Corn is Cookin...(About Aunt Glou-Glou, Sort of...)
and I'm putting some back postings here, so yous'll get to know me better...
PB&C: Sounds like a grisly combination of a sandwich and a surgical procedure, doesn't it? I remember when I was a child, I could withstand extremes of heat and cold without whining, whinging, bitching and begging to come inside. *I* didn't have a PS2! *I* didn't have a computer of my very own! *I* didn't have a CD/DVD player (I had an 8-track and Realistic turntable.) All I had was...the creek, a footbridge and the desire to catch and release crayfish all day. I dropped Avon jewelry among the slimy stones and pretended I had found pirates' treasure. I'd build tiny fires among the dry stones and burn bits of paper and leaves and pretend I was sending smoke signals. I had a 3-speed bike, a Huffy with a leather seat that I would ride all over the quiet country roads. My best friend and I always met each other halfway at the Barn with the Star, and then we'd go on to her house or mine. We would forage for hours among piles of trash, junky stuff like empty tins of Velvet pipe tobacco, old curtains, bedframes which we'd try to resurrect into an entrance to our secret fort. When on the rare occasion that we were indoors, we played with dolls who led more sophisticated lives than ours, the Charlies Angels and the Darci dolls were top models and beautiful keepers of peace. We danced to music on our LPs to the music of the Annie soundtrack, Lenny Dee and Donna Summer. When the 80s debuted with David Bowie and Men at Work, we still danced and mouthed the words, certain that we were destined for stardom. We didn't have cable; yet, our local-yokel station broadcast Solid Gold on weekends--we swooned and wept over Boy George when he sang "Karma Chameleon." God, life was so good and sweet. No worries about money, because we always had pennies for candy. Never bored, because we put our minds to work and created whatever world we wanted to be in at the time. I wish I could go back, but it's only possible in my memories. My friend will never know what a savior she was to me, rescuing me and taking me away from the hands of my abusive mother and my footbridge dad. I loved her then and I still do, even though our lives are so removed from each other. Stacy, you were the best friend I ever had. I miss you, but most of all I miss what bliss we lived in before we became grown-ups, and you and I wanted to grow up so quickly.
PB&C is a peanut-butter and cheese sandwich, my son's favorite.
"The Things that Scream At Me."
My dear user-friendly cat, Booger Fred, decides to cut his chest open on a shard of glass. Now he is infected with an infection, a glass-only infection, I suppose. So my son, niece and I haul him to the vet, and he PURRRRRRRRRs throughout the entire exam--this includes the ol' thermometer up the keister and a test for worms. I sure as hell would not be purring. Fred is now sleeping off the trauma underneath my desk after we consoled him with some vanilla milkshake.It's hot here in Eastern West Virginia, and we spent the morning cutting grass, trimming and pulling weeds. After the two young smeets went indoors to cool off and rest, I traipsed my way through snake-infested junglelike weeds to the shed in back of my property to coax out Fred. After 30 minutes of cooing "Heeeeeeeere Booger! C'mon Booger Fred!" he came close enough for me to grab his front legs and hoist him out. Good thing too, because a praying mantis was eyeing my ankles, thinking they were juicy and delectable. Cats are more trouble than baby humans, because when in pain, they revert to eons-old instinct and flee when injured or dying. Thank God for humans such as myself for braving vermin and deadly heat in order to rescue your feline asses. My smelly felines can be viewed here at http://www.catster.com/pet_page.php?j=t&i=144230
PB&C: Sounds like a grisly combination of a sandwich and a surgical procedure, doesn't it? I remember when I was a child, I could withstand extremes of heat and cold without whining, whinging, bitching and begging to come inside. *I* didn't have a PS2! *I* didn't have a computer of my very own! *I* didn't have a CD/DVD player (I had an 8-track and Realistic turntable.) All I had was...the creek, a footbridge and the desire to catch and release crayfish all day. I dropped Avon jewelry among the slimy stones and pretended I had found pirates' treasure. I'd build tiny fires among the dry stones and burn bits of paper and leaves and pretend I was sending smoke signals. I had a 3-speed bike, a Huffy with a leather seat that I would ride all over the quiet country roads. My best friend and I always met each other halfway at the Barn with the Star, and then we'd go on to her house or mine. We would forage for hours among piles of trash, junky stuff like empty tins of Velvet pipe tobacco, old curtains, bedframes which we'd try to resurrect into an entrance to our secret fort. When on the rare occasion that we were indoors, we played with dolls who led more sophisticated lives than ours, the Charlies Angels and the Darci dolls were top models and beautiful keepers of peace. We danced to music on our LPs to the music of the Annie soundtrack, Lenny Dee and Donna Summer. When the 80s debuted with David Bowie and Men at Work, we still danced and mouthed the words, certain that we were destined for stardom. We didn't have cable; yet, our local-yokel station broadcast Solid Gold on weekends--we swooned and wept over Boy George when he sang "Karma Chameleon." God, life was so good and sweet. No worries about money, because we always had pennies for candy. Never bored, because we put our minds to work and created whatever world we wanted to be in at the time. I wish I could go back, but it's only possible in my memories. My friend will never know what a savior she was to me, rescuing me and taking me away from the hands of my abusive mother and my footbridge dad. I loved her then and I still do, even though our lives are so removed from each other. Stacy, you were the best friend I ever had. I miss you, but most of all I miss what bliss we lived in before we became grown-ups, and you and I wanted to grow up so quickly.
PB&C is a peanut-butter and cheese sandwich, my son's favorite.
"The Things that Scream At Me."
My dear user-friendly cat, Booger Fred, decides to cut his chest open on a shard of glass. Now he is infected with an infection, a glass-only infection, I suppose. So my son, niece and I haul him to the vet, and he PURRRRRRRRRs throughout the entire exam--this includes the ol' thermometer up the keister and a test for worms. I sure as hell would not be purring. Fred is now sleeping off the trauma underneath my desk after we consoled him with some vanilla milkshake.It's hot here in Eastern West Virginia, and we spent the morning cutting grass, trimming and pulling weeds. After the two young smeets went indoors to cool off and rest, I traipsed my way through snake-infested junglelike weeds to the shed in back of my property to coax out Fred. After 30 minutes of cooing "Heeeeeeeere Booger! C'mon Booger Fred!" he came close enough for me to grab his front legs and hoist him out. Good thing too, because a praying mantis was eyeing my ankles, thinking they were juicy and delectable. Cats are more trouble than baby humans, because when in pain, they revert to eons-old instinct and flee when injured or dying. Thank God for humans such as myself for braving vermin and deadly heat in order to rescue your feline asses. My smelly felines can be viewed here at http://www.catster.com/pet_page.php?j=t&i=144230
posted by Jules K at 8/16/2005 05:14:00 PM
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