Manboy is off to the US in April to run Boston. What am I going to do?
I’ll catch up on blogs.
I’ll move into the living room to sleep with my boys.
I’ll finish some projects.
I’m publishing this to hold me accountable. Don’t grade too harshly.
After years of drought, we are back into our seasons: wet and dry. When it’s wet, I don’t often ride. I do, however, try to work on some type of bike.
Has it been two months?!
I think the rainy season gets me down. I am too mopey.
But today the sky is blue. I’ve mowed the lawn, read a book, thought about nothing and everything.
I’d like to think I’m like my cat, except I don’t use stink mowed-in socks for pillows. Oh, and I don’t lick my own ass.
The subtropics really have two seasons: wet and dry. The summers are wet. Or they should be. Australia was in a drought for so long that people forgot that the heavy rains are normal.
Today was one of those stormy days. I blew off what I was supposed to do since I had to ride my bike. Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. Manboy went off for a 50 km relay down in the Gold Coast. It was just me and my furry boys.
First, we had a mosh pet. Not pit. Pet.
Think of the fun I’d have had if only I had O.D.’ed on some Thai-hot curry:
During our love-in, I was able to capture Fabian’s favourite hobby: kitten knittin’. He loves to knit. Peppa loves the scritching. Omo and I just watch, but not in that weird and creepy way.
This is my first attempt at the Blog Hop in ages and the first ever with WordPress. It’s hardly and inspired post, but my mojo is soggy. Let’s see how this goes just linking back to the hosts:
This blog hop is hosted by Life With Dogs, Confessions of the Plume, and Two Little Cavaliers.
I came home from date night at Green Tea, where we snarfed down on salt-and-pepper tofu and crispy beef in Peking sauce, to find Omo banished from under the house by a growling Fabian.
Hm. I have a full belly. Let’s investigate. What could go wrong?
Fabian was nose deep into the guts of a possum (not opossum).
Cransh cronsh crunch munch.
Blergh.
I locked Fab under the house while I fed Omo. I wanted that snout fully blood-free before it came near me. I mean, Fab was dissecting the poor critter. You know those squeaky squirrel toys that you stuff into a plushy tree? It’s like that but with soft internal organs and a warm, gaping abdomen.
When Fabian appeared at the door, I saw that he brought the head and forearms to his outside bed.
With the dog tongs, I tossed the head and shoulders away. Fabian fetched it. Re-toss. Re-fetch. Re-blergh.
In the middle of the night, when the ghosts of small bladders wake their victims, I saw Fabian outside curled up with his new toy: semi-carcass.
Aw. Ew. Blergh.
As I left to get my bike from the kill room, I heard the crunch of leftovers:
See the pink tongue? Thank me later.
I ride the train everyday to and from work. On some days I cycle into the city and catch the train to Redbank; other days I walk a whopping 100 metres to the closest station and take the train in before transferring in the city.
In order to get to work by 7a, I have to get up early to get the train or trains. Earlier if I am to apply the oh-so-fine pedal power. Most of the people at work drive there. They have no understanding of why I take the train. They then tell me about how they never have time to read or do anything to de-stress themselves. Ah, but that’s why I ride the train. It takes a little longer, but once I’m on the train, I can read, knit, play Words with Friends, surf the net, and even practice the piano (oh, do I ever embrace the tablet/iPad trend).
There are downsides. Ironically, it’s the public part of public transportation. The public, a group of which I am a member. Sometimes I think that the best thing about the public is the giggling I do when someone forgets the L.
Sometimes the public is on its way home from working overnight and has an aura of pong, like the man right now over my right shoulder.
He is a bit ripe. And the seat I sat on was already warmed by someone who got off at the station I got on. My mind wanders: Did he fart, Does he have crabs, Can crabs crawl through the weave of fabric and infest my pink bits? To be honest, I know that all those before me are probably more like me than not; therefore, the seat is fine, just … mmmf … warm.
If the public isn’t riding on public transportation, then it’s jamming up the public streets. The way I see it is that the public is annoying. I can either tune the public out by reading, stitching, or writing, or I can be stuck in traffic and do nothing but seethe. Ah public lice. So itchy.
I am well entrenched in the public transportation life. That isn’t to say that I don’t enjoy a car ride, but if it’s for errands or to get me to work, I’d rather have someone else do the work. In walking distance (< 15 minutes by foot), I have my dentist, pharmacist, and doctor; three coffee shops (only one I like); Japanese, Thai, Indian, Chinese, and South American restaurants; a quickie mart that carries Ben and Jerry's, Dr Pepper, Pop Tarts; and a hot yoga studio to help me flush out the toxins I do so love to consume. A little further away, but do-able by bike and foot, are my karate dojo and hair salon.
I think the only thing I am missing is a dog groomers. The bitches that whelped my boys were snacking on the trashy kibble. My boys are gusdisting. That bony flapper with her delicate shoes and her delicate gold-leaf lead with diamonds on the hand strap walking her aloof greyhounds you see in art deco works? Yeah, 'snot us. No matter how green a dog park is, Omo will find the mud patch, and no matter how interesting other objects or smells are, Fabian will go wherever and do whatever Omo does.
And when it’s all done, they go Picasso on my legs with their muddy happy tails.
Now I look forward to rainy days with the dogs. We walk to the mud. We play in the mud. We walk to the dog bath. We get pretty again. We walk home all excited to be wet and cool.
I am lucky to live where I can do all of this on my own two feet. My fuel is food, and I’m a guzzler.
No dogs, but one pig:
Let there be cocktails:
Amaro Dolce
Pillow Talk
More Amaro.
Espresso martinis.
I love cocktails when they’re pretty and not focused on the alcohol.
Sigh.
We are off to Melbourne for my stepdaughter’s graduation. Someone must stay with my furry ball-less boys.
He does a little Stevie Wonder imitation at the end.
Whoa. Forgot about the Pet Blogger Hop. Egads. My mind is in a bucket.
