Can Soup Give You Nightmares?
I think my potato soup is cursed. The last two nights I’ve been plagued with epic nightmares that leave me shaky in the mornings. I won’t go into details since I know it is impossible to fully portrays the horror that comes from being kidnapped by aliens with Chandler and Ross. I also can’t remember how my chat handle of PsychoWoman could turn into a real life serial killer murder mystery. I swear I didn’t want to kill anyone! It was all a gag.
So yes. I’m tired. And cranky. Good combo, eh?
Yesterday I did have a really nice surprise, though. The wonderful Lee called to warn me of impending doom at Cape Cod. It is cold there. And the walls of her mother’s home are decorated by giant ceramic fish. Apparently you can’t turn around without being attacked by one of the gruesome beasts. Do you think people would find it odd if I were to wear a sleeping mask the whole time I was there? Mike could lead me around like a cute little guide dog puppy, only he’s a person not a puppy but he won’t let me get a puppy. Not that I particularly want a puppy. We are both out of the house way too many hours in a day to justify getting a dog. I’ll take a baby instead if anyone’s got a spare.
Since moving here we always watch television with the closed captioning on. I think Mike has a hard time understanding the Yankee accent, but maybe he just can’t hear what’s going on over my incessessant babble. I’ve decided that I totally and completely don’t understand the whole closed captioning thing. It’s supposed to be a service to deaf people, right? So why can’t they make it a service that actually works well. I can understand live news having problems if someone is trying to type away to the sound of people talking, but other programs? Don’t the companies that do the captioning have the budget for a little proof reading? And commercials? Don’t companies doing the advertising want their product represented correctly? Couldn’t they afford to have their gopher/intern type person take ten minutes to make sure their 30 second commercial is properly captioned? Obviously I don’t understand how it works. I just read in Holly Nicole’s journal that you have to have a degree in court reporting to be a captioner. That knowledge made my brain explode just a tiny bit. They have a college degree and they don’t know the importance of proofreading? Of course, you may have gathered a long time ago that I obviously don’t know the importance of proofreading. I proof read my Mosaic Minds articles but I never, ever proof read anything in this here blog. It would probably help me win some amazing awards if I’d just take the five minutes to give it a look through. I can’t stand my own writing, though, and get strong desires to bite through my wrists when forced to read anything I’ve written. It’s much safer to look like a complete ass who occasionally skips words and can’t tell homonyms apart.
I think I’m driving my downstairs neighbors insane. I keep getting an urge to bounce my giant Crystal Workout Ball like a big basketball. Then I realize that must be incredibly annoying so I stop, only to start again an hour later. I love my Crystal Workout Ball. I lounge around and do sit ups just because of the ball love. It’s a sickness, really.
You know, I’d really like a new Garth Brooks CD. They just don’t make them like Garth these days. Even if he does insist on wearing those horrible, horrible country cliche western shirts.
I really need to get my butt in gear and get the laundry done. Then I need to work on my *caution, caution, great pretension coming up* manuscript. Yes, I’ve decided I can call my story a manuscript. If other people can claim they are writing a novel, why can’t I? I guess it all has to do with my upbringing. Everyone else was better than us. We were the lowest of the low. Don’t brag! Don’t be proud! Don’t get uppity! I don’t think I’m uppity, but everyone else in my family sure does. Is it so wrong to have goals?
We got a Christmas card and some pictures from Annica yesterday. I am so sad! Her little girls are so danged big! What happened to my cute little chubby toddler? She’s a girl now, not a mound of baby fat. I really want to see them, but I guess that won’t be happening for some time. That’s the problem with this uppity globe trotting lifestyle–we don’t have the money or stamina for monthly cross-Atlantic flights.
The other day Mike said with wonder and awe: “Look, look! Those girls are humping!” I rushed to the window and looked out, but didn’t see any girls, much less any humping girls.
Turns out he said “Look, look! The squirrels are humping!”
That made much more sense, since the only thing we can see out our window is a big tree. Sure enough, we had a bird’s eye view of humping squirrels.
Procrastinating? Me? Never!