The last post with no real purpose served me well because I wanted to get some junk out of my head that was taking up real estate, so I’m doing it again. But this isn’t going to be a habit. I’m reasonably certain. You, however, should be pretty certain I’m lying.
Here come the bulleted items, people! Yay.
- Federer is out of the French. However, Nadal is also out of the French. So, I’m going to call this even because Nadal is still holding at 14. Why do I care anymore…..?<sigh>
- The French Open has prompted me to curse in French. Blame all the French tweets that I’d sit and try to decipher while standing in line for something over the course of the tournament. I have no idea why I was compelled to use Twitter as my source for updates. I think I was enjoying the chance to test my French again, and so many of the tweets were in French. Of course it just reminded me of how little I remember.
- Topamax is still having fun with me. It, in cahoots with my brain (that evil, gelatinous monster), substituted taciturn for succinct. They embarrassed me with a clear misuse of laying/lying. Then, there was the incident where Cheerios became Cheerycane. That was a head scratcher because at least it’s usually a word. A real word. And not like the words I use on this blog that I’m clearly creating on the fly and taking ridiculous liberties with because that’s how I roll. Anyway, they made me drop about 8 gabillion f-bombs at St. Vincent last night, which wouldn’t be a problem (It’s a concert!) but there were teen fans everywhere. I should be above the f-bomb when the kiddos are around. I’m not going to pretend for a minute they weren’t dropping their own, but theirs aren’t as exuberant as mine. Plus, every time the artist uses one during concert commentary, and you hear their astonishment followed inevitably by cries of WOOHOO!!, you know you need to tone your bombs down for the new ears. I mean, come on, you don’t learn to drive a manual on the NASCAR circuit. Did I make that one work? Probably not. I don’t have any NASCAR knowledge. I’m not a very good southerner. However, I do love the SC Lowcountry and grits. And I’m still trying to ascertain whether or not I retain that ridiculous twang that I appear to have sported during my childhood if you believe those cranberry-pancake-serving Nantucket snots in this post.
- I’m 98% certain my dog is broken in that she is not a dog. She appears to be an amalgam of the following animals:
- Cat – She is constantly grooming. It’s a very specific grooming, sure, but still! She spends a great deal of the day grooming her paws. And it’s all very feline in nature. It’s not like, “I can smell the grass. I was outside running. Frisbee.” I can’t even really talk about it. It’s faintly grotesque how she goes about it. And I feel like I need to sit down with her and chat about how very gross feet are, but I guess that foot issue is mine. I shouldn’t pass it down to my kids.
- Sloth – She sleeps about 98% of the day. OK, I’m exaggerating. 80% of the day. Like yellow dog from Funny Farm. But yellow dog was a dog actor playing against type. I mean, really. The dog tried to burn his own damn tail in the pursuit of sweet slumber. I can relate. As I was saying. Lexi is pretty solitary about the whole thing, too. She won’t sleep near her humans. Unless it’s Matthew. I think I hate her. Wait. I think she’s coming. I don’t want her to know I typed that. I love her. But I don’t like her. There. That’s better.
- Cheetah + Dingo = Cheeto…. Well that name is certainly not going to work. I have no money, Cheeto people. Don’t come after me for that combo. I’ll try again. Cheetah + Dingo = Dingah – She’s really fast. She’ll get into a “mood” and it’s time to scatter. For real. The kids and I will see the hair on her back and tail start to creep up, and know it’s time to seek shelter. Immediately. Drop anything and everything. Let dinner burn and throw it out. Because she’s starting to run, and she’s locking on targets while running. And you can see her crazy eyes. If she sees you, well, you’re just toast. Meditate and reach acceptance. You will find out your fight or flight response has completely stalled, leaving you standing there looking at your new dingah, and you’re not really sure what that animal is capable of. Dingahs can jump very high, by the way. Also, they don’t do things that are scary in the actual sense of injury. It’s just the mental and emotional anguish. The kids and I usually hold little therapy healing events with each other after these “sessions” and we give Lexi a very wide berth for at least a couple of hours lest she unleash a second round. It’s happened, people. Oh, the carnage!
I feel immensely better. My brain hurts ever so much less with that junk ousted.