When A-Oh-Hell Freezes Over
...I still won't install that crap on my Mac. So I'm retyping my entry because I'm too lazy to burn it to disk, connect my iBook via FW to Lynn's PC, or otherwise sully My Precious with dirty, dirty things. I will wait for daddeh to wake up so I can beg him to use his cc to sign up for Fastermac access. But I digress.
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This is how it's always been,
This is how we do things in the country.
Hey y'alls! Been a while, eh? Well make yerselves at home, sit, and read a spell, my bizzotches. I promised myself I would write this before I stress about reading every single entry I missed and before I obsess over cataloguing everything that's happened since my last post. As I now live in Ye Lande of Die-Alluppe, it's not so difficult to resist the temptation. Yes, things are slower in the country. Even the flies fall prey to my slow, spastic Hand of Death. SPLAT! Punks.
I still wake up too early, don't get enough sleep. But instead of fielding polite requests to "get the fuck outta my way" on the subway, I'm bitched out by birds whose morning solitude I'm disturbing. I can deal with that. Hey, the garden isn't going to put on my clogs and water itself, mmkay? So why don't you just perch down and have a nice, steaming cup of STFU Mr. Cardinal McBitchface? Hrmph. Assholes are like opinions--everyone has one.
I have my own little section of earth in our garden. Per request, Lynn and Lucas will "let meeeee do it!". That is, they have agreed to let me screw it all up as I learn what a tomato looks like before it's picked green and sent to the gas chamber to "ripen". They have patiently borne my New Yorker attitude as I assert each day that "these dumb seeds you gave me are dead, nothing's happening yet"...mere hours after I've buried them. They cast nothing but knowing looks as I exclaim my outrage over "some biatch who's been eating MY sorrel!" But hey, I got to watch as my chcolate pepper plants nearly died from dehydration, then came back and produced their first tiny green fruit. Despite L&L's dire warnings, I saw my two basil plants put forth new leaves after I hacked them both down (to scent Daddy's pillow and bedroom before he got home from work). I could make some kind of parallel to 9/11 here, but it's too early to start projectile vomiting.
So. I'm learning to drive actual gasoline-fueled vehicular slaughtmachines. No, seriously. I am. Short trips at first, and daddy didn't even poo his cute GAP undies when we almost got plowed under while exiting Lynn's Driveway of Death (blind, blind, blind driveway...oy!). By some reptilian instinct, it seems I hit the gas and squealed tires out onto the roadway instead of hitting the brakes like Jeebus intended. And despite driving like a stoned tortoise with tardive dyskinesia, the New Yorker in me still absolutely MUST flip the double-bird at anyone who dares to honk in my general direction--for any reason. Farking bitch-ass redneck motherfarkers! No, screw YOU! I'm doing this thing called the "Speed Limit" and I'm not in the Speeding Lane, so why don't you just sit 'n' spin, Mr. Bubba? Um, sir.
Anyhow, there will be tons more to write later but I think it's time for Tyra. (No, I never watch The Tyra Banks Show whenever the satellite feels like working. Mainly because the satellite seldom feels like working.) I will ring the Operator in a couple of hours and ask her to connect me to the In-ter-net so I can post this. Praise Jeebus they at least have an Apple 'n' Fag Store in Richmond so my DOA logic board could be replaced (thanks again, Daddeh!). The shock of moving from Brooklyn to King William de Buttefuckerton was, alas, too much for my iBook to bear. This is literally the first thing I've done on the computer since getting it back from That Nice Man at the Genius Bar. I'm off to practice my banjo and make some more barbecued beef in the crockpot now.
If ya missed me, say heeeyyyy (ho-ooooo) because it may be a while afore I crank up the Victrola and play some more intarweb again. Love and kisses and potato knishes! And a special shout out to Little Bee-Jorn, whom I hear has missed me muchly. Right back atcha, meng!
---
This is how it's always been,
This is how we do things in the country.
Hey y'alls! Been a while, eh? Well make yerselves at home, sit, and read a spell, my bizzotches. I promised myself I would write this before I stress about reading every single entry I missed and before I obsess over cataloguing everything that's happened since my last post. As I now live in Ye Lande of Die-Alluppe, it's not so difficult to resist the temptation. Yes, things are slower in the country. Even the flies fall prey to my slow, spastic Hand of Death. SPLAT! Punks.
I still wake up too early, don't get enough sleep. But instead of fielding polite requests to "get the fuck outta my way" on the subway, I'm bitched out by birds whose morning solitude I'm disturbing. I can deal with that. Hey, the garden isn't going to put on my clogs and water itself, mmkay? So why don't you just perch down and have a nice, steaming cup of STFU Mr. Cardinal McBitchface? Hrmph. Assholes are like opinions--everyone has one.
I have my own little section of earth in our garden. Per request, Lynn and Lucas will "let meeeee do it!". That is, they have agreed to let me screw it all up as I learn what a tomato looks like before it's picked green and sent to the gas chamber to "ripen". They have patiently borne my New Yorker attitude as I assert each day that "these dumb seeds you gave me are dead, nothing's happening yet"...mere hours after I've buried them. They cast nothing but knowing looks as I exclaim my outrage over "some biatch who's been eating MY sorrel!" But hey, I got to watch as my chcolate pepper plants nearly died from dehydration, then came back and produced their first tiny green fruit. Despite L&L's dire warnings, I saw my two basil plants put forth new leaves after I hacked them both down (to scent Daddy's pillow and bedroom before he got home from work). I could make some kind of parallel to 9/11 here, but it's too early to start projectile vomiting.
So. I'm learning to drive actual gasoline-fueled vehicular slaughtmachines. No, seriously. I am. Short trips at first, and daddy didn't even poo his cute GAP undies when we almost got plowed under while exiting Lynn's Driveway of Death (blind, blind, blind driveway...oy!). By some reptilian instinct, it seems I hit the gas and squealed tires out onto the roadway instead of hitting the brakes like Jeebus intended. And despite driving like a stoned tortoise with tardive dyskinesia, the New Yorker in me still absolutely MUST flip the double-bird at anyone who dares to honk in my general direction--for any reason. Farking bitch-ass redneck motherfarkers! No, screw YOU! I'm doing this thing called the "Speed Limit" and I'm not in the Speeding Lane, so why don't you just sit 'n' spin, Mr. Bubba? Um, sir.
Anyhow, there will be tons more to write later but I think it's time for Tyra. (No, I never watch The Tyra Banks Show whenever the satellite feels like working. Mainly because the satellite seldom feels like working.) I will ring the Operator in a couple of hours and ask her to connect me to the In-ter-net so I can post this. Praise Jeebus they at least have an Apple 'n' Fag Store in Richmond so my DOA logic board could be replaced (thanks again, Daddeh!). The shock of moving from Brooklyn to King William de Buttefuckerton was, alas, too much for my iBook to bear. This is literally the first thing I've done on the computer since getting it back from That Nice Man at the Genius Bar. I'm off to practice my banjo and make some more barbecued beef in the crockpot now.
If ya missed me, say heeeyyyy (ho-ooooo) because it may be a while afore I crank up the Victrola and play some more intarweb again. Love and kisses and potato knishes! And a special shout out to Little Bee-Jorn, whom I hear has missed me muchly. Right back atcha, meng!