I’m stressed out studying for my French tests. I’m spending all of my spare minutes going through vocabulary lists and trying desperately to remember the difference between COI and COD. (I think it something about paying for deliveries.)
By Wednesday I’ll probably be bunched up in a corner randomly conjugating whatever verb I hear.
“Where’s Laura hiding?”
To hide – Cacher
Laura…what are you doing? To do – Fair (Argh, Irregular!)
Hopefully I’ll be gibbering in French.
What is that person you pass on the street everyday, the one mumbling incoherently to themselves, had a reason for their particular brand of crazy? What if they were me or better yet someone really intelligent, who had gone overboard studying for a test or prepping for a meeting only to become stuck in revisions? (Help.) Happy writing.
From the diagram the flanks are clearly where hopes are stored but I can’t decide if dreams would be considered chuck or brisket. Mmmm, dreams.
I totally want this flask and I don’t even drink. Is it wrong to put crystal light in a flask?
So you catch a Unicorn…
Do you take it to a butcher or try to field dress it yourself? I mean I’d hate to risk an unscrupulous butcher substituting a lower class of magical meat.
I don’t know why it works. At this point I don’t even care. I’m considering burying something under a crossroads. What sort of sacrifice do you think the old age fairy would like?
Apparently ignoring pain doesn’t make it go away. Who knew?
In other potentially unrelated news I’ve screwed up my shoulder so badly that the doctor can’t even say what’s wrong with it until the inflammation goes down.
The prescription is ice and rest. And according to Andre (which is usually frustratingly correct) rest means not using my arm even when he’s not around to enforce the doctor’s orders.
PS. I have no idea how I managed to hurt myself this time. (Yesterday’s wood chopping picture was from months ago.) Random injuries seem to be one of the gifts from the getting old fairy. Bitch.
I’m going to assume there is a magical fairy at fault for basically everything I can’t explain or refuse to accept including calculus, random injuries as I get older and how fish oil can be good for me when fish makes me want to yak. So I’m also going to assume that each of those fairies has a price. What do you suppose the fairies take as bribes? Like in order for the fish fairy to make fish taste less horrible I bet she would want some sort of aquatic reward…like buying several gold fish and then managing to keep them alive for more than three days. Happy writing.
Chop. Chop. “Job’s done.” I can totally do this. Could someone just lift the heavy block up for me?
I know it’s been a hard day at work when I buy lotto tickets. (Lotto tickets may be a long shot but they are the only way you can ever buy pure hope. Sometimes I don’t check them for days so I can keep planning what I’d do with the money.)
I know it’s been a hard week when I start surfing job sites. (Oooh, look who’s hiring. Baby, can we move to Dubai?)
But it just hit a whole new level. This week I bought a homesteader magazine because of a story titled Making a living chopping wood. (I mean, I’ve got an ax and who doesn’t want to be their own boss?)
- I am not a lumberjack.
- I will not quit my job to chop wood. (Oh, look an article on gold panning.)
- I will not quite my job to pan for gold.
- I love my job. (I actually do. Most days.)
Ok, so maybe I’m not built for chopping wood full time…but that’s only one of my I’ve-had-a-bad-day dreams. (I also plan on being a cattle rancher and a bee keeper and several other unlikely things. BTW, I’m totally allergic to wood, cattle and bees…I think I see a pattern in my plans.) On the bad days do you dream about doing something else, anything else? When you want to run away, what do you plan? Do you own an ax? Happy writing.
Why yes, I am a cleaver girl.
Blond hairs on the chesterfield you say? Total mystery. Now, let’s go chase that rodent. Nothing gets your mind off things like snorting through the weeds for a rat.
Jill’s humans are in Spain and we’re dog sitting. Let me just start by saying that she is a wonderful dog.
- She heels on a leash.
- She never barks.
- And she enthusiastically shakes hands and spins on the spots for treats. (Cleaver girl.)
She is not, however, as innocent as she looks.
I’m totally asleep, and I’ve been here all day. No really, I swear.
While I’ve only caught her on the couch once, the blond hairs and warm patch put a lie to her innocent “I’ve been in my basket all day” looks.
I’m on to you dog. Both humans in this house are brunettes.
I bet if she had thumbs she’d comb herself to eliminate the risk of furry evidence. (I can see her planning it now.)
PS. I just watched a documentary on guide dogs and apparently dogs, like humans, have a dominant hand…er, paw. Cool. For those wondering, Jill is left-pawed. (I totally tested her, and yes I do have too much time on my hands.)
I think I prefer dumb dogs. Dogs that barely know your gone and then when they realize you’re home get so excited they may run into a wall. Not that Jill isn’t lovely, but I can tell she’s thinking when I talk to her and even though she seems perfectly happy sleeping on her bed (and the couch) I can’t help but wonder if she gets bored and blames me. (I’ve been banned from giving her extra treats to make up for my guilty feelings.)
What if you found out your dog was smarter than you thought. Way smarter. Like has been barking out morse code messages for years and you just weren’t quite cleaver enough to get it. (It’s not that big of a stretch…Jill has creepily intelligent eyes and I couldn’t find my keys for like twenty minutes this morning. I swear, I put them right there.) Happy writing.
Grow little tomato plant, grow.
I came home from vacation to find:
- No one at home makes my bed while I’m eating breakfast.
- There are no buffets available in our building and the neighbours are less friendly that you’d think at 7am. (“For the last time Laura, this is my living room, not the Lido deck.”)
- The chill in the air is no longer an overzealous AC unit. Booo, winter.
Bunker, dog park you need a special pass to access or just a vacant lot?
But, a few things made everything a bit easier.
- Friends who were happy to see me. (I missed you too…although I may miss the Lido deck more.)
- Our furry houseguest. (Welcome, Jill.)
- Finding a little bit of summer, clinging to chainlink in defiance of the season and lifted legs.
My little tomato plant friend is growing at the very edge of a vacant lot that someone has carefully protected with a chain link fence (perfect for training wild tomatoes apparently). I walked by the empty lot, (furry friend in tow, imagining how awesome the site would be as a dog park and wondering how to get the dog over the fence). I stopped to contemplate nature/inspect the fence for weak points when I realized that there wasn’t just one fence. The perimeter fence encompassed another fence which surrounded a corrugated blue hut and a power pole.
Why a fence inside a fence? Sure, the easy answer is the smaller fence came first, and the outside fence was just to keep out wayward dog walkers. Or…the double fence system is the first line of defence for a secret underground bunker hiding in plain sight. We may never know. (I had to get to work and Jill is surprisingly heavy and unwilling to be thrown over a fence, even to get to the potentially best dog park in the city.)
In a sick twist of fate, or circumstance, or divine mockery, I was home for two days before being sent to Edmonton on business.
I tried to suggest that I could give the training virtually but apparently I’m invaluable. Or, my boss was getting even with me for going on the best vacation ever when she had to stay home.
Turns out it was neither. The real reason I was sent to Edmonton? I’m being tested. I arrived at my hotel to find a sea of stetsons and sign welcoming the Canadian Rodeo Championships. Seriously. Cowboys. I then spent three days riding in elevators with cut, abdominally triangular men whose job is to cling desperately to a bull with their thighs. WITH. THEIR. THIGHS.
“I will not grope a stranger. I will not grope a stranger. I will not grope a stranger.”
What’s next Universe? A firefighting convention? I only have so much self control.
“I’m happily married. I’m happily married. I’m…chaps!”
PS. While I was in Edmonton I witnessed an actual bar fight. I had to jump out of the way of a falling drunk. The police came and the bouncer ended up with a huge lump on his head. It was scary and it wasn’t even the scariest thing that happened that night. I’m not sure I love Edmonton.
PPS. Bouncers who’ve just had their asses kicked aren’t as appreciative as you’d expect when you offer to tell the police what happened during their beating.
I have a weakness for men that I’m sure would make horrible husbands for me. (Cowboys for example. I’m allergic to cows, horses and hay.) Thankfully I also had (and have) a weakness for a man who makes an excellent husband. What’s your weakness? Are you being tested?