Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Some Things

Just some things one thinks about at 12:48 AM

Pheonix's contributions: I am very proud of my hunter boy. I appreciate him contributing to household expenses by catching and eating mice. But which is worse: a steaming pile of bloody mouse guts (and often other less delectable parts, usually feet and/or tail ) or a mouse hiding, out of sight but not sound, gnawing and chewing incessantly and loudly, and leaving little turds hither and yon in one's abode? Cat food bill (gladly paid), or valiant killer? Is the latter an oxymoron? Is the whole dilemma an oxymoron??

Fridge lights: I'm sure I am far from the first person to ask this question, but I still seek the answer- Why does my my fridge have a light while my freezer does not? A conspiracy, I'm sure.

Walking (jumping out of bed), refined ankle story: Ah, a two parter. I woke up to the dogs barking as if the hounds of hell were at our doorstep. Peering sleepily ( and perhaps a bit disgrunteledly ) out my window I saw a woman taking pictures of our house, from her car, in our driveway. I leaped out of bed to defend my territory, completely forgetting that I had a broken leg and ankle. Le ouch. (And oh boy is THAT another story)

Part dos ( I wanted to type duex, or however the french spell "2", but I am taking spanish now and must remember that "je suis" is now "yo soy") anyway! Part dos: My new "how I broke my leg" story is this: There were bobcat kittens in a den halfway up an avalanching and fire lit cliff, mewling in terror, their mother crumpled in singed death at the bottom, and I had to climb up and save them. It was all happily ever after except for the part where I lost my footing and slid into a rock crevasse, the meaty splintering snapping crunch of my bones breaking echoing through the valley. The kittens were fostered and counseling was available for them. I am currently gimp hopping away from my crutches a few minutes at a time.

Sleep paralysis: It is a real, physical, medically acknowledged phenomenon. It could happen to you!!! I hope it doesn't though. You wake up- or think you do, anyway. Your dark room looks exactly as it should. But something is wrong. Not the fact that you cant move; your arms are tied down in straps of lead weighted molasses, yes, but far worse is the sense of a presence. It may be perched on the foot of your bed, or it may be whispering by your head. You try with all your might to reach for the light, dispenser of boogie monsters, but you can't, and you hear voices whispering.

"She can't!" "She can!" "She can't!" "She can!" They whisper but it is loud and scratchy.

You finally CAN, turn on the light at least.

The next time, you just hear just one throaty whisper in the blackness. "Don't tell her."

When you think you're reaching for the light that is inexplicably yanked from your grasping fingers, you feel something close around your throat and you scream- a real scream, that jerks you awake and finally frees you completely to grasp for the light that has not actually gone anywhere ( during that second you are talking out loud, self reassurances, like a nervous whistling Ichabod Crane) and then there is false sunlight, beautiful human made light, killing the darkness, and you put the wall to your back and face the room.

Haha, silly girl, you think. But you leave the light on until the sun breaches the horizon.

Anyway, I think parenthesis are the great crutch of literature (or maybe just my crutch, haha, see how I exploit them?).

As George W. Bush said, "I don't mind a little self defecating humor". He really did; I heard it. On NPR. And you know they swore to "treat evil people and republicans equally". So I will continue to exploit parenthesis, to swap "bien" with "bueno", to answer the call of my bleeding heart syndrome and hop along gimpily, and, hopefully, create a cure for sleep paralysis.

It will be the best thing since sliced bread. Which, by the by, I have been doing. Slicing my own bread, that is. But it is worth it, 'cause it's a sesame french roll and it makes for some dang good sandwiches. I didn't make the bread. But I would have if it wasn't $1.60 at wally world.

You know it's bad when houses for sale use " only 8 miles from costco" as a feature. But like my wallmart reference, it happens, despite the despicableness. I saw it on the 'net, so it must be true. I cannot believe I just jokingly compared the 'net to NPR. Revoke my literacy license (I have one, I can tell the difference between "their, there, and they're").

Yo soy... tired now. I think that's plenty of stuff.
Love to all, sleep good (ignoring the ideas about all the mites in a person's bed).

1 comment:

Kev said...

As far as the delectable entrails of mice left, most kindly, by your cat for your benefit - it's the thought that counts.

I guess it's the best they can do and as they see it, they've left you the best bits. Who could turn down mice tails after all?