1. The Diet Coke at the Mothership–even though it squirted on me today. It’s got a nice, smooth taste to it. Everything at the Mothership is good, but the Diet Coke is just a nice little surprise. You don’t expect anything extraordinary, but BAM! there it is.
2. Purity 0% Plus milk. I hate skim milk. I let the Butcher talk me down from 2% to 1% when he was working out at the airport because we were trying to be healthier after the “incident.” But blech. Too watery. And skim milk? An insult to milk. But Purity’s 0% Plus? It’s fabulous. I don’t care how they do it. They might ground up babies or puppies or use the sweat of hairy butt cheeks to get it that way. I love it.
3. Page 97 of this book I’m reading. It has a great big picture of Ernest Tubb’s band playing downtown, on a make-shift stage that looks to me to be right about where the Library is now. Butterball Paige is on the bass. You don’t meet a lot of dudes named Butterball any more.
I just got a dozen yellow roses. They’re beautiful.
And, in honor of how nice they are, I will refrain from asking y’all if you want to play “The Sender–Elderly or Married?” even though we both know those are the two genres of men who love me.
My dad is the biggest fretter in our family. He can’t sleep until everyone is home. He worries that we’re not eating well or that we’re about to run out of money or that the Butcher will never get his life together.
I used to be a big fretter, too. But I’m trying to get better about it. I’m still not great. I still would like to know weeks in advance when I have to do something and where I’m going and when I need to be there. I want to know if the Butcher is coming home or not. I’m concerned the cats might have scurvy and that I should be observing them carefully for signs. I really want Sarcastro to come over and oversee the unclogging of my drain.
But those things are not necessary. The world will not stop spinning if I’m not fretting about it. And so I’m trying to learn to let that stuff go.
The recalcitrant brother never used to fret about anything. Hence part of the reason I call him the recalcitrant brother. A man who knows about fretting would never vanish for six weeks and not tell anyone where he was; he’d know how painful that would be, especially to a family of fretters.
He’s called up concerned that the reason the Butcher keeps wrecking my car is that the Butcher has an undiagnosed brain tumor. And now, he and my dad are down in Georgia fretting over the state of my tub drain.
Y’all, I’m sure that, in a decade, this will be as annoying as all get out.
But for now?
I can’t even begin to tell you how nice it is.
I found this awesome site and have been flipping through it looking at all the cute puppies. Anyway, it’s got a good overview of all the bulldog breeds and the bull-and-terrier breeds and it nicely shows how all these breeds are of a similar type.
Anyway, it’s interesting and, did I mention? Puppies!
Check out this fantabulous post! Never mind the set-up; it’s a little awkward. But skip right to the part that starts
The article doesn’t explicitly state this but this is an attack on Ms. Rice by the neoconservative cabal who have been directing American Foreign policy since 9/11, if not before that. The neocons have for years been doing an end run around every foreign policy entity in the Administration.
America*, I ask you–Is this not worth it?
For all the bullshit "Women are precious scary messes best kept on a short leash in the kitchen" or "Gay people have ruined man on man hugging with their mental illness," sometimes the man comes through with a post like this, which is smart, to the point, witty, and insightful.
I read it and I think, "Yeah, I hadn’t really understood what the big deal was, but that explanation makes sense."
Y’all, I read this post and I found it useful.
So, thanks, Kleinheider.
*I’m pretty sure all of my non-American readers are Australian and I sincerely hope that you guys do something else during the boring posts, like masturbate to the thought of me or get a snack from the fridge.
Mrs. Wigglebottom was dead asleep on the couch when she woke with a start, leaped into the air, and knocked a bug onto the ground. Then she pawed at it repeatedly. Then, she put her nose right up against in and then shook her head like she’d just had the worst tickle imaginable.
Now, she’s hell bent on sniffing the bug, putting it in her mouth, going all mlewlwemmlew with her tongue and spitting it out on the floor.
Sincerely, I think she’s chewed this bug into a tiny pulpy bad tasting mash.
This wouldn’t be so funny to me except that the woman can swallow a delicious steak in three big chomps.
And yet this tiny bug requires fifteen minutes of sniff, chew, spit out, repeat. She could have swallowed the bug whole and never known it tasted bad.
I told the Butcher about the review in the Scene and he basically said what Sarcastro said, which is, was it really any worse than anything he said about the play?
Then, he said, “B., I am your brother and I love you more than anyone else on this planet. If you’re going to be more hurt by what some stranger says than what I say, I’m going to leave in a huff.”
The door slammed behind him as he left in a tremendous huff. Then it opened back up.
“You don’t mind if I take the car, do you?”
Far be it from me to ruin a good huff by refusing the man the vehicle necessary for his dramatic exit.
Then, the recalcitrant brother called. He’s bound and determined to get my tub flowing again. He called to tell me that I needed to rent a… oh, shit… a… something that is basically just a snake on the end of a very powerful drill. Well, shoot, I think we all know I’m going to have to get a hold of Sarcastro tomorrow and ask him what it’s called and where I can rent one for Saturday, the day of drain reckoning.
Poor Sarcastro. If only he’d known I’d end up treating him like another sibling, and imposing on him constantly, I bet he’d have pretended to be a lot stupider–“Golly, B., I’d love to help you, but I don’t know nothing ’bout plumbing. Is that what it’s called when you pick them?”