- 16 december 2002 -

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 Úlan.  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?"


  today's music:

"Cinnamon and Clove" -- Sergio Mendes and Brasil '66 -- THE VERY BEST OF SERGIO MENDES AND BRASIL '66


today's wisdom:

"The silliest woman can manage a clever man; but it needs a very clever woman to manage a fool."

-Rudyard Kipling

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