back in touch with Mr. JOHN OWEN, Head of Trustee and Depository Institutional Fund ServiceS. (And what, do you suppose, is the significance of that “S” at the end of service?) I must do this quickly so he can have the funds transfered to my account. They spell transferred differently in London, too. Oh, and I was amazed to notice that they also don't have the same rules for capitalization that we do. Anyway, after that, he said he wwill give me more details. I’m pretty sure that wwill is a will with extra umph. Oh, wait. He said I should Kindly Visit that website, um, ……….www.cnn.com/2000/US/02/01/alaska.airlines.list............ Wow. CNN and Alaska Airlines are involved in my good fortune. Am I not the luckiest person in the whole wide world?
So,
now that I’m going to have lots of money, I can invest
in this (Seriously, do not go to the website. I didn’t. I have no idea what it is, but I don’t want to risk some sort of scam or virus.)
February 14, 2007 A friend sent me one of those email chain letter things called, My Resignation (from adulthood). I happen to be a fan of email chain letters—at least the funny ones. (The urban legends annoy me, though, so, please don’t anyone send those to me. They always throw me into a frenzy to find out if there’s any truth to them at all, and I don’t have time for that right now.) Anyway, this silly letter I received sort of kicked me in the gut because sometimes I just wish I could run away from being a grown-up. Away from responsibility. Away from thinking all the time. So, I decided to come up with my own list. Here it is. My resignation from being an adult.
Today
I’ve decided I don’t want to be a grown up anymore. I
want a 1. I want to eat pizza and not count (even subconsciously) how many calories and grams of fat each slice has. 2. I want to sit next to my grandmother and eat peanut butter and butter sandwiches on white bread from wax paper wrapping. 3. I want to drink homemade root beer and not worry about the sugar content. 4. I want to float plastic sailboats on a pond without being distracted by the algae and other scum that floats along the edges. 5. I want to play checkers with someone who lets me win but doesn't tell me they're letting me win. 6. I want to lie on the grass without thinking about the bugs that live there or what dog has used that area for a toilet. 7. I want to watch the clouds and dream without the distraction of all the things that HAVE to be done. (Hey, is that cloud the shape of a computer monitor? Wait! Does that other cloud look like a can of toilet bowl cleaner? Oh! Look at that one! It's almost exactly like a vacuum cleaner!) 8. I want to walk through the woods without worrying that ticks are going to drop on my head and give me Lyme’s disease. 9. I want to not think about retirement and how much interest our account is earning. 10. I don't want to think that I'm going to NEED retirement. Some days I would love to officially resign from being a grown-up. Today is one of those days. February 21, 2007 The last two days have been challenging. Yesterday, I almost got smacked in the face with the screen door. Today, I turned on my computer only to see the blue screen of death. Fortunately, the screen door didn’t hurt me, and the computer issues weren't fatal. If you’ve been watching the news at all, you’ll know the mid-Atlantic got slammed with an ice storm last week. We had almost a foot of white, sleety, ice. The thing is, if it didn’t get plowed or shoveled the same day it was coming down, it didn’t get plowed or shoveled at all. It became much like cement—bending the shovels and plows of anyone who tried to move it. But just as bad as the initial storm is what happens when it starts to melt. Yesterday the temperatures rose. At four in the afternoon, I tried to walk out my door (the only door that works in this house) to go exercise. The screen door opened six inches. That’s when I walked into it, almost breaking my nose. The problem was that the thick coating of ice on the roof had started to melt. It was sliding, inch by inch, from the top roof to the little overhanging roof over our door, weighing down the gutters. The door got stuck at the top, jamming against the gutters. My first thought was, do I have another avenue of escape? The windows weren’t an option. Most of our windows on the ground floor are painted shut. (Not by us.) Those that do work fall shut unless they are held open by something—like a piece of wood. (These are OLD windows.) I could just see me crawling out a window only to have it slam shut behind me, and me being stuck outside in the ice. So, what does a girl do when she can’t get out of the house? Bust out a window? Take a sledge hammer to the wall? No! Nothing so immature and extreme! Instead, I called Steve and Allan, the antique guys! If you’ve been reading my blog from the beginning, you’ll remember Steve and Allan (Won't You Be My Neighbor). They are my rescuers. As soon as I called them, they walked over to help me. (I won’t mention that they were laughing at me because I was so mad.) Long story short, they pushed up on the gutter, lifting it enough so I could open the screen door. What can I say? So, about that blue screen of death? That was this morning. First, let me say, seeing that blue screen is better than caffeine in the morning for jumpstarting the heart. Fortunately, rebooting and fooling with some technical things took care of the problem, so I didn’t have a tragedy of epic proportions. Yes, I always back things up to flash drives, but that’s not good enough if the epic tragedy happens. To forestall that, Brad went to Best Buy on his way home from work and bought an external hard drive. I’ve backed up everything except the major programs, for which I have CDs. I'll be able to turn off my computer tonight and sleep without worrying. Now, repeat after me. . .tomorrow will be a better day. . .tomorrow will be a better day.
February 25, 2007 Dead Cow in the Middle of the Road
On
the off chance that my faithful readers had any
lingering doubts about my state of mind, I want to take
this opportunity to confirm You know what they say about that, don’t you? Insanity is often due to maternal influences. Yes, I know. I’ve spent a great deal of time in my blogs blaming my daughter for my idiosyncrasies. Well, now she gets to share the blame. With my mother. Don’t misunderstand me. My family’s contributions to my mental state are a good thing. A loose hold on sanity is a great deal of fun. Living part-time in unreality certainly makes writing fiction much easier. It also gives me plenty of things to write about in my blog. So, without further ado, here is one of my mother’s contributions to my writing career. The scene opens with me and my mother watching a cow die. Right before our very eyes. In case you were wondering, yes, that bothered me. It’s an odd experience to watch the life leave a creature’s eyes and the soul leave the body. But, that was only the beginning. More traumas were yet to come. You see, my mother and dad were heading out for a little vacation the next day. Why is that traumatic, you ask? Well, because someone had to make sure the dead cow was taken care of. You see, those are the things most people don’t think about when they think about farms. What do you do with a dead animal? A very big dead animal. You can’t just dig a hole and roll it in. And so, my very lucky readers, that’s what I’m going to explain to you today. First, my dad dragged the cow from the barn down near the house, leaving her in the middle of road. You must understand that when I say drag, I mean with a chain hooked to a tractor. Then he called Valley Protein at 1-800-DEADCOW (I am not joking. That’s the number) and arranged for someone to come pick it up the next morning.
Now, my folks’ job was finished. The next morning, early, they were leaving on a jet plane. . .leaving me all alone. In charge of a dead cow.
I lay awake worrying all night. What if Valley Protein didn’t come? The last thing I wanted was a big, swollen, decaying cow in the middle of the road.
I decided to call 1-800-DEADCOW first thing in the morning to make sure they would be there. When the guy answered, I explained why I was calling and gave him my folks’ last name.
“Who?” he asked.
“Mills.” I repeated my mother’s last name.
Looong pause. “Don’t got no Mills,” he said. I heard the shuffling of papers. “Just Ronnie Mills.”
I thought he was joking with me, so I laughed.
He didn’t laugh. Oops. He wasn’t joking.
I got a hold of myself. “Yes, that’s it.”
“Oh. . . . .well, in that case, someone’ll be there sometime this morning.” His tone of voice indicated that he thought I was the crazy one.
I felt a huge sense of relief. I figured I had it made now. “Okay, good. I’ll leave the check on their porch.”
Another pause. “Uhhh, noooo. We’d rather you put it in a jar next to the cow.”
By this point, I didn’t laugh on the off chance he wasn’t joking, but surely, he had to be.
“In a jar?” I asked.
“Yes. Or a can,” he said in all seriousness.
“A glass jar? Next to the cow?” Not a joke.
“Yes.”
“Like, right next to the cow?” Definitely not a joke.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Oh, Just Great. I had to dig out a canning jar, put the check in it, and put it next to a cow corpse.
Now, you must understand why this distressed me. For one thing, the cow was so big and. . . .dead. Then, there were bodily fluids that were most disturbing. And my gaze always has this habit of searching out the disturbing things to look at.
I’m not generally queasy. I’ve visited the state medical examiner’s office and watched autopsies in progress, but for some reason, the cow was too much. I think that was because seeing a dead body at a morgue is to be expected. But seeing a corpse, especially a big, leaky one, in my running path, was just not right. Besides, I had watched her die.
Well, I put the check in the jar and placed it next to the cow. Valley Protein came with a huge truck and picked the cow up. I didn’t watch that part, but after the guy was done, I made sure to go meet him, because I’m positive there has to be a story idea in all of this. Some gruesome mystery.
And to think it’s all thanks to my mother. (You can visit my folks’ website at www.rtacres.com )
February 28, 2007 I received a blog article suggestion. He or she didn’t leave a name or email, and I will refrain from commenting on their lack of bravery for not admitting who they are. Since the suggestion wasn’t nasty, crude, or otherwise inappropriate, I decided to go ahead and address the suggested topic. Sunspots. Yep. That was the suggestion. That’s all the person said. Sunspots. So, you might wonder what I can do with that. Oh, plenty. My faithful readers should know by now that I can ramble on and on about the most inane things. Interestingly enough, sunspots are an. . .interesting topic. I learned some things that I didn’t know.
Sunspots aren’t burps. They are more like pimples. They’re the places ("active regions") where the Sun's magnetic field rises up from below the Sun's surface. Those magnetic regions poke through the surface. Sunspots are darker than the surrounding areas on the sun because they are expending less energy and have a lower temperature. If there were too many sunspots, the sun would dim. A scary thing to think about, but not likely to happen anytime soon. Solar flares and other misbehavior by the sun (like coronal mass ejections and solar prominences) are more likely to affect us. Really, what can you expect from something that flares and ejects prominently. Those three things sent out energetic particles toward earth that can affect our power plants or cause pretty auroral displays. Those particles might also knock out satellites in orbit around the Earth. Note the energetic part of that. I guess the burps would have to be energetic to make it all the way to the earth with that kind of force. Frankly, it seems to me that the sun is not very well mannered, flinging pieces of itself all over the place. So, there. I did it. I wrote a blog article based on a single word suggestion. Now, the person who made that suggestion should come forward and admit to it. I’m waiting. . . |
I don’t even know who’s playing (don’t shoot me). But
I’m all about having a good time. My host told me that
we could not, under any circumstances, bring food to the
party that was healthy. I’m going to oblige. Potato
chips, spinach dip, tortillas, and Mexican cheese dip.
I’m anticipating gaining at least five pounds this
evening. Yes. I mean it. I’m going to eat whatever I
want to and then pay the consequences. (Although I am
considering going for a run beforehand.)
raccoon., I was very sad that you had to shoot my new
friend, but I was even more sad that night when I
couldn't sit because my butt hurt too bad from the
rabies shots. Yes, folks, they inject them in the
buttocks. Its a two-inch long needle filled with bright
pink fluid that hurts going in and continues to hurt
till you never want to see another wild animal again!!
Not that the lesson did me any good. Something about
owls is tickling the back of my mind. Dang it. I just
can't figure out why!! (She is referring to the Owl
Incident, which I blogged about in my June 18th Blog Article called,
few days off from being a responsible adult. 
the fact that my hold on sanity is indeed loose, as you
can see in the picture of me. 
By the way, cows
standing up are big, but dead cows lying on the ground
look bigger. 