I don’t watch much network television so usually avoid commercials. But because I’m all about March Madness, I am now, unfortunately, also all about commercials.
Which is how I know that there’s a pharmaceutical targeted at those with opioid-induced constipation.
Granted, it’s a tough sell. Still, I have to believe Don would’ve found a way to inject some magic into the ad campaign.
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Exhibit A:
Look at all the bright and shiny colors!
The rocket ship! The stars!
There’s even a dotted line to map out the route.
There’s so much potential in the marble maze of life.
And at the end of some days, I go to bed feeling like a WINNER.
Other days it seems as if I keep falling into the same damned hole.
But the secret to the marble maze of life is finesse,
a little bit of TILT,
and a willingness to fall down,
get back up,
and show Hole 15 that this aggression will not stand.
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In March of 2003, my family took the train from Denver to San Francisco during our sons’ spring break. Wildebeest was 9-years-old and Zebu was 7. As had millions of people around the world, we’d marched and demonstrated and written letters and called our representatives to say NO TO WAR ON IRAQ.
Didn’t matter. Bush said he wouldn’t shape his policy according to public opinion, even when it was the whole freaking planet screaming NO.
We were in a hotel when it was announced that the U.S. had begun dropping bombs. We were outraged and heartbroken. So were many, many people in San Francisco. The police were out in full riot gear, looking very nervous.
Over the next days, people chained themselves to manhole covers and blocked streets.
Protesters were everywhere. So were the cops.
That Bush-Cheney invasion, powered by lies and fear-mongering, made the oil companies and mercenaries much richer, while destroying the lives of millions of Iraqis.
Now it’s March of 2017, and people are saying they miss George W. Bush. Unbelievable. George W. Bush is a war criminal, plain and simple, and the repercussions of his crimes continue fourteen years after he wrongly invaded another country.
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I went out on the trails with Emma today. It was sunny and warm (probably about 80 degrees), there was substantial elevation gain, and we ran when we could.
Another pertinent fact? I didn’t bring water.
When we got off the trail and back on the street, we’d gone about 2.75 miles and Emma’s tongue was hanging out. We walked about 150 yards and then hit a patch of shade. She flopped onto her belly, legs splayed behind her, and panted. I let her stay down there while I stretched, and then got her going again. Several patches of shade later, she did the same thing. Belly flopped.
So I picked her up and carried her.
We passed some guy who asked, “Isn’t she supposed to be walking?” Nope. It was totally my bad. I overexerted my short-legged dog in the heat AND neglected to bring water. Two belly flops from her meant the rest of the way home was on me.
So I carried the 25-pound dog the last half-mile. For the record, she completely enjoyed the ride, looking around from her new vantage point.
She’s still a bit tuckered, though. While she rested, I dug my water pack out of the closet to use on our next outing.
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No snow in the near future, but there’s currently a FIRE WEATHER WATCH. That’s just freakin’ great, especially because someone keeps lighting fires in the open space that’s so close I can see it out my window.
Good thing climate change isn’t a real thing, or I’d be feeling really anxious.
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Please say that I’m done
no more cone of shame for me.
I won’t lick, promise.
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Today is the first day of March Madness which means basketball ALL DAY LONG. And I confess that I’ll watch these games ALL DAY LONG. However, I got up and got some stuff done before the tournament started. I did maintenance on my two worm bins (mite infestation YUCK) and worked on my writing project. But since then I’ve been parked in front of the television, switching between games (where there have already been two nail-biters, yo). In my defense, I am multi-tasking.
Here I am shredding newspaper for the worm bins. Not only does it relieve some guilt regarding the time I devote to watching men’s college basketball, it turns out that ripping paper into strips is a good way to let off steam when the team I’m rooting for is behind.
Shred on.
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A while back I blogged about discovering the perfect sign for the times. I went ahead and ordered two (in case one got stolen OR someone was keen to add a sign to their own yard).
The bright and welcoming little sign has been out front for a while.
Yesterday, as Zippy and I walked across the yard while heading out for Emma’s daily jaunt, he spotted something:
A scribble of thanks from another human being sharing the planet.
Every time I read those words, my heart swells with gratitude and a renewed sense of connection. Thank you, Helga M., for taking the time to reach out.
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I’m working on my new-old middle-grade project, one I partially drafted and then set aside for six years. It’s been a slow process as I reenter this manuscript, but not painfully so. It’s more of a satisfying slowness as I put down words that, at times, feel very close to being just right.
Image from pexels.com
Who knows? Those words may end up being absolutely wrong.
But right now it doesn’t matter. Right now I’m allowing myself to enjoy the slow, deliberate movement of this particular story’s metamorphosis.
That right there is progress.
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Look at a book. A book is the right size to be a book.
They’re solar-powered. If you drop them, they keep on being a book.
You can find your place in microseconds.
Books are really good at being books,
and no matter what happens,
books will survive.
~ Douglas Adams
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For Duke to lose the ACC Championship!
When do we want it?
Now!
Go Notre Dame!
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Kapok Park, October 2016
2 Common Moorhens
click to enlarge the photo
That’s much better, right?
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I spent a fair amount of time yesterday and today searching for character images. I’m writing about a girl and her little sister, and want to have touchstone photos I can refer to when I feel myself veering off track.
I love this photo, but it’s not quite right. There seems to be something off about each image I find. The expression is wrong or the hair is too long, too blonde, too short, too punk. Or the hair is perfect, but the eyes don’t speak to me and the body language is wrong.
I guess what I really need is a photo-based Mr. Potato Head.
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Photo by Zebu.
My day didn’t start out that way, but then one email put me in the Stabby bus driver’s seat, and now I’m reaching for pointy implements of destruction.
Best steer clear for a while.
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And it’s starting to feel as if those feathers will be in a permanent state of ruffle. It’d be awesome if we could drag all the cave people back to their caves, slide boulders in front of the entrances, and starve their mean-spirited carcasses to enlightenment.
A bird woman can dream, can’t she?
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There are many rhymes about magpies, but none of them is very reliable because they are not the ones that the magpies know themselves.
~ Terry Pratchett
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Sometimes no matter how hard I flap my wings, it feels as if I haven’t gotten anywhere.
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This fine photo provided by Kate Abell.
My brother showed us this cereal box the other night and we all had a good chortle. Laughing between the tears and rage.
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This one’s for Nancy:
These shoes are made for running,
that’s just what they did.
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Today I’m thankful for my new walking buddy who did such a good job with me just now. No twirling, snarling, lunging or barking in 2.11 miles of neighborhood walking that included four other dogs on leashes.
Yet another out of focus photo of Emma who’s always on the move.
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It is true that we are weak and sick and ugly and quarrelsome
but if that is all we ever were,
we would millenniums ago have disappeared from the face of the earth.
~ John Steinbeck
image from morguefile.com
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Curiosity killed the cat, but for a while I was a suspect.
~ Steven Wright
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Tracy Abell 