No pretense of any accuracy whatsoever

In the past three days, I have found myself trapped in one of the circles of hell not known by Dante: the supermarket check-out line. It is often a challenge to maintain one's sanity during this time of limbo while the individual currently cashing out insists loudly enough for everyone to hear that:
a) I've got the pennies in the bottom of the purse/pocket/tubesock used as changepurse, or
b) I swear that card was good yesterday, or
c) If you count the cookies, chips, nuts, and pop as one meal, then I do only have 12 items.

When silently chanting a shakra to the bovine-spirits to keep my various dairy products uncurdled and chilled, I glanced at the tabloid headlines. It seems that all the celebrities in the world have condensed into only three people: Jen, Brad, and Angelina. Their mugs were on the cover of every tabloid and magazine except for the tiny little books full of secret's never printed before or horoscope wisdom or names for your pet/child.

The stories coming out of Bradgeliniston this week centered on the sex of the child and the matrimonial plans:


























Maybe other news sources weren't duped by claims of successfully cloning humans. Is there a more rational explanation for the current checkout headline confusion?

Context Means Everything

If this is Saturday then that means I went went out for breakfast this morning. What is it about someone else cooking the eggs and bacon that makes this dynamic duo taste so much better than when I cook them myself? This food prep maxim holds no matter what the food item is prepped, even a bologna sandwich. Oh, stop rolling your eyes. A lot of people still eat bologna. And it always tastes better when someone else makes the sandwich.

Anyway, it seems to me that the enjoyment of meals eaten out is also influenced by whether or not you are considered a regular. The other morning at work, for example, I staggered down to the legal drug pusher, aka: the coffee stand, and with eyes still closed, managed to complete the entire transaction without ever speaking a word. My coffee was placed in front of me, prepared just the way I like it, and I had not even needed to be conscious. At some point, I had evolved from being "just another customer" to "a regular." When does this happen?

But I digress; let's get back to breakfast this morning. It was basic fare: eggs, bacon, hashbrowns, bread, and coffee, lots and lots of coffee. You know the routine: enter restaurant, find a table, order coffee, scan menu, drink coffee, order meal, drink coffee, eat meal, drink coffee, linger over coffee. I've gone through the routine hundreds (thousands?) of times and it was not until this very morning as the waitron was topping off my coffee cup yet again that I realized that being a good waitron is not very different from being a good stalker. The waitron this morning was always just out of earshot, hovering, circling back with the coffee pot before I realized my cup was nearing the bottom, timing each appearance perfectly. Outside of the eatery, these same behaviors could land the waitron in jail. In the eatery, however, it is a finely choreographed dance and breakfast is always better for it.

For excitement, just add water

I'm not sure what to file this under:
a) Lucky to have made it for this long before it happened
b) What were you thinking, you numbskull?
c) Say-la-vee (how do you spell that anyway?)

The event:
On the eve of new year's eve, I was finally off to bed after a long day of ... of ... well, that's not important right now. We need to focus on what comes next. I pulled back the covers on Big Swampy, that's the name of my waterbed (what, you don't name things in your house?), and was shocked to see water soaking into the sheets. This is never a good thing. What was really odd was that the water was coming from underneath the mattress. And the cats were acting very casual and cool. All of them. Hmmm...

After stripping the sheets and poking around, I found the tiniest of holes down along the side in the corner of the mattrress. Given the size of the hole and way the water was soaking into the sheets, it could have been made days earlier. The water was not spurting out like it did out of Mulder's bed in that X-Files episode with the time loop and the bank hold-up. If that were the case, I think the cats would have been less nonchalant and more chalant, don't you?

I've had the bed for about 10 years now and this is the first time the water has tried to escape the confines of the mattress. Having also owned cats for that long, do you see my confusion about trying to file this event? I'm not sure if I should be surprised that it happened or just surprised that it took so long to happen.

Well, none of the grrllzz has fessed up to being the culprit. And the whole paw posse got a free manicure ... uh ... pedicure ... er ... pawicure ... they got their nails clipped and still have rights to the bed.

The best recommendation given to me when I went running all over town to find a patch kit is to use tire patches for quad tires from the local 4-by-4 dealer. I believe the quote was: "Ain't nothing going to get through that patch." So why isn't the whole mattress made from that material?

What a way to start the new year

Scene: Dark; industrial section of urban metropolis; dark; deserted urban landscape; raining; did we mention that it is dark?

... and ... ACTION!!

Our heros are driving to the ferry terminal after a long day spent foraging for computer gagdets and digital media in the capitalist mecca known as The Mall. Neither is familiar with the area they are driving through. They have followed the signs from the freeway to their present location which is under huge concrete overpasses, support towers, warehouses and contains a hidden surprise. Neither is quite sure where the ferry terminal is and they are attentively searching for the next sign. There is no other traffic except for the car in front of them.

Suddenly there is a long LOUD horn coming from ... an indeterminable direction. It seems to be coming from all around them.

Lee: What the heck is that?
Tee: STOP!! It's a train!
L: Where?!?
T: Right there! Stop!
L: Where the f*&# are the tracks? Are we on them?

Appearing just ahead in the darkness is a huge, massive, moving shape, definable only because it is blocking out the lights on warehouses behind it as it moves across their field of vision. Yup, it's a train and it is passing within five (5, V, cinq, cinco, fünf) feet of the front of the car.

L: Are we on the tracks?
T: Holy cow! It's a train!
L: ARE WE ON THE TRACKS?!? curse curse filth filth CURSE! CURSE! CURSE!

The locomotive stops right in front of the car and reverses its direction. When it moves from in front of them, Tee suggests to Lee that it may now be safe to move ahead and get to the ferry terminal. Lee will have none of it and continues to curse.
.....

OK, maybe it's time to stop talking about this in the third person. It was terrifying. After further review, we think the train blew its horn at the car in front of us that had squirted over the tracks right in front of the engine. We never saw the train and we had no idea where the noise was coming from because it was echoing off of all the concrete.

On the heels of my previous blog about no stop signs in my town, this is a bit ironic, don't you think? There were no lights or signs or paint on the road indicating that tracks were anywhere near the road or that tracks would intersect with the road. We were paying attention to signs because we were looking for them! It's not like we missed any. The train had no lights on it at all and it's horn was useless even though it was very loud.

You can't tell me we were the first people to have run into (no pun intended) this situation. Heck, you can't even say that about the car that was right in front of us. This has had to have happened before. We were driving near the city's sports arenas, for pete's sake! Traffic happens here when thousands of cars leave the game.

I am parking my car and not venturing anywhere near the roads for a few days. Blogging is much safer.