Just
some thoughts.
*****
Al Gore
isn't running in the next election, leaving the spot open for other
Democrats. One of the first guys to poke a stick at it to see if
it bites is Joe Lieberman. I don't think America will vote for you
for President, Joe. We like you too much, and wouldn't want to put
the stress on you. You're nice, sure, you've got that rubbery sort
of "I care" face, but it's just not presidential. Run
for National Uncle. You're a shoo-in. The candidate will be
Kerry of Mass.
*****
I
discovered halfway through the early morning routine that my left
shoe had poop on it. Mystery poop. I was sitting here in my
office and suddenly there was this... suggestion... of ... it.
Which meant it had to be on the carpet already. Damn. I had
to gingerly retrace my steps to find the source, but I could find
none. Even the species of this perpetration was fuzzy.
Mammalian, for sure, and certainly not human, of course, of course,
because for years now Viv has been a stickler for making me use the
toilet. I doubt it was my cat because she's even more anal than my
wife. There was a neighbor dog loping about the cul-de-sac
yesterday, and that's probably the perp, but I could never find the
exact scene of the crime. It is my most fervent hope that my shoe
had the adhesive power to collect the entire sample.
After
putting on my manly biker boots and driving Amy to school, I motored
over to the local supermarket to pick up supplies for pet
depoopification of carpet. While a flamethrower is my first weapon
of choice in such a matter, chemical products are the only options
commercially available, and there are many to choose from. Squirt
bottles with pictures of cute little canines in that "Please don't
beat me" pose. Beware the directions in small print -- many
icky words there, waiting to get you to gag. That entire aisle of
the store is dedicated to smell. Powders, plug-ins, purple sprays,
florid effluvescents of soaps and cleaners and polishes and little trees
for your car.
I think
Americans around the globe would be sitting ducks for olfactory-based
killer laser satellites. If such an attack had occurred this
morning I would've been spared, but after my work here is done, a simple
turn of that satellite's knob to "Lilac Breeze" and I'm toast.
*****
Okay, some
time has gone by, many paper towels have been sacrificed, and we are now
in the drying mode. Next, powder and vacuuming.
*****
We got
the Xmas tree up yesterday. Based on the history of this
marriage, on a scale of one to ten, one being mutual sweetness with
kissing and singing angels and ten being yelling and loud sighing and
unspoken personal vows to try it all solo in Bolivia starting tomorrow,
and maybe the flamethrower, the annual erection, of the tree, was a
three. Now that Viv and I are both aware of the dangers of a
husband and wife putting up and decorating a tree, a certain amount of
discord is expected, and yes, even looked forward to as a
tradition. From whom will the first shot be fired? How glib
will be the response? How well can one make a strategic hip shove
appear accidental? Despite Viv's placement of the Xmas tree stand
in the farthest reaches of the upper level of the garage, in the
back, past the decorative Thanksgiving Indian corn we never use anymore,
I retrieved it with gentlemanly élan. The fact that two of the
main bolts fell out of the box as I pulled it out with a rake was not my
fault. My refusal to go back up there and get them was fully
justified, and I continued my chivalry by fetching the ladder for my
wife. As she is smaller than I am, height-wise, she scampered up
quick like a little rat and found them.
She bought
four strings of little purple lights for the tree this year.
Before the annual erection, of the tree, we were pretty excited about
the coolness of having purple lights on it. Here's a rule you may
want to remember; when any box containing lights says they are purple,
when they're lit, they're pink.
Our tree
is pink.
*****
You
know how after a while the names of couples you know become like one
word? Tom'n'Donna, Mark'n'Betty, Todd'n'Ann? Well, I was
just thinking (always hazardous), statistically, that there must be
hundreds, if not thousands of couples on the planet who are known to
their friends as Sonny'n'Cher. Given that Sonny is not all that
unusual a nickname, and Cher can be derived from a few different
sources, and heck, some of them must've mated somewhere, it must be oddly thrilling to have a life where you say
things like "Hey, let's go over to Sonny'n'Cher's tonight." or
"Sonny'n'Cher have extra tickets to the rodeo. Wanna
go?"
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