Rats!!!!!!

“I think I saw a rat in our yard last night,” my husband said.

“Really? I think I saw one in the yard the night before,” I said panicked. “What should we do?”

“Nothing. They were probably just passing through,” he said.

Just passing through? What does he think our yard is a highway for rats. Rats don’t just pass through. They infest and give you Bubonic Plague. Just ask any 14th century European, and they’ll tell you. Rats are bad news. They must be eliminated. They are probably living under our house chewing through the air-conditioning wiring and waiting to get all Secret of Nimh on us. Just thinking about it makes me feel like this:

The_Scream

I went around the house last night holding my ear to the walls listening for scurrying. I didn’t hear anything, but that could’ve been because they were sleeping.

If they were mice I would feel less anxious. Anyone whose watched Tom and Jerry can tell you that mice aren’t that bad. They’re actually cute, clever, and good dancers.

Rats on the other hand are like this:

I’m going to have to get a cat. I should’ve adopted Spooky when I had the chance.

Night at the Auction

It’s important to try new things. At least that’s what I’ve heard, but with my anxiety levels trying something new is always a challenge. That’s why I wasn’t looking forward to going to a local auction with my husband last Tuesday.

I guess I should update you in case you don’t know the details of my fascinating life. We’ve started selling things eBay. As with starting anything new it’s been a bit of a challenge. We have to figure out what to sell and were to source our goods.

Auctions seem like a good place to get some good stuff to flip on eBay, but they are a bit intimidating. I’ve never been to an auction before, and I was afraid they would be like the auctions I’ve seen on TV. On TV there are two types of auctions and those are the ones with the fast talking auctioneers who you can’t understand or the ones with the extremely wealthy people buying million dollar pieces of art. Why aren’t the fast talking auctioneers ever at those auctions?

When I was little my mother told me not to believe everything I see on TV, so I figured that all the fast talking that happens on TV auctions must be for entertainment purposes only. That mustn’t happen in real life. I mean how would anyone ever bid on anything if they couldn’t understand the auctioneer. Boy was I wrong.

The auction started and I was immediately lost. What was going on? The auctioneer was speaking Swahili, or it least that’s what it sounded like to me. He seemed to be pointing out people who were bidding but as I looked around the room I didn’t see anyone doing anything that looked like a bid. How am I supposed to buy something when I don’t know what’s being said and I don’t know what to do to bid?

We stayed at the auction for an hour. By the end of the hour we figured it all out, but I spent the entire time sitting as still as possible. I was afraid that any movement I made could be mistaken for a bid. I’d scratch an itch on my head and suddenly I’ve bought a WWII gun for $350. That didn’t happen luckily, but it easily could have.

I’ve been teaching myself how to draw cartoons on Inkscape. Here’s my artistic interpretation of the auction.

auction

The Thrift Shop

My husband made a new discovery last month. It’s called the thrift store. I’ve been a thrift store aficionado since high school, but somehow my husband never really caught on. I’ve been trying to figure out how this happened, and the only thing I can think of is that the only time he’s been with me to a thrift store was when I went to the charity shops in the UK. Brits must not have nearly as many things to throw away as Americans because those shops are tiny. American thrift shops contain acres of items. It’s a regular bonanza of discovery. (I just wanted to say bonanza. There’s something satisfying about that word.)

The first time I took my husband to my favorite thrift shop here he marveled at the number of items there. “There are just so many clothes,” he said as we started sifting through button-down shirts. There were tons of clothes, but because my husband is so thin, there were only like six shirts in his size. That happens no matter where I take him to shop. Pants choices are usually limited to four, shirt choices maybe ten. It’s so annoying.

“I can actually have enough gig shirts without spending a fortune,” he announced holding up a blue button-down. My husband somehow manages to ruin clothes. I’m not sure what’s going on, but after only a month his new shirts start looking like they’re ten years old. I can have clothes for years and they still look brand new, but he’s got a special talent for ruining clothes. Well everyone is good at something.

patrick

Freeforming

Confession …

I stopped combing my hair two months ago. Combs are so overrated, and I was ready for a change. It’s funny how not combing your hair makes you totally forget to update your blog. I never realized the two things were so closely related before.

So this is the sort of beginning of my freeform locking journey. For those of you who don’t know, that means I’m growing uncultivated dreadlocks. For those of you who still don’t know, that means that after I wash my hair (which I still do because dirty hair is not what dreadlocks are all about) I don’t comb or brush or anything like that. I may separate a few sections with my fingers so I don’t end up with one giant lock, but that’s it. It’s a big matted mess all up on my scalp, and I like it that way.

I decided to start doing this because I’m all about freedom. I also realize that freedom isn’t free, and by it’s very nature it needs some sort of form. Hence my decision to freeform.

I am completely aware that the above paragraph makes no sense, but that’s never stopped me before.

Don’t worry, this is not becoming some kind of hair blog. Hair isn’t nearly as interesting as my inane ramblings about life, love, and time travel. I just wanted to tell you about this decision of mine because my husband is convinced that it won’t last long. This here announcement commits me to keeping this freeforming thing going for about a year. Once the year is up, I’ll shave my hair in checkerboard pattern and bleach the alternating squares. I might have to attempt to get a real job in a year, and I think a nice checkerboard pattern shaved into my head will really impress interviewers.

Picture Day

This picture was inspired by the hole Chompyface dug in the yard. Usually when I take a self-portrait he’s outside with me, but this time he was so excited that I was trying to lay in his hole that he would run all over the yard as fast as he could and then jump on when I was laying in the hole. He was ruining the picture and nearly knocked the camera over so he was banished to the kitchen.

SONY DSC

I decided to learn how to make animated gifs because I always end up with a series of pictures from these self portraits.

ground1

Dinner and Atrocities

Ever since my husband borrowed my father’s copy of A People’s History Of The United States by Howard Zinn, we get to listen to atrocities while we eat. He keeps the book open at his spot at the dinner table, ready to be read.

Usually, he just reads to himself as he eats, but when what he is reading is particularly heinous, he reads it to all of us. Oh, the joy! As I eat my salad, I watch him and wonder what atrocities I might get to hear about with my main course today. Sometimes there are none, but usually they abound.

Tonight I got to hear about how early starving Virginia settlers dug up the grave of someone who had been dead for three days and ate the corpse. He also read a story of a settler who slew his wife as she slept, salted her meat and devoured every part of her but the head. He told us this while we ate spagetti. Luckily, I have a strong stomach.

He’s finished the chapter on the early settlers, Columbus, and the American Indians. Now he’s starting the chapter on the history of racism in this country. I wonder what revolting stories he’ll read to me during dinner tomorrow.

Chapped

I have a confession to make. I hope I don’t disappoint you too much, but I’m addicted to Burt’s Bees Beeswax Lip Balm. I keep it on the shelf next to my bed when I sleep, so that I can re-apply in the middle of the night. I have it in my pocket or purse whenever I go out. I’ve even turned around and come back home to get it if I realized I’d forgotten it. If I can’t find it, all I have to do is say, “Where is Burt?” and my husband will help me look for it. It just feels so soothing, cool and refreshing. I love that pepperminty tinkle.

I started out as a child using Vaseline to soothe my parched lips. Chapped lips have always been a problem for me. My mother says I was born with chapped lips.

Soon I could no longer get a fix off of Vaseline. As a teenager, I wandered into a drugstore alone one day and came out with my first tube of Cherry Chapstick. Cherry to make my lips redder like I was wearing lipstick. Like marijuana leads to heroin, Vaseline led me to Chapstick.

Before I knew it Chapstick wasn’t working for me anymore either so I made a bold and dangerous leap to Blistex. Unfortunately it was too much too fast and I had to go back to the Cherry Chapstick before my lips suffered irreversible damage.

Now I’ve moved on too Burt’s Bees Beeswax Lip Balm. The bright yellow plastic tube it comes in brings me great joy. I apply and re-apply a hundred times daily. But I don’t really need it. I mean I can stop anytime.

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