I found teeth, gross.

This weekend’s project (my project, not Art’s) was for me to return our house to it’s rightful 4 bedroom and a cluttered office status that it once was, when we first moved in. Since my grandma’s death several years ago, 2 of the bedrooms have been completely impassable with boxes and boxes of….well, stuff. In sorting thru boxes I’ve come across some pretty interesting, and questionable items. Like, teeth. Well, partial teeth. And pantyhose (control top), matches, staples, a rose petal blessed by Jesus Himself (how do I know? it says so stamped on the back of the square of cardboard it’s laminated to), lipstick, corn pads, loose q-tips (none of them used thank gawd), a stapler (the 5th or 6th in her illicit collection; Grandma hoarded office supplies, tsk.), an enameled trout brooch, a Casio lithium battery watch (no band, that’s been cut off, just the watch part) that STILL RUNS after at least 7 years in a box (I’m not sure who to give props to, Casio or the battery-people). This is a mere sampling of what is in each and every single dingle box I open. And this is not the first round, I’ve been thru an entire carport full of boxes a year ago, this is what is left. It’s exhausting. Here, look;

(yes that’s a freckle on my hand, I have freckles. one is on my left hand. do with that what you will)

I’m not sure what I’m going to do with this. It works, really well. But I don’t do much adding and subtracting that needs a machine this big. But it came with it’s own dust-cover. Snazzy.

Tsk, this is just the tip of the illicit-office-supply-iceberg. Oh, the shame.

As heard from my husband

The setting: a hockey game at the San Jose Arena, the day before Thanksgiving
The set-up: during a tv intermission the Sharks were giving away the new ACDC cd to one row in one section of the arena.
The conversation went as thus:

Announcers: “One LUCKY ROW in ONE LUCKY SECTION will receive the NEW ACDC cd…..”

Me: “…and continue to live in the past!!!! Wooooo!!!!!…..ACDC!!! They so USED to rock!!!! Wooooo!!!”
AtH: “Hey, now, ACDC is cool”
Me: “Um, okay, kinda like Van Halen is cool, right?”
AtH: “Yeah, and don’t forget Pantera.”
Me: “…..um…..okay. I won’t”

I have called my husband “Stine” almost since I first met him, almost as much as I use his first name. Not anymore.

Now I shall call him “Pantera”. Or maybe “Dimebag Stine”.

Thank gawd he didn’t say Slayer or Black Sabbath. I’m not sure how I could work that into daily reference. Pantera is easy. 😉

Loves it……

Bond Bond Bond Bond Bond.

And this new one may very well be my new favorite. Of the new Bond films, that is.

I need it to rain for several days, so I can sit and watch Bond movies back to back. I love James Bond flicks, loves thems.

Come on. I named on of my dogs Q. Need I say more? And I just realized (just now), my old (and long since dead) dog Mecca’s AKC registered name was Moonraker. Coincidence? I think not.

Coincidence?? Yeah, pretty much.

I’m trying to read Infinite Jest by the New Year. It’s a rather large book, okay, it’s a damn brick of a book. Quoted in the forward as “1,079 pages and not one lazy sentence” I will attest that this is true. So, that being said (the part about not one lazy sentence) I will state that reading this book rides a fine line between work and pleasure. It’s certainly not a book that lends itself to sharing your attention span. The author has a penchant for details and lengthy footnotes. For these reasons I do not even think about attempting to bring this tome to work, or read bits and pieces whilst being a passenger in the car. Art likes to talk. David Foster Wallace demands full attention, not conducive to polite conversation with one’s husband. So, my point is, the book is on my nightstand waiting to captivate me for an hour or 4, which seems a shame and makes me feel a little guilty.

Which leads me to coincidence. The other night I was out in the barn office going through boxes. I found a box of cooking magazines that I packed up and moved from the house in Fremont. Being obsessive by nature, I am taking one or two at a time and scanning through them for interesting articles and recipes to try out on AtH. Today, I tore out 2 interesting articles, one of them being SEVEN PAGES LONG. An article, in a cooking magazine. SEVEN PAGES. This should have raised an eyebrow, but for some odd reason it did not. I read about dive restaurants in Arkansas, and the fact that some of the best food comes from some of the most ramshackle joints. Good read, made me want to roadtrip. Then, I started in on the seven pager. Lobster. Hmmm. I like lobster. Maine. I like Maine too. Wow, sure is a lot of detail to this article. Wow, sharp humor, wit and wicked observations. Holy crap, check out the size of that footnote…..heeyyyyyyyyy, wait a minute here……let’s just take a look. Yup. Consider the Lobster, by David Foster Wallace.

If you can find the essay, I highly recommend reading it. It’s an easier read than Infinite Jest. It’s not side-splitting, but rather entertaining (and educational, too), especially, I will assume, if you live in Maine.

So, I think I will be devoting a larger part of me to Mr. Wallace’s brick of a book this holiday weekend. I will consider this a polite poke in the subconscious by the late author and pay my respects as they are due.

It’s just one civilized step away from swiggin’ straight outta the bottle.

Ordering a drink ‘neat’ or ‘straight up’. Personally, unless I’m looking to just get trashed as fast as is humanly possible, I have no desire to drink anything straight. Will I/can I drink whiskey/rum/tequila/vodka/any given swill on it’s own? Yes, yes and yes. Do I prefer to? No. At the very least, I want it over ice. Mo bettah, mixed with something. Soda, juice, coffee, hell, anything. In my quest to Drink More Worry Less, I’m doing quite a bit of research on drinking terms that any self respecting alcoholic would know second nature. I’m learning a lot. I’m determined to have an addiction that I can resolve to break on New Years Day, dammit.