Pet Store revelations

1. Ferret poop is surprisingly large and stinky considering the size of the producer. Their CQ (cuteness quotient) took a real "nosedive" in my book.

2. Two rodents of any kind in a cage is cute. Thirty adorable "feeder" mice in a cage become VERMIN! It was like Willard, only with mice.

Overheard in a Pet Store:

Jerry Stiller look-a-like salesman to customer: "You can't go wrong with this snake!"

To Be or to Have a Snack: the Melancholy Swede

I have never had any kind of career path. It's been more like being lost in the woods and stumbling upon occasional wildflowers and fuzzy bunnies while trying to survive the gnats, ticks and swampy areas. Throw in a lots of monotonous cicada chirping, a few ominous rustlings in the brush and the occasional howling in the distance, and you've got my working life. More "Endurer" than "Survivor." I bumbled along for years, had a baby who is now five, and I'm back in the woods already. Enough with this metaphor. Let's just say, I haven't had a clue.

Suddenly, things changed! I know what should have been my destiny! I should have been a Swedish detective. Call me Wallander. I have been reading Henning Mankell's Wallender series and I don't want to come up for air. I let Comet watch a shameful amount of Scooby Doo yesterday so that I could brave the inhospitable Swedish weather with my alter-ego, Kurt Wallander, trying to figure out who brutally murdered the elderly farmers to steal 27,000 kronor in an old briefcase. I am the fortyish melancholy, sarcastic yet brilliant, extremely tired yet tireless detective. So what if I was born in the wrong place, I'm not a work of fiction and couldn't detect my way out of a paper bag? Dammit, I should have been a police detective. Never mind that I scare easily and say things like, "Oh, well..." and, "What are you gonna do?" in the face of challenging circumstances. In my heart, I am the Chief Inspector.

I remember, years ago, when I was bemoaning my lack of life direction, a nice guy said, "Well, think of the section you head for when you go to a bookstore. I always head for the computer section and now I'm working on my degree in computer engineering. Where do you go in a bookstore?" I replied, "Fiction." He thought a moment and said, "Maybe you could be a fictional character?" I could. I really could!

Out of the mouthes of dudes...

Comet: " Mom, what's a babe?"

MK: "A baby?"

Comet: "No, a babe is a girl and a boy is a dude."

MK: "Hmm. Who told you that?"

Comet: "Nobody. I told myself."

But there's more:

Comet (to school secretary giving us a tour of his new school): "My mom looks younger than she is because she lost a few pounds."

The award for "funniest couple living in obscurity" goes to

Gameguy and Misty Krystal! (Wild applause and some award show theme music)

You know how funny *I* am, so here's a joke Gameguy just made up:

What's Medusa's favorite cheese?

Gorgonzola!

Come on, it's funny! That two such wits could live under one roof. The odds are staggering!

A little more misty, a little less dotty

I've changed my template! Let me know what you think (that'd be Perfecto and GameGuy).

MK

The Heart of the Matter

So I just paid umpteen dollars for the "heart" of a watermelon. Because the thought of cutting up a watermelon or even separating the juicy part from the rind of a quarter of a watermelon causes me serious fatigue. It's kind of a pre-traumatic stress disorder. Of my housework aversions, which are many and various, cutting up produce makes me want to stick my head in the crisper drawer and bang it closed repeatedly. It's too much to ask of me. Really.

I grew up in a home where it was considered shameful to have someone come in and do housecleaning. How could anyone (i.e. any woman) be that lazy! How, indeed? I should also add that my family was not in a position to be hiring outsiders to do anything, period. Years passed, and I triumphed over the voices of the past as soon as I could afford a house cleaner. We have gladly paid people to clean for years now. Before I had cash flow, I just didn't clean. Almost completely the truth. So, considering my relationship with fresh produce, It's safe to say that I would probably pay people to do anything for me. If I'd pay the grocery store five times the price of uncut watermelon to chop a little chunk out of the middle and put in a plastic box for me, I've got to wonder what I wouldn't pay for. Give me unlimited income, and I'll have someone come in the morning to open my eyes and my mouth and pour coffee in the right opening. Good times.

P.S. Kudos to GameGuy for cutting up an entire watermelon into perfect pieces for Comet's school park get together yesterday! Without his good work, I probably would have dropped the watermelon on the sidewalk and let the kids have at it.

My tired is tired

As I walked up the front walk carrying tonight's pizza, I thought of lying face down on the grass, arms extended, holding the pizza box out in front of my tired little head. I did not lie down. I persevered. Now I am stuffed and tired.

I could blame 44 years of sloth for my current exhaustion, but I blame pilates. One class and I thought I'd have to ask for a bag to carry my pelvis home. This morning, I was suspiciously not sore. By 4 p.m., however, I felt like I climbed Mt. Everest to get to my pilates class. The old grey Mare, she ain't what she used to be.

I always thought of myself as hale and hardy. Now my personal ecosystem is so tenuous that last Thursday my whole day was ruined when I got water up my nose (swimming). Feeble, thy name is Misty.