Weekend accomplishments
It looks like we're going to get Tropical Storm Francine--possibly cat 1 Hurricane Francine--on Wednesday. That's not enough to warrant leaving; we don't have to worry about storm surge where we are (it's why the 'rents moved to this side of Abbeville after Hurricane Ike), and the generator was just serviced, so we'll stay put. The only mild concern is a couple of our trees have some branches that are very close to the house; we've been trying to get them trimmed for weeks and Mom has someone that's going to come out, but it hasn't stopped raining long enough. They need to bring heavy equipment on the front lawn to do it, and it's been a swamp all month. But nothing to do about it but roll down the storm shutters and hope for the best.
Our next door neighbors growing up had a daughter named Francine. She was my age so you'd think we would have been friends, but her family was conservative Catholics and she was a twerp. Our parents had a long-running beef over typical dumb suburban stuff, like their dad--who always seemed like the kind of tightly wound freak who might murder his entire family or shoot up the neighborhood--once poisoned a plant that was growing entirely on our lawn but leaned over the property line. Real white Boomer shit. So our parents didn't want us to be friends anyway; I'm sure that once I became goth they thought I was a Satanist or something.
Saturday I went to Michael's for some X-Acto knife blades. All the Halloween stuff was on sale, so I got some stickers and a craft paper pad. I wasn't on the right side of Lafayette for the carwash and it was raining again anyway, so I just went to Rouse's, then went home. I'm still on my THC tolerance break, so after rummaging through the pantry and finding a can of pineapple juice and one of coconut cream, I got my bottle of Tito's out of the freezer, where it's been untouched for at least 6 months, and shook myself up a mason jar of tropical booze. Those marble ice cubes are great in cocktail shakers. I vacuumed the rugs while I drank it, because I am a Type A boozehound. (Okay I don't really think I drink enough to qualify as a boozehound, I just think that word is funny).
David made a baked potato bar for supper; russet potatoes are so insanely huge nowadays that when he gets the craving for baked potatoes it's all we have. He'll fry up a bunch of bacon, grate some cheese, and set out sour cream, butter, and green onions and everyone dresses their own. I streamed a couple of episodes of Homicide and did some collage work, then read. I'm still slogging my way through The Abominable; at 660 pages it's actually on the short side for a Dan Simmons novel. It took a third of the book before they even left for the Himalayas, and there still hasn't been any appearance of yetis other then the Sherpas and Buddhist monks being like "yo watch out for the yetis".
I will give Simmons this: he is extraordinarily adept at making you feel physical discomfort. Obviously climbing Everest (especially in 1925, when the novel takes place) is all about freezing cold temperatures, altitude sickness, and physical danger. The Terror was set in the north polar wastes in the 1840s, so also freezing cold; plus scurvy, lead poisoning, starvation, and insanity. Drood's POV character (the real life novelist Wilkie Collins) was an opium addict who undergoes a period of intense physical pain, either because he's cursed or because he's losing his mind. Carrion Comfort is about powerful psychics who can make other people do whatever they want, including hurt themselves or others. Dude packs in more winces per page than any other writer I've ever read, and I read a lot of horror.
Sunday started with another giant argument, because the dog pooped on the 'rents bedroom floor again. It's been raining all week and Penny refuses to poop in the rain, so she keeps doing it at night, then they do a totally half-assed job of cleaning it up. Their bedroom carpet is fucking disgusting, but I refuse to scrub dog shit out of their carpet. David and I fucking told them not to get another dog after Hank died, they're too old to take care of one. Not only did they ignore that, they came home with the one breed that is notorious for being unable to train out of shitting in the house. Like even people who love chihuahuas are like yeah, there might be weeks or months between accidents, but they will basically never stop doing it entirely. It's not their fault; small dogs feel the most vulnerable when they're going to the bathroom, so if there's anything that makes them nervous--bad weather, another dog in the neighborhood barking, neighbors outside of their houses doing any innocent thing, uncut grass tickling their butt--they won't go.
I am not too proud for "I told you so" and every time Penny craps in the house I'm just like I TOLD YOU NOT TO GET ANOTHER DOG. After several rounds of screaming, I took Mom's debit card and bought one of those small Bissell carpet steam cleaners. I had been planning on getting one of those anyway, but I was going to wait and see if it went on sale for Prime Days. But their bedroom carpet is vile. And hey, it turned out to be on sale anyway, $99 when it's usually about $125. I'll use it--seems less nasty than trying to scrub poop out of the carpet by hand--but I'm not fucking paying for it.
I made waffle breakfast sandwiches, changed and washed the bed sheets, did a load of clothes, made malted mocha bars, did some dinner prep, made another mason jar of pineapple coconut vodka, took Penny outside about 20 times trying to get her to poop (no dice), and read more of The Abominable. Supper was General Tso's chicken salad in lettuce wraps and cream cheese wontons. After supper, more Homicide and collaging.
Biblically accurate angels
I may change the lime slice to something else, but I couldn't really find anything that quite fit.
Our next door neighbors growing up had a daughter named Francine. She was my age so you'd think we would have been friends, but her family was conservative Catholics and she was a twerp. Our parents had a long-running beef over typical dumb suburban stuff, like their dad--who always seemed like the kind of tightly wound freak who might murder his entire family or shoot up the neighborhood--once poisoned a plant that was growing entirely on our lawn but leaned over the property line. Real white Boomer shit. So our parents didn't want us to be friends anyway; I'm sure that once I became goth they thought I was a Satanist or something.
Saturday I went to Michael's for some X-Acto knife blades. All the Halloween stuff was on sale, so I got some stickers and a craft paper pad. I wasn't on the right side of Lafayette for the carwash and it was raining again anyway, so I just went to Rouse's, then went home. I'm still on my THC tolerance break, so after rummaging through the pantry and finding a can of pineapple juice and one of coconut cream, I got my bottle of Tito's out of the freezer, where it's been untouched for at least 6 months, and shook myself up a mason jar of tropical booze. Those marble ice cubes are great in cocktail shakers. I vacuumed the rugs while I drank it, because I am a Type A boozehound. (Okay I don't really think I drink enough to qualify as a boozehound, I just think that word is funny).
David made a baked potato bar for supper; russet potatoes are so insanely huge nowadays that when he gets the craving for baked potatoes it's all we have. He'll fry up a bunch of bacon, grate some cheese, and set out sour cream, butter, and green onions and everyone dresses their own. I streamed a couple of episodes of Homicide and did some collage work, then read. I'm still slogging my way through The Abominable; at 660 pages it's actually on the short side for a Dan Simmons novel. It took a third of the book before they even left for the Himalayas, and there still hasn't been any appearance of yetis other then the Sherpas and Buddhist monks being like "yo watch out for the yetis".
I will give Simmons this: he is extraordinarily adept at making you feel physical discomfort. Obviously climbing Everest (especially in 1925, when the novel takes place) is all about freezing cold temperatures, altitude sickness, and physical danger. The Terror was set in the north polar wastes in the 1840s, so also freezing cold; plus scurvy, lead poisoning, starvation, and insanity. Drood's POV character (the real life novelist Wilkie Collins) was an opium addict who undergoes a period of intense physical pain, either because he's cursed or because he's losing his mind. Carrion Comfort is about powerful psychics who can make other people do whatever they want, including hurt themselves or others. Dude packs in more winces per page than any other writer I've ever read, and I read a lot of horror.
Sunday started with another giant argument, because the dog pooped on the 'rents bedroom floor again. It's been raining all week and Penny refuses to poop in the rain, so she keeps doing it at night, then they do a totally half-assed job of cleaning it up. Their bedroom carpet is fucking disgusting, but I refuse to scrub dog shit out of their carpet. David and I fucking told them not to get another dog after Hank died, they're too old to take care of one. Not only did they ignore that, they came home with the one breed that is notorious for being unable to train out of shitting in the house. Like even people who love chihuahuas are like yeah, there might be weeks or months between accidents, but they will basically never stop doing it entirely. It's not their fault; small dogs feel the most vulnerable when they're going to the bathroom, so if there's anything that makes them nervous--bad weather, another dog in the neighborhood barking, neighbors outside of their houses doing any innocent thing, uncut grass tickling their butt--they won't go.
I am not too proud for "I told you so" and every time Penny craps in the house I'm just like I TOLD YOU NOT TO GET ANOTHER DOG. After several rounds of screaming, I took Mom's debit card and bought one of those small Bissell carpet steam cleaners. I had been planning on getting one of those anyway, but I was going to wait and see if it went on sale for Prime Days. But their bedroom carpet is vile. And hey, it turned out to be on sale anyway, $99 when it's usually about $125. I'll use it--seems less nasty than trying to scrub poop out of the carpet by hand--but I'm not fucking paying for it.
I made waffle breakfast sandwiches, changed and washed the bed sheets, did a load of clothes, made malted mocha bars, did some dinner prep, made another mason jar of pineapple coconut vodka, took Penny outside about 20 times trying to get her to poop (no dice), and read more of The Abominable. Supper was General Tso's chicken salad in lettuce wraps and cream cheese wontons. After supper, more Homicide and collaging.
Biblically accurate angels
I may change the lime slice to something else, but I couldn't really find anything that quite fit.