2022/05/18

Fifty-Six

Da Goddess @ 00:01

I am in utter disbelief that I’m now 56 years old.

There are days when it seems nigh impossible for that to be accurate. It was only yesterday when I was sliding down into the canyon (now just more houses, natch) to go make a fort with Michelle, Kecia, and/or Laurie.

We had the perfect place for our fort: on the bank of a hill, behind a huge bush/tree. Scrub bushes grew big in the canyon. This one had branches that gracefully arched overhead. Any that didn’t were summarily removed. Big boxes were broken down, used to slide down the hill a few hundred times before becoming the base of the fort. If we could manage to sneak a blanket out of the house, it would most definitely find itself an integral part of our refuge. Pads of paper, pencils, pens, crayons, and various cast off toys enjoyed a cushy life at the hideaway, too.

We never needed to phone one another to set a meeting time. Each of us ran through our Saturday chores (or homework if was a school day), made ourselves some sandwiches, and then hightailed it to the fort. If you got there first, you were responsible for making sure there were no spiders or rattlesnakes around. Stomping and waving cardboard about, nothing could sleep through the racket, and most definitely nothing stuck around! We once chased a javelina family from our sanctuary, but that’s about as exotic as our visitors got. Garter snakes, lizards, and tarantulas were common and became favored captives for short periods of time. None of us wanted to remove them from their homes or families for too long. Mostly, we just enjoyed their company before we released them back into the wild. We played Marlin Perkins and his trusty assistant, Jim. Or we took turns being Joan Embery visiting with Merv Griffin or Mike Douglas and presenting our latest finds to the host. (One guess who got to be Joan Embery most often.)

While we loved the canyon and the freedom we experienced there away from the prying eyes (and the beckoning calls to come home) of our parents

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, our days there were numbered. The same is true of childhood. However, the loss of our fort was due to discovering a real live adult human being we didn’t know taking up residence in our spot.

For once, Michelle and I met up at the corner across from my house before we made our way down the hill and over the uneven terrain to the fort. We talked loudly and stomped our feet in our normal “dangerous-animal-be-gone” manner. Unfortunately, it didn’t scare away the man we found. In fact, I think it’s safe to say it merely served as an alert for him to strip down and begin masturbating, because that’s exactly what we found upon arrival. We both yelled at him and began kicking dirt in his face, throwing wood and rocks and whatever else we could find. When he failed to stop touching himself, we left in disgust. We never returned to that spot again. Instead, we explored further afield and always with a buddy. It was just safer that way.

About a year later, the big machinery arrived and curtailed our adventures further. We just got a little more creative with the how and what of our play. On weekends, when the site was abandoned, we scrambled up and down the diggers and dozers and other vehicles. We yelled and ran through the giant concrete pipes that would someday serve the expanding neighborhood. We also caused minor mischief by hiding loose materials whenever we could. We didn’t go too crazy with it because we knew that anything major would only bring in security guards. We knew this because Michelle’s brother and his friends had caused that very thing to happen at another site.

In the end, the timing couldn’t have been more apt. We were nearing the age of more “serious” pursuits as we went from preteens into full-blown adolescence. And while we would occasionally make our way down to the canyon

, it was less about play and more about sneaking cigarettes and maybe increasing the quality (and quantity) of our creative obscenities. No prying ears or eyes to limit our newfound endeavors.

I’m not entirely sure how this turned into a major nostalgia-fest, but I suppose it beats the other direction I could have gone. I was going to mention all the heartbreak of the past year and all the ways life has changed in that time. I’m actually very glad for the “remember whenning” about my childhood as it feels more relatable and somehow more comforting — and definitely healthier — to reflect in that manner.

So, here’s a great big “I’m so glad I’m still here at 56” shout declaration from my tiny corner of the internet. I hope I can do this again next year.

TTFN!

2022/05/09

Nostalgia

Da Goddess @ 07:55

Back in the early aughts, there lived an obsessive who would use computer games as a means of stress relief. Nothing fancy. Whatever came with the computer or was easily found doing a quick search.

Her favorites were Minesweep, Tetris, and Solitaire. Just the normal stuff.

Until she discovered Hoyle Games. Mancala was a game she’d already taught her children after making them a set with an egg carton and marbles (or sometimes dried beans). But on Hoyle, she could go up against a computer and have a real challenge! (Although, it must be said her daughter was a fine opponent.) Dominoes was another game she had also played with her kids, with her daughter — once again a formidable challenger — a frequent player. Still, the computer offered her a different level of competition.

Her absolute favorite game from Hoyle was Word Yacht. As one might guess

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, it was a variation of Yahtzee played with lettered dice. The object was to roll ten dice and make as many words possible with the letters from a single roll. The timer could be set at 180 seconds, 120 seconds, 90 seconds, and 60 seconds. Eventually, the obsessive found Hoyle had the same game available online, where one could play against others in real time. These were heady times, indeed. A community of people who loved words playing word games, people who also sought respite from the pressures of everyday life, people who just wanted a chance to challenge their brains in a way that made them happy, who wanted to play and chat with like-minded people. The community was strong and fun and inclusive and just all-around comforting.

The ability to escape the daily grind brought about a feeling of bliss. And so it was here the obsessive found her place of refuge. Her friends here were great listeners who offered thoughtful observations and who valued her thoughts and observations as well. The reciprocal nature of their exchanges meant they weren’t constantly laying their burdens at the feet of their partners. It was an arrangement most partners, spouses, families, etc., found beneficial. A few hours of a computer game meant a more peaceful person in the home. In between work, school, and childrearing, there was the pressure valve release in game form.

Oh, what a time to be alive!

Yacht, or sometimes Word, as the game was commonly called amongst the players, was a world of letters and laughter. It was a world of challenges and cheeky repartee. It was heaven for those who reveled in the randomness of a roll of the dice. The scoring was important, of course, but the camaraderie was a lovely bonus for those who regularly played together.

Our favored grouping played 90 second rounds for 30 minutes, followed by 60 second rounds thereafter. We were good. Very good. When tournaments became a thing, we regularly placed in the top three. Out of hundreds, we were the elite. We wore our victories with pride.

Hoyle became part of another game community and we, naturally, went obediently. This led to a larger collective of word junkies and many more friendships. Tournaments continued apace, but now prizes were awarded. Nothing big, just things like mods for avatars (which were able to be crafted to surprisingly accurate likeness). The modifications allowed for whimsical additions like crowns and horns and silly hair. Though it might sound a bit trivial, these prizes made great incentives to rise through the ranks of the Word Yacht tournies.

And then it all disappeared. It was just gone. For many of us, we quietly, but grumpily, returned to the game played against sims. We had our Yahoo groups, emails, and instant messaging to keep in touch (some of us even called one another on the phone — a radical concept!), but it wasn’t the same. We tried to find other games on other sites with diminishing returns in the way of enjoyment and, most frequently, quality of play. Our Yahoo groups grew quiet. Our IMs gradually faded to just names on a list. Phone calls stopped. Life without Yacht returned to its previous state of being and partners and families were once again burdened with the troubles of the obsessive and her ilk.

Occasionally, I find myself googling the game or popping in at the Yahoo group page (though it’s been inactive for quite some time, the rare “I just wanted to say hello” appears). I don’t do it often, though, as it tends to make me sad all over again from the loss of it all. Yes, I miss the people, but I really, almost desperately, miss the game.

Wordle and Concludle are fun diversions. But rarely do they offer the thrill of Word Yacht and never do they give the sense of community.

Perhaps I was one of the lucky ones. I found blogging early on. I built my own little world and made new friends along the way. Some of those people challenged me to be creative and express myself in words and photos instead of scores against a timer. Still…

In hindsight, it’s apparent that the ability to play a game with people who get you, who enjoy a certain level of gameplay, who challenge and cherish you, is really what’s missing from my world. I keep thinking of how much I would have loved to have my Yacht friends during the early months of the pandemic, how we would have been a comfort to one another, how our games would have provided the perfect diversion to the isolation, loneliness, confusion, and boredom so many of us felt and continue to experience.

What I wouldn’t do for a way to mash a bit of the past with a bit of the present.

Ah, well. If wishes were fishes, we’d likely be complaining about having to clean the aquarium.

2022/05/07

Cyclopeeps

Da Goddess @ 09:16

I took a quick snap of my Peeps before they found their way down my gullet.

I had a whole package of cyclops/Peeps hybrids. These were the survivors. For a while anyway.

More and more frequently, Peeps have been less than perfect. I’m not saying the don’t taste as good, but production seems a bit off in terms of quality control. If I worked at the Peeps factory, every single Peep would be a shining example of how Easter candy should appear. You know, for the sake of the children. Any Peep not meeting these exacting standards would have to be destroyed. By. My. Mouth. (My blood glucose levels say this is an acceptable solution.)

So, here are the Cyclopeeps, pink, 2022 edition.

Should I post the yellow ones as well sometime?

Cyclopeeps

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2022/04/02

Variety is the Spice of Life

Da Goddess @ 22:49

Consider this a big ol’ melting pot of stuff. Instead of a bunch of short posts, I’m tossing everything in this one post. Bam! Consider this thing spiced!

Post-Covid: I’m still having flares every week or so. Fevers, sweats, coughing fits, chest tightness, etc etc etc. It got so bad, I ended up in the emergency department one afternoon. Came home with inhalers and a nebulizer and more potions than you can shake a stick at. I mean

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, you could shake a stick at them, but it would just be a waste of time and energy. I do not have energy to spare these days.

The only good thing about this lingering nonsense is I’ve had a bit more sleep since getting medication to suppress the cough.

Social security: money has finally started to hit my account. Oh, and I had to get a new account. It’s all good. Opening a new account took 20 minutes from beginning to end. And that was a revelation! Once done, I had money in less than a week. It’s going to be a while before the next installment of back pay comes, but I don’t mind as long as my monthly payments show up.

Food: I’ve been using my time to play around with recipes. I’ve done everything from a lemon loaf to Mexican to Chinese to Polish to a little French to good old American fare. I don’t have a ton of energy, but I make what I have work. Thus far, it’s all turned out well. H appreciates the results, as does the adorable idiot who has stolen more than any animal I’ve ever known. Unless the food is in the oven, up on a high shelf, or in the fridge, he’ll find a way to it and steal it. He has no remorse. None. Cookie just looks at DJuke like he’s the dumbest thing on earth, especially if she didn’t get any of the food. Otherwise, she pretends she knows nothing about the heist.

Art projects: I’ve started collecting for another art project. Yes, I’m still collecting bread tags of all shapes, colors, and sizes. I’m also now collecting the stopper clips from nasal spray bottles. (See photos below.) I’m not basing everything I’m doing on items normally thrown away, but these two projects in particular are using things that one would toss without a second thought.

If you have any either of these things, please save them for me and let me know. I will pay for the shipping. It’s actually very inexpensive and it’s nice to know I’m repurposing things that would either end up in a landfill or the ocean.

Stopper clips

Bread tags

That’s all there is for this round of What the Hell is She Up To?!

2022/03/21

Memories, Nostalgia, and Obsession

Da Goddess @ 00:33

I started a walk down Memory Lane one recent night that quickly led to a case of nostalgia for my very early years on this earth. It didn’t take long for nostalgia to become obsession.

I was overwhelmed by memories of my maternal grandparents: Grandma and Grandfather. My Dad’s parents were Grandma and Pappy (though Pappy married Grandma Eleanor or Lenore [who had A PINBALL MACHINE IN HER BASEMENT!!!] after Original Grandma died). Anyhow, I was thinking about Grandma and Grandfather this particular time. They were the ones who: had an enchanted garden, a magic mirror in the bathroom, the electric organ, and neighbors with the little girl burned to death (Bernadette). Their house was the second one from the corner. That detail I distinctly recall. How can I be certain? Because the cars would have to slow down for the stop sign at the intersection. We kids slept in the front bedroom and we could hear the telltale clickety tickety of the slowing tires and watch the headlights as they rolled past. I remember Bernadette’s house being on the corner. Grandma and Grandfather’s house was a single story, whereas Bernadette’s house was two stories. These are important details, as you’ll come to appreciate shortly.

For some reason, as my nostalgia gave way to curiosity (oh, shit! I left out that part of the grand journey to obsession, didn’t I?), I started to think maybe I could find their house by googling the road. That’s the only part of the puzzle I had firmly in my mental grasp. No street number, just the name of the street. Should be relatively easy, shouldn’t it? Google maps could lead me down this path and I’d magically (technologically) find a piece of my childhood and live happily ever after, secure in the knowledge that something so precious to me still exists.
If only. All I have to do is find a single story house next to a two story house, second from the corner, on a specific street, and BAM-A-ROONY! Mystery solved.

As if.

I spent no less than three hours trying to find the house. That night. I’ve since revisited the oh so (not) helpful maps of Googleland. My quest, apparently, has no end.

At this point, I should mention that I’m working with a very fickle Bluetooth signal. (Predictive text tried to turn fickle into fucked, which is not only kinda funny, but also a whole MOOD…and an accurate one at that.) So, of course, while I have to my Google map groove in gear and hot on the trail of MY QUEST FOR THE HOLY GRAIL of childhood memories

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, the Bluetooth signal keeps crapping out on me. I think this is how memories become nostalgia becomes curiosity becomes obsession. Curiosity can become victory pretty quickly if you have a solid connection to the world wide web. Denied that solidity? Curiosity becomes obsession. The itch to continue your search leads to a jittery and frantic dance as you toggle between windows/functions. Just as you think you’re on the precipice of a MAJOR BREAKTHROUGH, you get a wee dinosaur and the notice of “lost connection”.

This. This is when you realize you can no longer just drop the search for a bit and get some sleep. Oh no. You’re far too keyed up for sleep. You’re at peak wakefulness now. You. Must. Continue. The. Quest.

So, three hours and multiple “damnit!”, “fucking hell!”, “shit on a pointy stick!”, and other utterances of frustration (are there any other types of utterances?) later, you finally give up — ¬°temporalmente! — because your already wreck of a body can’t take any more spasms and teeth-grinding madness. There’s only so much a body can take. I don’t care who you are. There’s a point where you simply must decide that shitting yourself during the marathon just isn’t worth it. I’m all for not shitting myself, figuratively or literally. And my back and neck will attest to the fact that I can no longer spend hours tied up in knots of anticipatory stupor. I just can’t do it.

And thus, I’ve reached the end…so far…of my QUEST for the house my grandparents owned when I was a wee bairn. I shall let you know when — not “if” — I am triumphant.

Wish me luck.

P.S. I blame this all on Covid brain

, lingering paroxysmal coughing fits, and my ever present insomnia. But, mostly Covid brain and the coughing. So, basically, Covid.

2021/06/10

2021 – Day 161

Da Goddess @ 00:08

My friend’s dog meows.

Yep.

Her dog meows like a cat. I heard it with my own two ears. Upon hearing it yesterday, I immediately enquired about the meow. I asked because I know for a fact that her wife is allergic to cats, so I knew it was likely just some loud neighbor kitty visiting at the door or something. “No cat. That was Molly. She’s really weird now.” I’ll say! When I dog sat for them years ago

, Mol did NOT meow. She barked. Like your normal, average

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, everyday, common, garden variety dog.

That is no longer the case. This previously regular doglike dog is now a badass who sounds like a motherfucking cat.

And that’s pretty cool. I’ve demanded video so we can make her go viral and let her become a big doglebrity. I’m only asking 10% of her earnings. I’m not greedy. There’ll be plenty of cheddar to go around.

Anyone else have an animal capable of subverting societal expectations? I’m thinking we could have ourselves a pretty major double, triple bill for events.

Tell me what your animal does so I can work it into act.

2021/06/09

2021 – Day 160

Da Goddess @ 02:51

A reminiscence, if you will. Throwback Thursday, but on a Wednesday.

I was digging through some old emails in search of photos buried deep within the recesses of gmail archives. I ended up reading every exchange from beginning to end and had such a good laugh at most of it. Some friends really bring out the funny in me and I wish I could bottle that up and confidently uncork it at an open mic night somewhere…soonish.

But I digress.

Within those emails is a copy of the post that got me my first real boost of blog traffic. I wish I could remember the blogger’s name. I can see his original blog in detail, right down to the color, and then there’s just nothing at the header. Like someone went in and erased that specific part of the memory. He was military. He eventually had Sgt. Mom post on the site, too. And then he disappeared. Lots of bloggers did back then, didn’t they. Back before Facebook, Google Plus, The Tweety, Instagram, and the rest, there would just suddenly be a void where previously there’d been a very prolific writer. One a week. Then 1.5 a week. After Facebook, the exodus was more pronounced. So, yes, there was a blogger (Sgt. Stryker???) who read this post and loved it so much he shared it. I got a lot of new readers. And that may have been the reason I went into full-on naughty blogger mode for a while.

Here’s the post in all its (mostly) unedited (I took out the excessive periods I once used in ellipses and shortened the “aarrggghhh” to have roughly one fifth of the original number of letters — nobody has time for such nonsense) appallingness (I can’t even come up with the word I would prefer to use because of the mind erasure thing, though I’m almost now 95% certain it was Stryker).

______________

July 21, 2002

Nipple Blog

My nipples aren’t on the same horizontal plane.

Now, most people wouldn’t notice this nor would they care. Even if they did they probably wouldn’t write about it. Not me. I noticed and I’m posting!

I noticed that my nipples were out of alignment when I walked into the bathroom, flipped on the light and saw myself in the mirror. I’ve noticed it before but it held me riveted tonight for some reason. My shirt and bra allowed for this assessment in a way that I hadn’t readily anticipated. Light blue shirt, lacy bra, hugged the upper body just the right way. And, I was a little chilled. Oh hell. I was poppin’ a boober, okay? (Poppin’ a Boober is the female equivalent of the pubescent boy’s erection…..it happens whether you want it to or not.) Yep. The headlights were on.

And, as I stood there I saw that the left side was lower than the right. It wasn’t merely something that required a boob-in-bra adjustment. I tried that and it didn’t stay. So

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, I did my girly bra-off move and stood there looking at my naked breasts and decided that, indeed, my nipples just don’t fall in a symmetrical fashion. Both my boobs seem to sag to the same level. Not the nips though. They aren’t wildly off. Not like one is in North Dakota and the other somewhere around Kansas. Just off a fraction too much to be a comfortable quirk.

I don’t know what to do about this. I don’t know why it suddenly concerned me. Like I said

, I’ve observed this before. It just didn’t strike me as anything to ponder or worry about. But it does now. I feel very self-conscious about my breasts at the moment. I’m sitting here alone. Worried about my nipples. How sad is that?

I started to imagine myself going to the store, walking through the frozen food section, poppin’ a boober, and feeling all eyes upon my unlevel nubbins. Should I readjust? Ignore? Pride dictates that I at least attempt a brastrap adjustment as a means to hopefully bring about a level playing field. Homeostasis. But, wouldn’t that be acknowledging to the store that I KNOW my breasts are less than perfect? (Pretend they are!) Or would my nipple oglers think that it was a flaw in the bra that caused that temporary bust unsightliness? If I ignore, my erect and obvious misalignment could cause more stares. Conceivably, I could be at fault for nasty shopping cart accidents as my fellow shoppers stare at the unnatural state of my breastesses. I don’t have insurance for that!

This leads to more worry. Imagine the courtroom scene as a man (who was trapped under the 400lb display of canned yellow waxed beans that collapsed after ramming his shopping cart into them) describes the terror of becoming distracted by my unsightly bosom. And, the judge, being of reasonably sound mind, would wonder how such a thing could possibly create that much havoc. He’d summon Rusty the Bailiff to bring in a walk-in fridge, order me in, and then, when my nipples were at the peak of hardness request us to reenact the debacle.The plaintiff, distracted by the nipples that naggingly nixed his normal shopping habits, would jump up and shout, “Look! Aren’t they frightening? Ohhhhhhhh, my eyes! Aarrrrggggggggghhhh! Make her warm up, please!” And he’d collapse in sobs as his broken leg and arm twitch in painful spasms from the sudden movement. The judge would have no choice but to award damages to the injured. I’d have no way to pay up.

Should I be forced to wear a heavily padded bra? With my breasts…that’s really not a very good idea. They’re big enough already. A padded minimizer bra? Nooooo! That’s cruel and unusual punishment. Those things hurt. They scrunch the boobs to no end. And, they invariably give you the double cleavage that’s even more unsightly than the misaligned milk pumps. You know what I mean. The way that the cup of the bra cuts into the upper portion of the breast that isn’t completely encased in lycra and lace. I can’t afford to send someone out to shop for me either. That’s out of the question. I mean, I live alone at the moment. Even when my kids are here they’re too young to go to the store alone. And, I refuse to have nipple realigning surgery! UGH! That’s just gross.

Why is this bothering me right now? WHY? What should I do? I don’t have any answers to those questions and I’m too flummoxed to think. I guess I’ll just go try putting my boobs in different bras and see if I can’t come up with an idea. If all else fails…duct tape. Seems to work for everything else in the Universe. Wait…upon reflection, even that is too harsh a penalty. Oh man. I’m destined for therapy. Dr. Phil? Are you available?

I was tempted to remove the name of the blight on the “psychology” field he professes to be part of, but had no other name to substitute. Dr. Joyce Brothers? I don’t even know any more. My brain is mush these days.

Okay. There you have it. I throwback to 2002. Nineteen years ago.

2021/05/25

2021 – Day 145

Da Goddess @ 19:29

We’re just about 40 days shy of the halfway point in 2021 and it doesn’t seem like that’s real or even possible. And that last sentence had a question mark at the end of it in my head. Most things do these days. Have question marks at the end, that is. I’m just not sure what anything means or where anyone stands any more. I’m not even sure when I can use “anymore” or it it’s always been “any more”. I used to know these things and now I know nothing.

My own life and in my own head, I’m Sgt Schultz. Is that not the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard? At the very least

, one should be Hogan or — should things take a weird turn — even Colonel Klink or Carter. No one should be the Schultzie of their own life. No one.

And yet, here I am.

I guess it’s better than being General Burkhalter, eh? He was never on the right side of anything and wasn’t lovable like Schultz.

Huh, maybe I am Schultz. And maybe I am okay with it.

Nah. If I can’t be Hogan or Newkirk or Kinchloe, I don’t think I want to be in this sitcom at all. I mean, would you?

2021/05/11

2021 – Day 131 – Two-Fer Tuesday

Da Goddess @ 21:06

Show this to some young person in your life. Tell them this was a big hit when you were a kid. In the comments, post a link to the pic you took of them as they listen to it.

And then you can tell them this was another big hit. But nobody ever knew why. Or how.

“And they whirled and they twirled and they tangoed
Singin’ and jingin’ the jango
Floatin’ like the heavens above”

That’s a beautiful bit of writing

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, isn’t it? It has no right being in this song.

If you want to fall down a weird ass rabbit hole, go to YouTube and listen to all the covers of this song. From America to Todd Rundgren and countless others. It’s insaane! But, whatever. At least I didn’t include “Disco Duck” here. I love you too much for that.

2021/02/08

2021 – Day 39

Da Goddess @ 03:31

Zeugma

Word of the day.

I’m not giving you the definition because I hope you’ll be curious enough to seek it yourself.

I’m all about learning new words lately.

I’m also all about wanting to quiet my brain. There’s a lot of shit happening in there and I’m afraid it’s making its way into my life physically. Must. Quiet. Brain.

Go on

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, now. Look up zeugma. Enjoy!

2020/08/22

TJH: Inspire – I Can Haz Anything I Wants With This

Da Goddess @ 18:24
Fork Kitty

Fork Kitty

Sometimes

, playing with your flatware is almost as fun as playing with your food. Actually, combining the two is just super awesome!

Reminds me of those mod cats from the 50s and 60s.

2020/06/11

Just NO

Da Goddess @ 00:02

I’m suspicious of chin dimples. Not a cleft chin, but dimples in the chin. You know, the kind that look as if someone stuck a skewer deep into puffed up dough and you can’t see if there’s even an end to the depth of the dimple. Imagine that on your face. Or on anyone’s face. Imagine the bacteria and/or fungi living in the deep, dark recesses of that dimple. Imagine leaning in close to hear a whisper from someone with a simple full of soupy microbes and smelling the stench that comes with such a thing. Gross

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, isn’t it? I mean, if your belly button can collect lint and sweat and germs of all sorts, so, too, can a chin pit. And it’s on the face. Where everyone can see it, where everyone can picture the bacterial and fungal sludge simmering together to create a superbly disgusting stew of utter grossness.

So, like, y’know, I’m suspicious of chin dimples.

P.S. this does not apply to Kurt Russell, possessor of glorious dimples and a cleft chin. See? They’re two entirely separate things.

2020/04/21

Better to Laugh

Da Goddess @ 23:55

My frustration level has peaked. I have so many things I’d like to do, so many people I’d like to see, and many places I’d like to visit. Since none of that’s possible, it comes down to lots of tweeting, reading, TV, and movies.

Of course, now is exactly when shit hits the fan. My landlords have moved off the property and out of state. I have missed them a great deal when they drove up to Oregon to be with family. I miss their daughter’s little voice and adorable giggles. I miss hearing the baby fuss and then coo. It’s just so weird without them here.

And I now have to set up my own internet and cable. That was one of my favorite things about renting here: those were included in the rent. Now

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, they’re reducing my rent to make up for not providing it. But I’d rather just keep it the way it’s always been. I’m THAT horrified by having to figure it out for myself. When manlord was down to pack up the house, I got him to extend the service until they have someone move into the main house. Except, here’s the thing, internet works and cable doesn’t. I’m watching Netflix until they get it figured out.

And I’m reading a lot. Right now, my favorite site is McSweeney’s because I end up laughing for hours. Current favorite article is Frasier & Niles Tell Their Dad to Stay Home. Go read. You’ll like it.

Ta for now. I have to go look for ants. I had three extremely tiny ones show up earlier and I’m obsessed with killing any others that may exist.

2020/01/27

Mad for Plaid

Da Goddess @ 23:27

I have never seen a plant that looked like it was swathed in plaid before. But now, I can’t think of anything else.

Meet Euphorbia obesa.

Euphorbia obesa

Doesn’t it look like something created from tartan and pure imagination? I feel like this is the most Celtic plant in the world, except it’s from nowhere even close to Ireland or Scotland. Maybe it just wants to be. Perhaps its DNA test proved there was no way it could be from either country, but in a fit of pique it wrapped itself in plaid, declared itself a Celt, and has decided it will die upon this hill, no matter how many tests say it’s wrong.

I totally get this plant. I have one DNA test that says I’m 0% English, Irish, or Scottish. I have another that says 2.5%. While I’m not sure I agree with the data from the 2nd 2.5% test, I’m hoping it’s true. My little sister took a 3rd test (as in a third company different from the two I dealt with) and got a smidge of British Isles. Maybe these two separate companies are more accurate? I dunno. But I understand that plant. I understand wanting to be a part of a culture…I’m a bit mad for plaid myself.

2019/11/28

Happy Turkey Day!

Da Goddess @ 00:07

Monica with the turkey

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