There is some swearing. It is totally worth it.
There is some swearing. It is totally worth it.
Thanks to Slate for the redirect. I just sat here and read thisand I have the biggest dumb smile on my face. Actually, it reminded me of this piece, which is truly an outstanding read. Beavers, ferrets…ah, my day is off to a decent start. All that’s missing is Miss Maggie on my lap to wonder what I’m laughing out loud about.
Next Monday’s Motherlode explores the downside to working at home, mainly that I can’t be bothered to wear pants sometimes. That’s about comfort, not salaciousness. My sister also works at home. She just sent me an email. I will just copy and paste the entire thing right here, as I contemplate other downsides of people who work at home.
“There is a polygamist cardinal in my front tree. One male, two females. I’ll let you know what happens.”
If you have a pet (well, a dog or cat; not so much a turtle or something like that) you’ve lived this: in the middle of the night you hear it throwing up something, somewhere and you make a mental note to find it and clean it up in the morning. Then you wake up with a memory as clear as a sheet of glass and step in it, or hear the howling as someone else does. I heard Maggie chucking last night, and I didn’t remember until the two of us were having our morning tea. “Having our morning tea” means I sit working at my computer drinking tea and Maggie awkwardly perches on my lap, delicately draping her upper body over my right forearm so I can barely type.
Then she got down, abruptly. I ignored this, until I heard some weird, other-worldly retching. I looked up in time to see her doing some Exorcist level spewing under the dining room table. As I got up to start clean up, she bolted. But she kept barfing. So, small kitty running laps around the kitchen/living room/dining room, barfing. It was like seeing someone run a marathon when they get to that dazed and confused point of brainmush where they mindlessly quaff water that is thrown to them and then pee themselves and keep running. Maggie the Marathoner just kept trotting around with stinky stuff blasting everywhere. I tried to stop her before she hit the carpeted stairs. I don’t have much carpet in the house, but next time I’m just buying an earth-tone camouflage pattern.
She stopped, and looked up at me sadly. I used too many Lysol wipes cleaning up various crime scenes, and she sat patiently watching me not feeling even a little bit guilty. It’s like when a kid throws up all over their bed; they don’t care that you have to clean it up. You’re officially grown up when you feel terrible about someone having to clean up when you’re sick. Maggie has no qualms about letting me do this. Because she’d been running around as she cacked, she’d made a mess of herself. I carefully scooped her up and she wanted to snuggle, but I surreptitiously grabbed a little cloth and wet it to wipe her down. She is not a fan of this, not at all. The highlight of my morning was trying to clean up a cat who was I-love-you-man drunk by 9am.
It is now lunchtime. I want to tell her I’m scared to let her eat anything. But is this a face you would say “no” to?
If you ever have one of those mornings where you poke your nose out of your flannel sheets and think, “dayum, that is cold” and consider burrowing down and staying put for the day, you should always remember there will be headlines that will make it all worthwhile, headlines like some billionaire guy who is called a fracking billionaire which always makes me laugh because I think when people say ‘fracking’ they’re really saying the other f word, but he’s in the middle of divorce court (but for real, not like on TV) and he’s trying to get his alimony to his wife cut because he’s losing so much money with all that cheap gas going around, and she’s standing firm in her no doubt awesome shoes saying ‘they said a billion, and I get a billion, go frack yourself, Bob’ or whatever his name is, and then you read a little further and see that Nicholas Sparks’ wife is also leaving him but then you sorta feel bad for giggling because he’s the guy who wrote all those goopy stupid movies like The Notebook and if anyone should know how to be romantically married it’s The Notebook dude except to me because I really, really hate all the smooshy stuff, though if you have a billion dollars for alimony, we could talk.
I’m reading how Uber will be jacking their rates for New Year’s Eve and I’m laughing at anyone who goes out on New Year’s Eve. I’m not so much a killjoy as I am a ‘who can be bothered?’. Ari and his girlfriend are sorting out details on a party they’re going to, and as young and beautiful things, going out for New Year’s is exactly what they should be doing. I’ve offered to drop them off, but I’ve told them to find a pregnant person – preferably not the girlfriend – to drive them home. Mama doesn’t do 2am.
I’m trying to figure out which movie to watch. I’ve watched a bunch in the past few weeks. Loved The Grand Budapest Hotel, adored Nebraska so much, and couldn’t believe I liked Snowpiercer, but I did. Couldn’t stand Blue Jasmine; then again, I can’t stand Woody Allen, but I thought my Cate Blanchett love would make it all better. No. Now I just think that Woody Allen managed to wreck Cate Blanchett. I would have thought that would be hard to do. I’m aware many people don’t agree with me, including those Oscar people who thought Cate did a darned good job. Then again, those Oscar people thought American Hustle was a good movie. I’m holding out for Boyhood, which looks like pretty much everybody’s favourite movie of the year. Hurry up, Netflix, I’m not going driving around out there with all the drunks.
I think next year I shall be one of those people who holds an open house on New Year’s Day. Doesn’t that sound grown up? Someone remind me.
Geez. Martha Stewart recipes and open houses. Quick, get her out of 2014.
A few minutes ago I was doing a radio bit with Charles Adler out west, on how the cold affects cars. Everybody knows when I’m doing radio spots they can’t talk to me, no matter what, because it’s not like when I’m on the phone to Aunt Rozzy and who cares if we interrupt Aunt Rozzy.
Charles has asked me to precisely explain why idling is not great for your engine, and I’m trying to be careful because I’m not a mechanic and don’t want to hand out misinformation. I start talking about unburned fuel being bad for your engine (idling produces unburned fuel) when my Skper box bings up. Christopher is downstairs and is Skying instead of interrupting.
[11.28:54 AM] Chris: laundry machine keeps going for like 20 seconds then stopping
[11:29:52 AM] Chris: is that normal
[11:30:37 AM] Chris: going in for a closer look
[11:30:40 AM] Chris: will report back
[11:31:11 AM] Chris: mission accomplished, hit red button lights went out
[11:31:32 AM] Chris: I’m the hero this house needs but not the hero this house deserves
Sometimes I write things that make me angry; sometimes I write things that make me laugh; sometimes I write things that make me glad I have editors.
And sometimes I write things that take me back to being 7 years old. Like this.
You know the kids are old when it’s the cats who wake you up on Christmas morning…
Read this amazing column. Anyone who disses Twitter, well, I find more things like this on there than anywhere else. It’s not who follows you; it’s who you follow.
Oh, and if you watch Downton Abbey, this will make you laugh and laugh. If you don’t watch, it probably won’t. I do and it did.