So I Must Remain In My New Adopted Land
Odd mood today.
I spent the morning at the laundromat, pondering deep thoughts as Pumba screamed at me in endless circles from the torture of the drier. Or rather, I wish they'd been deep thoughts. Mostly I kept turning up my music until it probably did damage to my hearing because anything was better than Barney and his brainwashed cronies singing about how to cross the street. I also read a bit more of Eats, Shoots and Leaves. It's made me punctuation paranoid.
Now, while banana bread bakes, I am again slowly turning up the music because above me some workman or other is blasting something Hispanic. From here - forgive me fans of the genre - it sounds like circus music. All I can hear is weighty brass and faintly above it the occasional thinner cries of less robust instruments. Oompa oopma oompa bababababa oompa oompa oompa. Only now it has abruptly turned into a crooner professing undying love for his chica. (I presume. Not only has it been too many years since Spanish class, it's also unintelligible through my ceiling.)
There are dying ants all over my counter, genocide in miniature. Part of me always feels badly when it comes to this. But they did not belong in my kitchen slowly taking over the countertop and menacing the cat with starvation as they swarmed his food dish. (Not really. He just ate the ants, too. Protein! But... ew.)
I spent the morning at the laundromat, pondering deep thoughts as Pumba screamed at me in endless circles from the torture of the drier. Or rather, I wish they'd been deep thoughts. Mostly I kept turning up my music until it probably did damage to my hearing because anything was better than Barney and his brainwashed cronies singing about how to cross the street. I also read a bit more of Eats, Shoots and Leaves. It's made me punctuation paranoid.
Now, while banana bread bakes, I am again slowly turning up the music because above me some workman or other is blasting something Hispanic. From here - forgive me fans of the genre - it sounds like circus music. All I can hear is weighty brass and faintly above it the occasional thinner cries of less robust instruments. Oompa oopma oompa bababababa oompa oompa oompa. Only now it has abruptly turned into a crooner professing undying love for his chica. (I presume. Not only has it been too many years since Spanish class, it's also unintelligible through my ceiling.)
There are dying ants all over my counter, genocide in miniature. Part of me always feels badly when it comes to this. But they did not belong in my kitchen slowly taking over the countertop and menacing the cat with starvation as they swarmed his food dish. (Not really. He just ate the ants, too. Protein! But... ew.)