Almostgotit.com

This is Jerry, the purebred Rhodesian Fridge-Snack.  Isn’t he precious?  Isn’t he as cute as  little button?

His Aunt Mary thinks so.  Aunt Mary is taking Jerry’s picture.  Smile, Jerry!

Jerry is so sweet, he just brought Aunt Mary his Wubby. 

Yes, that is too Wubby.  Well, that is Wubby the Second, but we don’t want to talk about that.

Oh, look.  How cute.  Jerry is giving Wubby a little kiss.

Jerry is kissing Wubby. 

That IS a kiss, isn’t it, Jerry?

Uh oh.  That’s not a kiss. 

Oh, don’t look, Mary. something primal is taking over.  Jerry is transforming. 

PLEASE don’t look, Mary.  It’s…. It’s…

It’s Mr. Gomez!  Jerry is no longer Jerry!  He has transformed into his evil alter ego,  Mister Gomez.

Oh, stop taking pictures, Mary.  Don’t look! 

MISTER GOMEZ IS KILLING WUBBY!

Please don’t look, Mary.  It’s too terrible. 

PLEASE don’t look, Mary!

Poor, POOR Wubby.  Bad, BAD Mr. Gomez!!

Aunt Mary has put away her camera.  Aunt Mary has packed her bags and left. 

It is time to get out the vacuum cleaner.

It is also time to go to Goodwill and buy another Wubby.

Inspired by friend David,  here are a few sentence fragments.  Can you finish one or all of them? (I wrote all but the last fragment, which I stole from James Viscosi’s book, Dragon Stones). 

Or can you come up with even better ones?

Humor counts.  I might even send you a prize.

but I preferred the cheese

bitter lettuce, but Gladys did

except for Michael Jackson

Amazon — anyone? 

whispered, “I saw them.”  

Click image at left to see video.  Worth it, I promise.

——————–

I was waiting for my son today in a small, crowded waiting room. 

Several people’s cell phones went off while I was there, team fight songs and choruses of The Who playing loudly for the rest of us to enjoy.

GOOD!! OLE!!! ROCKY TOP!! sang an orange purse,  as an older woman in an embroidered denim outfit fumbled to answer it.

The man who kept forgetting his paperwork at the window spoke softly into his RAZR about the weather and his love for the caller.  His beloved, however, had such a resonant bass voice that I’m sure he sings opera.

The lady in the denim outfit worked out some details for a dinner party before hanging up.

Finally, just as I was settling into the latest news about Brangelina, a blonde woman in a bright pink sweater answered her phone. 

“HELLO?  YES?  YES, I LEFT HIM A MESSAGE!  HA HA HA!” 

I pointedly put down my magazine and glared at her, but she didn’t notice. 

“WHAT?   I LEFT HIM A MESSAGE.  HA HA HA!!   ARE YOU A SCORPIO? 

Yes, as it happens, I *am* a Scorpio.

“I’ll TALK TO HIM.  I LEFT HIM A MESSAGE.  I KNOW!!! HA HA HA!”

The scorpion  leaned forward.  “Excuse me.  Could you please take that into the hall?” 

She glared at me. ”“Are you going to come and GET me if they call my name?”  

“No,” I said, suddenly abashed that an insensitive person would actually continue to be insensitive.   “Maybe, um, you should call them back later?” 

My face felt hot.  Clearly she wasn’t going to budge.  Everyone else in the waiting room was pointedly looking at their own magazines and feet.  My last chance.  “It’s just… really loud.” 

How lame. 

But who did I think I was, Captain Kirk?  Capable of changing an entire civilization with a single speech?   The woman continued her conversation just long enough afterwards to make the point that I didn’t have one.  A point, I mean.

However, when her phone rang again a few minutes later, she quietly turned it off, pointedly looking at her own magazine.

Thankfully, Susan Boyle seems to be recovering following her recent hospitalization for exhaustion.

Celebrity watchers remain deeply concerned about her, however, because of her new susceptibility to celebrity-born diseases.

Susan Boyle’s condition is known as Celebrity Exhaustion Syndrome (CES). While some medical experts question the validity of CES, most now agree that CES is a growing problem. The World Health Organization (WHO) recently announced that CES has now reached a phase 5 on the pandemic alert scale.

After doing extensive research on the subject myself, I found this informative educational video about CES that non-celebrities may find helpful.

While CES previously has been considered a disease only infecting the Famous, Susan Boyle is a clear example that it may cross over to the general population at any time. Fortunately, Celebrity Exhaustion Syndrome may be avoided by taking a few simple precautions:

• Do not appear in concert or on television. Ever.
• Avoid excessive success, following Almostgotit’s example instead.
• If possible, carry a small animal with you at all times. Paris Hilton developed an extreme resistance to CES by taking this very simple measure.

Remember: while the rest of us may suffer from ordinary depression, drug addiction, or psychotic episodes, Celebrity Exhaustion is far more serious.*

Sufferers from CES often require costly treatment at highly-specialized clinics located in the Malibu area. 

Because of her recent shopping spree, however, Susan Boyle may not be able to afford such care.

Almostgotit is asking for your help. Following the example of such humanitarians as Whitney, Bobby and Angelina, please give to the Celebrity Exhaustion Fund today, and please give generously.

————
* Important Note: Celebrity Exhaustion Syndrome, though far more serious than any ailment suffered by a non-celebrity, still carries no stigma whatsoever.

Image

Lemme tell you how kind and forgivin I’m fixin to be to all them gol dern folk who keep on makin them trash mouth, false accusations. 

And yessir, Dante, you kin bet I’m talkin to you too.

Here in Knoxville’s fancy little neighborhood called Chigger Woode, we share together a little ole vacant lot — er, a “private park,” that is.  Once a year er so, ezzactly ten percent of them what owns the park (addin up to 6 whole, intire bodies!) come on down hair to weed, trim, and mulch the whole dern place ourselfs. 

This year Clem brung along one of them fancy weed wotchamacallits to hepp us all out.  Afore we quite knew it, though, we done cut down a few too many of them weeds, and found ourselves lookin right at a neighbor feller’s terrible shy gee-rodge.

We been doin our best to patch thangs up with that poor, shy ole gee-rodge ever since. 

Thought we’d final done it, too, til a couple days ago, that ole gee-rodge’s owner feller got hisself so worked up he done sent out one of them emails to ever single other gal and feller in the whole intire neighborhood of Chigger Woode, answerin I guess to the friendly little newsletter thang what I myself had sent out just a wee bit previous.  

Them thangs he puts in quotations were took right out of my own mouth after I sent it, too.  

… with regard to what happened at the park “clean up”, I would not say that “all is well on that front.”  In all actuality, nothing has changed since that debacle.

I reckon what that poor ole gee-rodge really wants is money.  Buncha other gals done already offered several free of them real nice nandina bushes, a lot better than those ratty old weeds we took out even, but it look like only a full home ree-model plus a big ole trust fund is gonna make that gee-rodge happy.

. . . In addition to the destruction of our privacy, we … are now blinded by the light at the dance studio on Nexttochigger road every time we sit in our yard at night.

Sad thang is, though, I don’t have enough money for no full home ree-model, not for me nor any other feller in Chigger Woode, neither.

But I up and buyed us all thisun instead, hopin it might help smooth things over:

How bout that, sad ole mister gee-rodge?  Aren’t I demonstratin a great big helpin of right proper good sported-ness?

. . . Simple kindness and “good sportedness” will not reimburse my wife and I for the [many thousands of dollars] that we are having to spend … 

Land sakes, mister gee-rodge, but you is one tough cookie.  I guess I could find a few more pennies if I look under Pa’s whiskey jar, then least I could buy you thisun too:

Hugs and kisses,

Almostgotit

As my two readers know perfectly well, Almostgotit tends to get a little worked up about things.

Nor does it help that Dante, one of my weird medievalist friends, has been spreading heinous rumors about me:  namely, that I stole a fossil from a certain riverbed full of them, despite there being some sort of giant sign saying people shouldn’t. 

As if it would even be wrong to pocket the tiniest little disintegrating fossil that already had broken loose from the massive 200 ACRES of them and was therefore in imminent danger of being ground to dust under someone’s careless foot.

Nevertheless, no unemployed person in her right mind would ever allow the slightest crime of this sort to blemish her record.  Certainly I would never, and Dante’s claims are a total fabrication and utter rot, of course.  

Dante, however, is the sort who might even call it “stealing” if one were simply to borrow his phrase “Chigger Woode” at some time in the very near future.

~*~*~*~

Almostgotit spent the weekend with three professional medievalists.  These are the kind of people who not only are compelled to read all the little plaques at every historical site, but become truly apoplectic when they get inside an old church.  

And no one, including the tour guide, stands a chance if they spot a Latin inscription somewhere. 

Anyhoo–Plato, Dante, Aquinas and I went to the Abbey of Gethsemeni today (author Thomas Merton’s hood, yo). 

We went to see the Abbey’s church.  I was all “wow — 1960’s!” while the three weirdos were all   “wow –12th century Romanesque and Cistercian influences!”  

See what I mean?

You aren’t supposed to talk anywhere near the church, so I looked at things, instead.  There was a large dead beetle on the front stairs.  I have to admit I felt a certain kinship with it. 

Since I couldn’t talk, the voices in my head began to compose a little poem instead.  A Monastic chant, probably.   Dead beetle on the stairs to Gethsemeni, it began.

The Gethsemeni Farms’ gift shop was inexplicably closed for Memorial Day — as in, that time of year when everyone is travelling to visit places like Trappist Monasteries.  I can only assume the brothers have come into an enormous fortune, stimulus money probably,  and no longer need any customers. 

But that meant no bourbon fudge or Trappist cheese, either. Damitol.

As we were leaving, Plato spotted a bluebird.  They’re really rare, and none of us had ever actually seen one before.  Nor could any of us see this one either, except Plato. 

Bluebird on the wires to Gethsemeni. 

Plus also, the malfunctioning “tire pressure warning” light on Plato’s Toyota minivan was miraculously cured. 

I got two ticks.  And I try not to be a bitter person,  really I do.

Our Carolina wrens fledged in the garage this morning, and we spent the day dodging bumbling baby birds and their frantic parents.

It’s hard to take pictures of baby wrens… they are very small and would rather climb on things than pose for the camera.

It is ALSO hard to avoid Mom and Dad, who are small as well, but certainly have VERY BIG voices when they are dive-bombing invasive species such as myself.

The babies are about 3 inches long…

… and a little fuzzy still, too.

There are four of them.  Count the butts.

After a long day of flying, though, a bird gets hungry.  What to do? 

TELL MOM TO BRING PIZZA!

I can hardly have a blog about miserable failure and near misses without mentioning, eventually, The Really Terrible Orchestra, recently returned from their fabulous New York Tour.

Many, many thanks to Deb at A Little Tea or Something for telling me about them.

Enough is enough. Today I’ve made two big appointments, the first to go back to Weight Watchers after a 3 year hiatus, and the second to talk to someone about, let’s just say, an ALTERNATIVE to freelancing.

What to wear for today’s auspicious events? Badass Red, of course.

I wanted to bring red-somethings to everyone else at Weight Watchers, too, but had to settle for the only red rose (a totally tacky fake one, too) that they had at the gas station, and I gave that one to my dear friend (another writer!) who graciously agreed to come to WW WITH me.

The rolls of fat that have been accumulating around my keyboard were enough to motivate me to go to WW today, but I can’t say I was looking forward to it.

I pretty much expected it would feel like going to the dentist… you know, where it hurts and also makes you feel really, really guilty, e.g., … and why haven’t you been FLOSSING??!

Instead of guilty, I almost felt like I’d had a massage. Freal! The leader who once helped me lose boo coo poundage was still there, and she is 100% encouraging and — BONUS! — also wickedly funny.

Rather than feeling beat up for having fallen off the wagon, I left the room feeling deeply confirmed that it is *good* to love and take care of myself — not because I’m a BAD GIRL when I don’t, but because I’m already so marvelous (!!!) that I DESERVE IT!

You know what I did then? I went to the mall and bought my marvelous self a NEW TOP.