Tag Archives: home

Things To Do When Home All Day Sick

4 Jan

I am at the tits-end of a cold. 

…Have been fighting to keep it at bay before it really takes hold. This means “down time.” A lot.

…To keep from mental suicide, this also means lots of movies, while googling about the people in the movies, to satisfy the “muti-tasking” gene.

…Which is when you do things (for instance) like watch “From Here To Eternity,” and really realize on Bluray how TOTALLY BUILT Burt Lancaster is, in that beach scene…so you (naturally) google more pics of him.  Which brings up a hot one of him and Ava Gardner.  Which is when you click to go to that article publishing the picture.  Which is when you read how that was from his first film, “The Killers,” during which he began an affair with Gardner, directly after (Mom, just “la-la-la” to yourself here) getting a hard-on while filming the love scene, which the crew therefore totally made fun of. 

…So naturally, you need to find that damn movie. Online. NOW. And watch it.

…And for the first time (prob’ly ever), you get TOTALLY irritated because the movie DARES to have “plot” and things before Ava even turns up (38 minutes and 13 seconds into the movie…and THEN, it is only even her back.)

…But eventually: the scene arrives. 

…And it delivers.

(And so does the twist ending.)

…And you go back to the internets for more “scoop”…eventually stumbling over that one site where you can plug in your face and see who your celebrity doppelganger is, based on general features n’ junk.

…Which is when you get this idea about plugging in random show pics to see just how good you are at this whole chameleon-character-actor thing. 

…Which makes you laugh so hard, that you have a coughing fit and almost pee your pants as a result.

…Which is when you decide that you should share the wealth.

Even though it means people in the blogosphere will know what you look like (even if you are nameless to all but your privately selected FB friends.)

So: fine.

Here are my doppelgangers (according to character type.)

Personally, I think a 1930’s German Spy totally looks like this chick (whoever the hell she is.)
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And naturally a Nun would closely resemble Eva Peron.
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Amy Winehouse with a generous helping of Ozzy’s genes in there? You bet.
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…And when I think Jewish mother in the Holocaust…Christina totally is the 1(00,000,000,000th) person I think of, dunno ’bout you.
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…Just like nothing says “Beaver” more than Leslie Caron (enter French Beaver jokes, here.)
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You guys need to know that should you ever need a singing Cockney Prostitute: Jenna Elfman in your dame.
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…And NOTHING screams tea-party-right-wing-Mamet-horror, like a social activist and “L-Word” actress.
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…Which is only slightly confusing…cuz if you actually WANT a lesbian, you should aim for casting a Hilton…
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…But if you want a Celebutant, rich-bitch, flapper, go with REAL class: Mae West. (She comes with one-liners and talent.)
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When I think of a 40’s New York Undercover Cop…I always assume it will be cast with a French model…
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…Whereas NO ONE says “first lady of the American stage” like…Winona Ryder?
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I kinda like that Mina Harker could be a Bollywood star in another life (hell, she has infinity of time by the end, so why not?)
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…And bitchy Jane Austen antagonists ALWAYS should be played by actors with three names (more room to take up on the marquee.)
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…But above ALL…my MOST favorite, is that a saucily randy Shakespearean Lady’s maid equals a noir love-making queen…
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…Which brings us back full circle to the story about how one night? I had this crap cold and was watching “From Here to Eternity”…and noticed for the first time how TOTALLY BUILT Burt Lancaster is. So, naturally…I started to google more pictures of him, and I found this one really hot one…

…With Ava Gardner.

The End.

~D

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Locked Out

22 Apr

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I’ve fantasized about being locked out of work before.  Many times.  It’s a frequent “happy place memory” that I go to, in fact.  But in the fantasy, I can’t get in and don’t want to.

…I guess you have to be specific with these things.

I had just finished pulling the front door closed, and was going to lock the final door in the upper warehouse when I realized that my keys were still on my desk inside.

…My keys to my car, my apartment, the campus gate…the works.

So, that sucked.

…But then, we always hide an ER key somewhere in the yard, for just this purpose…

…Only there was no ER key in any of the ER places…

…Which was confirmed with the WHS Pimp, over the phone, who was at that point about 35 minutes away, picking his kids up from school.

…And I had about the same amount of time to get to my Landlord’s, where I was (ironically) meeting to pay and get a duplicate of the only key that opens my front door, currently resting all peaceful right now, on my fucking desk.

…But (I bet you guessed already), they were already closed by the time I got there.

…And not by my own car (still locked in the yard) but via Boss’s, who I forced to come and try all his keys to open the damn door. 

…But then, he lost all the ones that actually open the doors, so after however long of trying to break into the shop (another thing he isn’t good at)…I talked him into dropping me by my Landlord’s, hopefully to still meet and get the key…which still didn’t work out. 

…So then I wandered, homeless and carless, to Ma’s .  Who let me in.  Cuz she has to.  Cuz she’s my Ma.

…Followed by feeding me (another “Ma” thing), and then texts to the WHS Pimp, in hopes he returns sometime tonight to the WHS and will let me in, so I can sleep and shower and things like a grown up person, else I’ll be sleeping at Ma’s too, and she’ll have to get up and drive me to work in the morning at the butt crack of dawn, while wearing her PJ’s…like I’m 15 or something.

Alllll these damn complications, people! 

Just because I wasn’t “specific” when I said, “I wish I was locked outta that hell hole and could never get back in again.”

Stupid details.

~D

And The Swedes Take Over The World

9 Sep

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Yesterday, I stood in 375 square feet of space, masquerading as a real full apartment, in which everything from a bathroom to kitchen, to bedroom, to closet space was compacted on a grid-system of proficiency.

…The sign outside said, “walk into my living space,” and claims that a human actually exists in an exact replica of this area.

…I have 800 square feet, which I share with my two fish, and upon occasion…feel crowded. 

I am “proficient” as hell.

…Which just shows that there is always room for improvement.  Exhausting as that may sound.

IKEA is one of those places that I have to gird my loins to go and visit. There is so much stimulation to the creative sectors of my brain when I frequent all it’s million tiny room mock-ups, that I get hyper enthusiastic.  Somehow, even though the Mod 60’s thing really isn’t my deal, I end up wanting them all anyway.  Every room, every collection of goods, every little bookcase prop.  Why? I dunno.  Possibly because the color coordination and multi-use of every product, screams a challenge of maximum capabilities.  Maybe because I’m addicted to shelving and cabinetry.  Maybe because twelve bucks for a French Press, that costs fifty even at Target, is just too much goodness for my brain to take in.

This place spawns a cousin disease to my general, “I never knew I always wanted that” one…only this time I truly believe my entire life would change for the better if I had it…because all my OCD’s would completely disappear if I could live in something as slip-streamed and categorize-perfected.

…In my mind, as I walk the aisles, all I can see are the dozens of tiny alterations to my little apartment that would bump me into a high-tech, sheer-surface, spot-lit, rug-wielding, stainless steel, goddess.  I’m already practically there, but this would just seal the deal.  And who doesn’t want to run at that level?

Can you imagine what it would be like, to have zero wasted space?  Not a single undevoted centimeter…where everything has a home and convenient location, which tucks away inside of itself about fifty times, until its basically just negative entity? Where every shoes has it’s place on a tree in the closet, where every individual halogen light is focused precisely where you want it, off a steel lined track running the entirety of your room? Where the walls become secret hidden cabinets, which you can still hang shit on, with beds that grow out of other beds and sofas, so your one-bedroom apartment or dorm room can suddenly sleep ten people. You know…for all those times that you REALLY NEED to sleep ten people!

…This place gets me so undone with wonder and excitement, that I accidentally start mirroring the children, calling their parents to, “look at this thing! Oh, but look at that one too!” I simply cannot trust the visuals of whoever I am with to pick up the kind of subtleties that are the entire main focus on the display, and feel the need to walk them through it. I must describing in detail how “this thing” transformers into “that one,” like I’m an expert showcase salesman…because clearly they wouldn’t get the full sliding-swing action, if I didn’t really sell it for them. And I also have to explain why it works aesthetically, on a level far more pleasing than just to the eye:

“Cant you just FEEL how all the books are happy right now, with that certain kind of open wall-mount display on equal parallel planes, without all the box bulk of an actual case?”

“Lookit that lamp. I dunno when in the hell you’d have the reason to mount a giant glowing dandelion above your head…but if you just stand here for a second and think about the kind of room it would go in…it’s totally awesome. Right?”

“Here is why this kitchen layout is better than any other kind: floor to ceiling Lazy Suzans in that corner cabinet. No, just stop right now, you will never beat that.”

…And I also feel compelled to let them know that any time they wanna get rich and buy me shit, this is the place to do it, and here are some reasons why:

“‘Kay, look…this roll out drawer would save my life maybe…because my god, how long have I lived having to reach under my bed to get at things, then scrape the hell out of my arms, or slam my head on that fucking Hollywood frame?”

“…No wait, now picture my living room…but then add this to every wall. Instant James Bond high tech, am I right? Just, push this spot in the wall and, BAM cabinet materializes! Push that over there: a door! That there: a sunken wet bar! Tap here: my whole entertainment center folds out…!”

…And sometimes, I’m not so subtle about it:

“…If you wanted to get me this rug, that would be okay.”

“Maybe you could pick up that chair as an early Birthday present to me now…I mean, since we’re already here.”

“I bet if I had this pot and pan set, I’d be able to cook you a delicious dinner. The ones I have now are just holding me back, mostly cuz you deserve the very best.”

Yes. It is that ridiculous. Ask anyone whose ever gone with me.

…All I know is that in the end: the Swedes with their happy-go-luckiness and uber efficiency, are someday going to take over the world…and there will be nothing we can do about it.

…They will hook up with their handy-dandy equally efficient Swiss friends (with their compacted tools and weaponry), and dig themselves a little mountain fortress somewhere (prob’ly throughout the entire Swiss Alps in a collected switchback of mathematically precise grids.) And they will outfit every square inch of tunnel with IKEA themed, space-aged, 60’s-kick-back wonder…where every man, woman, and child, will live in their own customized pod of up to 375 square feet of perfected living space. (Built entirely by their Swiss Army-issued, fold out tool and weaponry knife.)

You guys, the secret is already out there…

…Like the masterminds that they are, they have hidden it in full fucking sight, inside every single one of their monster stores. They will do this all with a maximum of silent speed and efficiency, (if they haven’t already), and thus, out-last every apocalypse (be it zombie or otherwise) by doing so.

…And when it’s all over, the new world power of quiet, happy blond people with killer skiing skills, will emerge.

…And civilization will be saved.

…And that is the truth.

~D

Linear Label Laws

2 Sep

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What IS a “Linear Label Law,” one might ask? 

I didn’t invent it, I only named it.  Lots of fellow OCDers practice it religiously as well, and I thought that for their sake, I’d help spread the word a little, to the “normals.”  That way, if you find yourself stepping into a home which screams the obvious tell-signs, you can cooperate accordingly, and maybe not be a dick about it.

…The Linear Label Law is a two-part regulation regarding both height order and presentation, which specifies that everything within every cupboard, refrigerator, bookcase…or flat surface in general, obey the certain categorization requirements usually reserved for library shelving on the dewy decimal system.  Depending on the inclinations of said OCDer, some or all of the following must be categorized, either alphabetically, within their specified genre of existence, paired out occasionally by color or type, and/or height…but must ALWAYS (without exception) have their labels facing outward. Obeisance is required.

Always.

I’ve been a practitioner of this law for quite some time, but thankfully have never reached the stage where I feel the need to walk around correcting other people’s lack of implementation.  I can sit at a restaurant table and not become obsessed with categorizing the jams and jellies or putting all the sugar packets in order. I can visit a friend’s house and not become completely distracted by incorrect picture hanging alignment, or colors touching other colors in arrangements of things that would drive me totally bat-shit within the walls of my own home.  Basically, unless it belongs to me directly, I don’t feel responsible to “rescue” said items from whatever egregious error is taking place in their regards (like an upside down book on a shelf for instance.)  If it isn’t mine, the bastard is totally on its own.  And this, I suspect, is due in two parts to:

1) Working with men all day long who never put anything back or away, at any time, ever.

2) My Shrink once saying, “You could totally be worse right now…for instance what if you had this issue?”

…The first part, is like when obsessive compulsives have children. Working with Men is basically the same thing. Part of the OCD has to recede in these cases, otherwise you would worry yourself into impossible perfection-oblivion by never sleeping, eating or resting ever again.  The second part scared the shit out of me, mostly because I already had motor skill, speaking, sleeping, and anxiety issues to the extreme. The thought that I could be worse, damn near sent me into an episode right there in my Shrink’s office.

The long and short of it is: I may not be on a Grand Poobah scale of Linear Label Lawing, but it is still a taxing enterprise to keep up with, even if only in the confines of my own person, office, and home.

…This is helped (in no way) by the fact that there is something special about this law…(like the one about “No Parking” signs)…that makes people in the vicinity who know about it, immediately want to break it.

Almost nothing delights people more than to incorrectly file a contract to an entirely different category, turn the beans label facing backward, write in blue ink all over my desk calendar, swap the stapler home with the tape, move the milk to another shelf, stack the lobby brochures in all the wrong order, attack the cork board postings with thumbtacks like it was a shooting gallery…or put the short bottle in the back, on the bar.

…Most of the time, this is not done in the spirit of meanness…it is 85% of the time, just out of curiosity. Like a game, they wait for me to exit a room and then watch upon my return to see how long it takes me to sense the error through the very vibrations of the element changes in the air.

…Which is all done in karmic pay-back of course. 

I used to do this same exact thing to my Aunt, once. 

…With the ever patience of Job, she would return and carry on an entire conversation while readjusting every single alteration to a room that we had made.  It was fascinating.  How did she manage it?!  She must be a Wizard!  Or at the very least a clairvoyant!  How could one know the mere millimeters change in a picture frame angle, in which magazine was on top of the others…which order the books are in on the shelf, and that “this” do-hicky, goes on “that” do-hicky in natural grouping selection and presentation?

…It took me about a decade to figure it out.

…And then, it seemed that one day: I just knew.

And I can never “un-know” it ever again.

It can be exhausting, let me tell yuh.

…Hold that thought. I have to go fix the coaster stack on the table.  BRB…

~D

Ah, Wilderness!

20 Aug

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I grew up around a lot of nature.  And not a whole hell of a lot “else.”

When people ask me about where I came from, I reference them to Yosemite.  Its a National park, people have actually heard of it, and know it resides in California…”somewhere in the middle.”

…I grew up in an armpit town, slightly west of there. 

The county itself looks pretty much the same in topography, and is chiefly populated by Miners, Mill Workers and Armed Guards.  It is “Goldrush territory,” and they’re still extricating the stuff like a shiny food crop, have an exorbitant amount of excess in trees (apparently), and is conveniently in the middle of bum-fuck-Egypt…so they decided that planting a third-security prison there, would be a good idea.

…I used to think it was the most unbearably boring town in all of God’s creation. And it might still be. I dunno.  I try my best to go back there as little as humanly possible, so haven’t much to go off of on that point. But in hindsight, I have to toss it up a few marks of “chutzpah.” This is due solely to the laundry list of semi terrifying circumstances surrounding it, that I always just thought of as totally normal…until talking to other people about their childhoods.

Constant mining detonation-cued earthquakes, would erupt at all hours in all seasons…without even a second thought that the San Andreas fault line was under our fucking feet.  Sticky-tack was totally the way to go when displaying any breakables…duck and cover drills were announced over PA systems at schools and work, and everyone was taught how to switch out a blown fuse and light an oil lamp from birth. It wasn’t until I moved to Washington State and lived through a “barely tremble” (which even DJs on the radios were getting into apoplexies about), that I realized the gross amounts of inherent military-like conditioning I’d undergone in childhood…calmly walking to a doorway mid-house tremble, while continuing to count to 100. Because I was “it,” and everyone else was hiding, (prob’ly under tables and behind couches, come to think of it…)

Also, the hot, rotting, urine-like smell of the Millworks, never seemed to quite keep up with the rampant forest fires in general tree devastation, there.  This would bring on the volunteer firefighting squads mostly populated by local prisoners, who were actually being TRAINED in it as a “skilled profession,” with the help of our Parent’s tax dollars.  Intermingled with the civilian population at large with only a uniform to tell them apart, I dunno if the powers that be took into consideration that within an hour under these conditions, everything and everyone is covered in head-to-tow black soot; Including the jumpers with “Prisoner” stenciled on them.

…You would hope, the people in charge would have at least weeded out the pyromaniacs among this crowd…but this would be asking a lot…given that these were the same authorities who thought it a great idea to ship out jam-packed marked minivans (driven by armed guards)  to our local Grammar School, as part of the cheap labor initiative used in building our new quad.

The fact that at any moment, the enticement may be too much to bear, and at least one of said prisoners would take it on the lamb, was almost a given.  And they did from time to time.  And there would be lock-downs.  And people would go looking for them.  But luckily for us, we must have been mailed out the stupider kind.  Because instead murdering people, molesting children, or hitting up a convenience store, taking a hostage, and beating it out of town…they’d always take the road least expected. 

…Like the guy who stole the prison van, and left it parked outside his grandmother’s house…found, hours later, sitting at the table eating milk and cookies.

…Or the one who walked off, mid-a fire, escaping out into the wilderness, turning himself in two days later — a hobbled, broken, bleeding, hysterical mess — on account he was apparently from a city, and had never been in “nature” before.  (It was also rumored he’d been sodomized by a wild animal at some point. I dunno if that part was true or not, but he certainly looked like it.)

I happen to know these stories, (btw) because my Mother worked at said prison at the time, and would bring them home, as reported and laughed over while eating their lunches, served them from hair-netted convicts who liked to point out that the macaroni salad was especially good today cuz they’d used a “special ingredient,” but wouldn’t tell anyone what it was.

…This all adds up to some seriously questionable circumstances when you think about it…but because it was my kiddome (and it was all I knew)…it never really occurred to me at the time.

At the TIME, the most sick and twisted part of my existence, was the fact that despite my pleadings, and melodramatic claims of child abuse…I was constantly being forced against my will into the great outdoors. Because my mother was a camping sadist from hell, who’d inherited the gene directly from her father.

Nature.

Fuck.

…With all that dirt, and weeds and grass.  With all that sky and sun…and so much air you could practically drown in it.  The bugs lived out there! And like little Kamikaze assholes, always dive-bombed their way into your cup of juice and bit you in places you could never reach to scratch.

As if day trips weren’t bad enough…Mom’s favorite summer past-time torture, was to drive out into the wilderness every fucking weekend, point at the rock and pine-needle strewn land, and claim “this spot” as our new horn of plenty. She’d spike a pole in the ground, throw a blanket over it and begin walking around in big strides, getting drunk on air, and proselytizing about how, “This was the life,” and “people in cities just don’t know the real deal” and “aren’t we lucky to live here?”

…My answer to this was always the same.  I’d take up my 1500 page tomb of Russian Literature, or History on the Holocaust,  and retreat into the back-most section of the tent in abject silence.  I found out early that pleading the fifth was smartest in these circumstances, because if I complained about it even a little bit, she’d force me on a trail hike or some alternate form of holy terror.

After an agonizing sequence of checking and double checking the contents of my sleeping bag, (assuring it was free of snakes, bugs and vermin), I would properly preserve myself with an invisible shield of bug spray covering every square inch of my body (even eyelids), and commence with my reading. And I would not stop again or move from my position, except in cases of eating and peeing, until it was time to go home.

Dear Lord, how I hated those weekends.  More than seafood.  More than peas.  More than homework, even! But because I wasn’t 18 yet, I hadn’t “the vote.”  With no legal protections whatsoever, I was forced into it .  So I went.  And I read.  And tried my best to ignore it.

***Flash forward***

I now live in the Pacific Northwest.

…Of my own free will.

It is occupied mostly by software brainiacs, coffee drinkers, State workers and nature-freaks. 

Most of our land is made up of State parks, wetlands, swamps, rain forests and trails linking them via network spider-webbings and landmarks.  The population is so obsessed with partaking of its infinite varieties, that they will kit themselves out in an REI wet-dream of fleece jackets, cargo shorts, socks pulled up to their kneecaps and rock-climbing sandals…to go hiking through it, in the middle of pissing-down rain, grinning like idiots…under the mass delusion that they are “having a good time.” 

It’s become such a part of the culture here, that no one even thinks twice about it.

…And maybe, because I’ve lived here for twelve years now…maybe because I’m susceptible to any and all random and strange diseases and epidemics that happen to pass by…(like that one involving spider bites, or rashes, or every cold that makes its way through the masses.) Maybe that is why I find myself suddenly (over the long and painful evolution crossing the past twenty years), not “minding” the out-of-door experience as much as I once did. 

I’m not completely cured of it, mind you…just less “allergic.” 

Truth be told: we’ve got some cool stuff here.  It’s green, most if it. And kinda smells good. As long as a bar of soap and hot water face me at the end of the trail…I really kinda like it even.

…But don’t tell Ma that. 

…Even one whiff, and she’ll kidnap me with the Subaru, drive out to some god-forsaken mountain top, and force me to go all “Lewis and Clark” on that shit.

My childhood was scaring enough, thanks.

~D

Damp Rag Dolls Of Death

6 Aug

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It’s been hot here.  This is a huge abnormality involving the temperature reaching into the 90’s or more, leaving most western Washingtonians in sopping puddles on the floor.

…And yes, I do know, “That ain’t even hot” to most places on this earth.  I was born and bred in California, people…believe me, I know what naked thighs on plastic car seats in freeway traffic can do to you.

It’s different here. 

…We don’t have much in the way of air conditioning or swimming pools.  I guess cuz one figures one can “muscle through” the heat, all two days a year that we get some.  But then when it actually arrives, we completely lose our shit…filling up the hospitals on dehydration-induced I.V. diets, and finding reasons to stand in front of the open refrigerator for hours at a time.  People start scalping fans on street corners, cuz every store in the state already sold out of ’em all…and the ice cream parlors and 7-11s turn into raving meat-markets of insanity.

…Even at home in a cooler brick-covered fortress, my plants are falling over themselves with almost-death by afternoon (though I water ’em every morning.) And my fish give me looks at feeding time like, “Fuuuuck.  I know we’re tropical and all, but seriously, we’re poaching over here!” 

It prob’ly wouldn’t be so bad if one had nothing to do during these few days a year, when this happens.  Take off to a lake or something?  You betcha!  But in keeping with all other “conveniences” in life, it just never works out that way.  The way it goes is: Hottist day of the flippin’ year, go spend four hours trying to look impressive at callbacks while you rain out of every pore, pitting out even behind your knee caps…then go home and get dolled up for a formal cocktail party you’re already two hours late to.

Taking showers after showers, (because you’re already sweating before you even get around to doing your hair)…doesn’t help.  Neither does trying to sausage damp appendages into nylons…because though it ain’t the “style” (and you might die of heat exhaustion for it), you simply cannot bring yourself to allow the bleached whiteness of total anti-tan to further embarrass you.

…Then, add some alcohol to the mix.

…Delightfully flavored champagne cocktails, and tables full of tiny eatables, which do not (in the heat) quite balance themselves out.  Dream of an evening, though it may have been, the stone-cold-sober payback the following day after only two drinks, lasted across two meals and five gillion glasses of water…well into something like 3 PM. 

Just a rag doll of soppy, heat exhaustion and brain aches…starfishing across the couch in the living room, refusing to move until around one this morning… when I decided it might have finally cooled off enough to risk getting ready for bed without feeling like I’d run a triathlon directly after.

Success at last!

…I even slept okay…and had only just the teeniest of dehydration headaches, come the 6:30 alarm.

Today, we are back to the more reasonable high 60’s, low 70’s.  About where my California relations start layering on fleece jackets and complaining about the cold.  THIS is where we are “at home.”  THIS is the language that we speak.

…Not to bitch and moan about the one true experience of “summer” in our summer…but, man!  I am just NOT built for this kinda thing anymore.

…Somewhere , in another reality plane, my Mexican ancestor’s just shook their heads, took back my ethnic card and disowned me for going full Gringo.

It happens.

~D

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