Hey, y'all. Thumbelina and I wish you a very Happy Thanksgiving.

Ready to Rumble

Well! I have never experienced this before. About one hour ago, at 1:39 a.m., it suddenly felt as if a house-sized Hitachi Magic Wand was rubbed against my foundation. Then my potted plants wobbled a little. Then, on cue, the dachshund woke up and started barking. I must admit that my heart started to flutter a bit. This is a typical night-just-became-morning pattern 'round here at the Williams Whorehouse. However, it cannot normally be attributed to *actual* seismic activity. What a nice change of pace!

I didn't actually stand in one, but I am presently relieved that my apartment has approximately 341 doorways. Here at W2, I often rue the lack of wall space and the restricted furniture-arranging options. Oh well. The house was built by hobos who seemed to have used sand, saliva, Lincoln Logs, lead paint, and pigeon droppings as the main construction components. This time-tested and true blend of materials renders a house like WW quite flexible. I'm guessing this is a good thing.

Inflation.

Seems like only yesterday that they were 10 cents.

Work. British singers.

So, my original idea was that this blog would be about work, jobs, working, the jobs I have had, the job I have at the time, and so on. Well, it's true that I have another new job. Believe it or not--this is the dirtiest job I have ever had. Yes, this beats the hotel restaurant linen-washing dungeon job. (I lost patches of my fingerprints from smoothing and folding super hot and mostly polyester table linens that spilled out of the industrial dryers for 10 hours a day.) Yes, this even beats all of shrimp deveining, crab-cracking, squid-emptying, and burr-mixing of gallons of caesar dressing during my former cooking career. All of the emptying of drains, both kitchen and otherwise, and cleaning of toilets I have performed during my work life. It even beats administering the lidocaine injections and starting dialysis with an 18 gauge needle on a elderly woman. Of course, there's not much that can beat being giving the task of filling a 6 foot tall baker's rack with sheet pan after sheet pan of red jello, nor grinding up whole unwashed heads of muddy cabbage into a prep sink and then making coleslaw with your bare arms (up to the elbows, I tell you!). I only held that particular job for one half of one day. It definitely beats the job I had filling cemetary urns for Memorial Day. Of course, it really was pretty gross unplugging that fucking toilet at Cafe Wyrd at least once per shift, day after day after day. Alas, this new job is even dirtier. It is, however, finally the kind of dirty that I can get down with.

I'm at my new-ish super dirty job and I am listening to some old Erasure and I just realize that early Andy Bell and Alison Moyet sound almost exactly alike. Of course I know that she didn't she sing the magical and amazing early 90's gay anthem "Chains of Love," but she should have. Or she still could and I might not catch it.

Dear Frog,

I am glad that you are my best friend.


Your Best Friend,


Toad

medi-could-not-care-less

Guess where this headline is from? Go on, just guess:

America, Pull up a Chair! We've Got Something Good to Talk About.

It's from the website www.medicare.gov. Yep--that's right! That's my very own government asking me (on behalf of my mother) to come to the table and chat! I guess that's good as I have a lot of questions after trying to decipher this website full of chummy language and stock photos of happy retirees. Unfortunately, it's not really like stopping by Lloyd and Lil's country kitchen table to have some bars and coffee and good old fashioned straight talk about prescription drug coverage when you become old enough for the government to know they can confuse you because YOU'RE GETTING OLD. Looks like we're pulling up to a nice big steaming pile of crapcakes and a bottomless cup of quandary. Poor mom--after trying to figure out what she should chat about with the goWernment, I'm confused as hell and I like to think that I'm a lil' bit used to the quackery double talk of Uncle Sam. Oh my! It looks like we're going to have to switch her to dollar-store ibuprofen and some prairie medicine poultices while waiting to see if she can get the good stuff that keeps her ticking (within reason). But, please--pull up a chair!

quiz time

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.