Disturbing Things

1.  The Kroger on 8th did not have my beloved Cranberry Almond Crunch.  If Kellogg’s has discontinued that cereal, I will be distraught.

2.  I have been finding a circle of dried spit on my forearm on occasion.  I thought I was just drooling on myself in my sleep.  I woke up this morning to find that I was sucking on it!  How gross is that?  But at least I’m not sucking my thumb again.  That would be really embarrassing.

3.  Sarah Moore is mulling over a return to orphanages and group homes for kids instead of the foster care system.  While I agree with Moore that our foster care system leaves much to be desired, I have but four words for her that should send chills through her conservative veins: state-run nursing homes.

Our track record as a nation when it comes to packing people into warehouses in order to receive care we feel they’re not being provided by their families is pretty abysmal, to put it mildly.  It’s not just nursing homes, but we’ve had orphanages and "boarding schools" before and we failed pretty miserably to do right by the kids in those.

I’m Finishing.

Some of Mrs. Wigglebottom’s favorite people in the world are downstairs.  I came upstairs to get a wireless signal (thanks again, Lemmings in Leiderhausen) and pay bills.

Five minutes later, there’s Mrs. W. sitting at the top of the stairs, just hanging out.

I think it’s impossible to feel more well-liked than when a dog likes you.  And for a dog to figure that her place is at the top of the stairs where she can keep an ear on what you’re doing and an eye on any evil-doers who might try to come up the stairs to get you?

That’s someone who likes me, right there.

Happy New Year, y’all.  Or as the waiter at the restaurant tonight tried to get us to say, Feliz Oyo  Nuevo.  I think.  Oyo.  Isn’t that eye?  Happy New Eye?  That can’t be right. 

Did I ever tell y’all that I took Russian in college and I worked with a Russian and a Ukranian dude at the cafeteria and they used to want me to practice with them and I never wanted to because I felt stupid, but one day, I yelled out “Ya conchoo.” meaning, I’m finishing, leaving unsaid what I was finishing, which was serving up a pan of lasagna and so I needed more.

They thought this was hilarious because, in Russian slang, back in the early 90s, to say you were finishing without specifying what meant that you were having an orgasm.

Ah, well.

Ya conchoo this blog post, and later, after everyone’s asleep, maybe I’ll conchoo just for kicks to ring in the new year, or eye, or both.  Whatever.