So, where were we?

I feel like Rip van Wrinkle, newly awakened after a million years sleepwalking. But then time has no meaning except for that which we give it, and pastpresentfuture are actually just waypoints on the selfsame continuum. But then again, as the old song goes, “today is only yesterday’s tomo-o-row”. So between that and the black holes, these 7 months of silence were actually the gestatory pause for another round of codswallop. Are we ready?!?

So as you were saying, sentimental. Again, we have a prime example of how we each interpret things differently, on account of past life experiences, DNA hardcoding, childhood conditioning, Webster’s definitive definitions and last night’s second helping of chocolate mud cake.

Sentimental, to me, is the equivalent of a lifetime supply of Kleenex; I consume 20 cartons a week watching reruns of bad movies on TV, watching the news, watching Animal Planet and Discovery channel and National Geographic. All of it makes me weep. Blocked sinuses? Watch TV. Clears ‘em like magic.

Sentimental is saving all the giftwrapping and all those little cards with precious little messages till you need another chest of drawers to house them. Of course, you recycle some of that giftwrap, but mostly it sits there and chokes up the chi, which as we all know, is just bad feng shui.

Sentimental is never having thrown out a single letter, postcard or telegram (yes, remember those?!?) you ever received, and storing them in shoeboxes till the silverfish demolish them for you because you couldn’t bear to throw them out. Each time I’ve attacked the odd shoebox and tossed out stuff from people I lost touch with in kindergarten, I’ve gone into a decline, so now I just leave those shoeboxes alone.

I’m not even going into that old-photographs-in-shoeboxes place…where once you get started trying to abortively “sort” them, you will get sucked in for the next 3 weeks riffling through them and believe me, you will emerge with as many photos in as many shoeboxes, in as much of a mess.

Sentimental is also mawkish, a word I have always loved. And when you love a word, you become that word. No shame in that. I am mawkish, sappy, slushy, mushy, maudlin, corny, schmaltzy and weepy. It keeps the lachrymals clear, and as you bob along on the ocean of emotions, you realize it’s good to have them. The alternative is an arid and barren landscape where we would shrivel up and die, because we're 80% water and dehydration kills. Vive la schmaltz!

Circadian Cacophony

Since I’ve exhausted my entire stock of bedside stories and caffeine tales on various other bloGGz, I choose not to repeat myself here; repetition is a tiresome habit, and just proves what we all know anyway… so I have nothing more to say on either subject tillfurthernotice. Blingblong.

Other than that, I must confess I just woke up, and it’ll be at least an hour before I’m anywhere NEAR fit for human consumption. So the blank screen in front of me abegging abloGG remains stubbornly blank; it inspires nothing and causes not the singlest, minutest nugget of native wisdom to burst forth.

So do excuse me for the moment; I’ll be back in an hour, lest I say something I shall probably regret. (For instance, the fact that I’m homicidal around people who wake up bright and chirpy in the morning, full of beanz and wreathed in smiles. Shudder.)

Personally, I’m totally incapable of any form of politeness when I wake up, never mind bubbly conversation. Ughhh. For the simple reason that it takes me a fair while to gather my scattered wits and propel myself reluctantly into the day. As you may have surmised by now, I am NOT a morning person.

So I cannot comprehend how this cheery bunch of morning stars (as in 98.5% of the global population) can twitter their way through the morn (mourn?) like an irritating exaltation of larks. Unfortunately, I have lived with some of these twittery types, and they’re just lucky they’re all still alive.

I suppose I’m more a conspiracyofravens or a murderofcrows type myself. (mutter mutter growl…). Some mornings it's all I can do to stop myself snarling and launching myself at their throats, seduced by the thought of an earlymorningbloodbath (oooh yummm!) and the blessed silence to follow.

No such luck...grrrrr!!! A surfeit of cheery morning gabble later, they go and do the BREAKFAST thing. Surely our innards were not engineered for that kind of abuse so early in the day?? I don’t even want to watch this…

So back to getting my head together, which takes anywhere between an hour and three. By which time everyone else is doing lunch, or having their mid-afternoon coffee break. So we’re never on the same page. You know what that can do to conversations. Relationships. Potted plants. Goldfish. Cabbages.

Which brings me to this long standing debate I’ve had countless times with countless people. They all follow the same logic and reasoning (or complete lack thereof):

Them: “How can you LIVE like this? It’s against the Laws of Nature, even the tides follow the moon, day follows night, people sleep at night and wake up in the morning, if you’re not in harmony with nature then you can’t be in harmony with your life.”

Me: “I’ve lived like this for a long time, and I’m still around, so apparently it works for me. I’m not looking to convert you, but I don’t find I’m out of whack, and thanks for your concern. Re. harmony, it doesn't really matter, I don't sing.” Ha!

Them: “But people need the sun, you need to wake up early and sleep when it’s dark, not the other way around. You’re weird.”

Me: “There are exceptions in nature too, like owls and bats. I’m probably one of those exceptions, my circadian rhythm is set that way.”

Them: “Your WHAT?!?”

Me: “My internal biological clock. You have one too, and it’s set to your rhythm. I dropped mine on its head a couple of time so it’s off whack, but I wouldn’t let that worry you too much.”

Them: “Hah. So what do you DO all night??”

Me: “Exactly what you do during the day...work, read, listen to music… nobody calls you on the phone, nobody rings the bell or visits...my favourite time of day (night?). You ought to try it sometime, just to see what it’s like. And often I’m still awake in time to catch the sunrise. So I get my chlorophyll in 3-point harmony haha.” Sheesh.

Did you know the circadian rhythm of humans closely matches that of the drosophila, or fruit fly? Mine closely matches bats and owls, which explains a lot. I mean, bats EAT fruit flies!!! bzz bzz.

Hammy the Hamster…R.I.P.

Early this morning, I had a call from my littlest friend, A., the 8-year old daughter of a buddy of mine. She wanted to tell me herself, that Hammy had died. His tiny body was still warm, so it must have happened just as the household was waking up.

Oh no.

A. is a solemn little thing, and Hammy was her first pet. She’d inherited him from a friend who relocated; he was about a year old when she got him.

A hamster’s lifespan is only 3 years.
A lot of kids have hamsters.
Losing a pet is never easy.

That she even thought to call me and tell me, because she know how much I loved Hammy too, blew me away. Kids will do that to you.

“I’m so sorry about Hammy, sweetheart…have you talked to Mum about where you want to put him?”

“I think we have to bury him,” she said.

She handled it very well, over the phone. Her Mum had done a good job of preparing her. Before they went away for the summer holidays, little A. already knew Hammy might not be around when they got back. “Knew” in the academic sense, of course. To everyone’s delight, he was still there when the family returned home after the holidays.

And in fact, he made it through two more months, and was fine until last night. I’m sure he went quietly; he had been showing signs of slowing down for some while…fur loss, sleeping longer, not so active any more. And he was nearly 3 years old, so yes, we were all expecting it.

Her Mum told me later that A. didn’t want to bury him…”She’s still not quite accepted that he’s gone, and I’m letting her handle it her own way. The cage is still there, and she said, ‘Can we just pretend he’s gone to stay with someone else for awhile?’ ”

Hammy was the first hamster I ever met, and got to know up close and personal. I’d never seen one before, and I fell completely in love with him. Tiny, waffle-nosed little thing, with bright beady eyes and the softest fur. I’d seen pictures of hamsters, but never realized how tiny they really are. None of the pictures were half as cute as Hammy.

He never used his exercise wheel, but he loved rolling across the floor in his exercise ball, and it was fun watching him. A. was always very gentle with him, and made sure when her friends were visiting that Hammy wasn’t treated roughly or over-handled.

I always wondered how such tiny, defenseless little balls of fur could possibly survive in the wild.

I’m convinced he recognized me because whenever I’d visit, I’d invariably check him out before saying “hi” to anyone else. He’d mostly be asleep, but would usually wake up when I tickled him, and come to the door of his cage so I could take him out. Sometimes he’d wake up grouchy and gently nip my finger, letting me know he didn’t want to be handled right then.

I’m glad I saw him just 2 days ago. He did wake up that day, and I did hold him for awhile, and made a big fuss over him. And now he’s gone. Full stop.

Death is that final; as adults, we know this. For a child, it’s an unknown quantity… till it happens to a pet. I’m sure A. will have a lot of questions for her Mum, as the days wear on; kids will ask those questions. What happens when you die, Mum? Does it hurt? Where do you go after here? What is it like over there? Will you and Dad go there too? Are there children there too? Will I see Hammy when I go there?

For today, she told her Mum, “Please help me to forget?” and “I know the fish died too, but this is different.” Already, she knows it’s different.

Contrapunto!

I hum bad, and I sing worse. But tell you what, I'll bang on some pots and pans real loud, so you hear it. Sent you birthday greets via telepathy, hope you received them.

As to the big four-oh, I have no comments on that at all. I do remember it vaguely, but it didn't leave a dent. So if life does begin then, I must have missed the ferry. Will catch you on the warp soon, I must vanish for awhile...have a frabjous day!!!

Crusty is bread, all else is relative

Oh byte me! Did you just announce a jee-had?!? A holey war!!! So
be it! I have my sword at the ready, that I may run upon it when the hour is upon me. Or I am upon the hour, whichever comes first. Honour, as they say, is all…and it is holey as heck!

Meanwhile, I should like to try and steer this exchange down quasi-literary, rather than quasi-literal, paths; holey seemed a brilliant place to start.

Which brings me straight to sword-running, a phenomenon that has held a dreadfully ghoulishsqueamishfascination for me since my schooldays, now so far in the past that even laser vision couldn’t bring them into sharp focus. Even so, I have never forgotten my inspired lit. teacher, who forced us to memorize our texts. All of them. As a result, I can still quote vast tracts of Macbeth and Julius Caesar, delivered with all five eyes closed, standing on my head. How useful!!! Here’s a small but relevant sample:

“Thou art a fellow of a good respect;
Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it.
Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face,
While I do run upon it.”

Neat, huh?

The Romans, it seems, would run upon their swords at the drop of a chapeau, including good old et tu Brute. Strato, his favoured minion, was ordered to hold it (the SWORD, the SWORD!), so Brutus could “run upon it,” impaling himself on the tip and presumably sliding down along the blade, guts spilling and an angry crimson flood spreading at his feet…not a pretty death, but…honourable.

The Samurais of Japan have a similar fascination for abdominal reconfiguration, except they prefer not to ask for favours and would rather plunge their swords deep into their guts themselves, with both hands and a great deal of forceful grunting.

There are other equally fascinating sword tales, but I’ll save them for another time. Funny though, not too many of stories of scabbards around, considering swords would lose their sharps without those.

If I did have a sword, I’d use it to slice bread with. You know, those wonderful crusty loaves that mercilessly dull even the sharpest bread knife. Which brings me to the title. All else, as they say, is relative. And they’re right; my aunt is at the door.

PS: Re. "granual" kitty litter, add another 'n' and you have a winner! You produce it, I’ll road-test it for you. Re. the Salivation Army, joining is entirely voluntary and non-coercive, as you well know. I don't do tambourines, those were castanets. I do not scream, crust (ewww gro$$!) or foam at the mouth, contrary to popular belief. Calcified blether regions are flavourofthemonth, please getwiththeprogram. Re. WWConvention, I take it I am not invited, boohoo. Re. fishnets, mine self destruct when anybody else touches them. KA-BOOM!!!

Oh, kinky!!!

Ahaaa! Finally managed to retrieve the old fishnets, eh? Wondered how long it would take you to exhume them...and by the way, I must confess I neglected to launder after I last used them, what, 2 years ago? before stuffing them behind the third cushion on the living room couch. Didn't realise that was your couch, though.

So be warned, you don’t want to handle them without sterile gloves, and if you do plan to toss them in the wash, careful, they’d probably disintegrate anyway, so I’d say incineration would seem the only safe option for disposal.

The leotard, however, is a whole other story. I don’t do pink, and purple satin hearts are just SO not me. I suggest you seek the owner elsewhere.

I see from your bloGG you are still fixated on talents. Since I see them for the ancient form of currency they are, I’d suggest you bite into them to check if they’re really gold. If, as you say, your eye has a hidden talent, I must warn you that my talent has...yup...a hidden eye. It tells me you are still smarting from my last spellcheck reference; I suppose I should assure you there shall be no more such forthcoming but am unable to do so at this time.

Re. the minting of zlotys in the UK, I am hardly surprised. The Brits were always getting up to all sorts of nefariousimperialist boffintricks. Remind me to regale you with the Indian Chapter sometime. We are not amused. And while we’re on the subject, I suggest you guys return the Kohinoor as well, it’s high time, and the Elgin Marbles to Greece, or we shall all take off our clothes and parade nekkid up and down Downing Street.

Re. kitty litter, the "granual" (from your post) manual says it is illegal to use the stuff for any other purpose than the one it is intended for. Now I don’t know about you, but I like to keep things strictly legal.

I must be off now, so do remember to dispose of the fishnets in a satisfactorily sanitary fashion. Wouldn’t want you catching something catching.

The leotard, however, is yours to abuse as you choose to.

Hogwash&Chikkinfeathers

Ah, the unkindest cut of all!!! I bleed, I bleed! Begone, you vile creature, to have brought up ONE lousy spello and made such a song and dance about it! The temerity! Harrumph. I am sorely tempted to auction you on ebay to the lowest bidder, and throw in a month's supply of cat litter as additional enticement. On the other hand, the headhunters of Borneo, an unfriendly neighbouring island, might be willing to pay big money...

Unlike your uncharitable self, I shall desist from running all your bloGGzz bass ackwards through a spellcheck and posting the results in a public forum such as this. We shall not stoop to conquer, but rather, retain our dignity and maintain our decorum. Hufflepuffle and schoofledoofle to you too.

As to talent, did you know this was an ancient unit of weight (or money)? Are you saying then, your fingers are heavy? Scale-y? Rich? What? Further, are you trying to imply that I am over-utilizing my severely limited cerebral matter, and should stop contemplating altogether? What would you suggest I take up as an idle pastime instead? Soap carving? Wood whittling? Scarf knitting? Spit-bubble blowing?

Re. your honey fetish, allow me to recommend Greek honey...with yogurt. It is a particular favourite breakfast food in Crete, and if you're lucky, it comes with a hunk on the side. And no, I don't know which side. And frankly if I were you, I'd stay away from the chicken feathers. Kinky stuff, won't do you much good and ditto the wally. Besides, what if the kids found out.

I must leave you for the nonce, need to see a man about a dog. Re. Folgers, my lawyer will call your lawyer. Re. torturing the world, you are at liberty, though I doubt we're averaging more than one hit every leap year. Which is an amazingly good average for a bloGGsite, I'm told.

While we're on the subject, I do have a rather useful, barely-used, illustrated torture manual, and I'm looking to sell it. It'll cost you about 50 million. Not cheap, but worth every zloty. You may send the money to my Swiss bank account, WMD 11011000110 poste haste.

Before you go, please answer one last question for our audience: What are your views on the Polish zloty? And when you're done with that, we'd like your opinion on waffles with maple syrup vs. ice cream.

BalderDash&FiddleStix!

To my co-BloGGerator:

For once, I have decided to do a straight bloGG, instead of a deviant one.(I must zig before I can zag?!?). Therefore, you will see no mention of ahem razors, pruning or bushes in here today. If this cranks up your desperation index, see George W. about your problem. I believe he has an oil-based cure that you can get while vacationing in an undisclosed destination that rhymes with WMD. Or was supposed to anyway.

If all else fails, you can always resort to whateveritisyounormally doforit.

You will also be pleased to know I am recommending you for a spell-check implant and prophylactic dyslexiotomy. Both procedures are, I believe, quite painless and once done, recuperation’s a cinch as they have perfected a technique that puts YOU in charge. It has to do with rubber bands, wrists and a subversive form of Pavlovian conditioning. (For details, contact the author.)

As to DuckTape, well quackquack, I say!!! I see your memory serves me better than my own does, which is just as well because suddenly it all comes back at me in a veritable flood of quirkisms, gooferations and looperosities that I thought I’d lost FOREVER because (oh, shoot me!!!) I never wrote down a SINGLE one, an old failing from 3 lifetimes ago which, as you can see, I am paying for bigtime now, in karma points, discount coupons and prolific bloGGerosity. Though the last is stretching a bit thin at the seams lately.

So apart from jolting my memory alive, which caused me to go into repeated seizures the last some days, I must also thank you for reviving the moribund Trolls&GoblinsInc., for rearranging my award-winning collection of socks, and for putting me off razors for the next 49,000 lifetimes.

This, as you well know, is my 4th bloGGsite in as many months, and for that you shall be instantly tossed into a pickling vat with last year’s turnips. Unless you prefer tarred&featheredandfedtothe masses. You get to choose; we are being generous today.

If I vapourize for awhile, it’s because life is happening briefly, but I shall be back anon. Meanwhile, keep the goblins gainfully occupied, and remember to feed them ALL your Folger’s coffee bags. I repeat: ALL!!!

Whaaa?!?

Look, I know it isn't me because I've been bloGGing since May and this has NEVER happened before...until we started this bloGG. Evidently we've managed, in a span of 3 short days, to utterly scramble the BloGGprogram so it's begun posting our posts at random. And NO, don't even THINK about looping that back to me and randombloGGzz.

So I've given up trying to follow the thread, or pretending to be logical or even remotely rational, because the program is going to put this post in after your second post and my fifth. Or my seventh and your fourth. Or wotevah. Not that we'd make much more sense even if we were arranged serially, but it's just a more organizized, left-brained way of doing things and since we only have that one last grey cell between us, we really ought to save it for emergencies, don'tyouthink?!

As I said, this hasn't happened on the other 3 bloGGz, so I am absolutely certain it has to do with your magnetic field, or hormone levels, or hairy armpits. Or all five. No, wait! I get it!!! Didn't all this scramblicalnonsense start AFTER the troll posts??? YES, it DID!!! So you see, you've brought the goblins out again.

Let's just hope nobody ever stumbles in here even by mistake, and so what if the program insists on playing silly buggers with us, we're still ahead of the game because in any case, we make about as much sense as a scrambled yegg. You silly oeuff!!!

I did have a little story to tell you, but eludes me at this time. However, if you even TRY and contaminate the other bloGGz, I shall set the father of all hairytrolls on you. And bulls. And Morris Dancers. And high heels. And..and...and...gah! Now go get your aura cleansed and your magnetic field re-oriented. Or else!!!

myhairytroll's bigger than yourhairytroll?!?

While I do subscribe to the theory of the GrandMasterPlan, I believe that the devil really IS in the details, and details are small, tetchy little things. Enter hairy trolls. I seem to remember where you got yours from; he was a second cousin thrice removed from mine. There were sheep involved, and a large Scotsman in a kilt, as I'm sure you'd recall. His trolls, however, are evidently intact, and fully functional. I hear the baby's due in November.

Also, goblins and trolls, hirsute or otherwise, belong in the garden along with your potted nasturtiums, and NOT in the bathroom. No wonder nobody will admit to whose hairisonthetiles; they're all out by the peony bush at the Annual Trolls&Goblins Convention.

Which brings me to the subject of armpit hair and flies in the soup. And while we're at it, ear wax and flatulence. Exactly; there is absolutely no connection between them whatsoever. But go on, admit it, I had you wondering for a moment there.

Meanwhile, I am gormenghasted at the fact that you're spending your afternoons watching men with pompom socks and ribbons in their hair cavorting around a maypole. I understand you have a penchant for odd things (wine gums?? GREEN wine gums?!? gah!!) and etcetera, but seriously, sometimes I worry about you. Anyone who drinks coffee that comes in teabags needs worrying about. I shall Fedex you my favourite straitjacket, you know, the one with the 35 zips and toggles and the spider-print with webs across the back? Something tells me you may have a greater need for it than I do right now.

Before I exeunt, let me interject: marmite is an insult to the entire food chain, and it ought to be banished forever, forced into some dark dungeon to yeast in peace. And so should vegemite. So there.

you've been paragraphed!!!

Verily, I am pleased to see you have finally managed to wrap your wee head around the paragraphitis! You are now a bonafide bloGGeroon, and as to picking at blisters...ewwwww!!! This is a family bloGG and I would request that you keep it clean. Zits, blisters and other malodorous bodily erruptions will not be entertained.

Flipflops, however, are an astute strategic move. Very tropical, very trendy. But your sockophobia defeats me. I must admit, I am a bit of a sockaddictus myself. They are useful for all sorts of things. I once used them to lower eggs into a thermal pool, they came out perfectly boiled. And the socks, too. Mostly, though, I use them to gag people with.

As to ratty, well, the way I see it is this: how can one possibly make anyone more ratty than they already are? Or did you mean as in "Rat", Rattier", "Rattiest"? A rhetorical question, of course. Still, bears thinking about, eh? (Rodentttt!!!)

Re. your terminal question, if you ask me (which you did), I personally think it's all a matter of velocity. As long as you're moving, it's immaterial whether you're coming or going. This is a situation we are on first name terms with, and I love flying, so there's your answer. Hrrmm? I thot so, too.

I shall now leave you to your interminable perigrinations about the head-count in the Folger's box; I will likely not have a great deal to contribute, as we have had this discussion several times and you WILL insist on picking at it like a blisteriferous scab.

(Yes, I know I used your favourite word, I assure you it was entirely inadvertent.)

(HAHAHA!)

I await your blistering response. Just be warned, though, that I have 36 pairs of assorted soxatmydisposal.

About "PutASockInIt"...

Re.verbal diahorrea, I beg to differ. There is, too, an old wive's cure for it, and I believe it's extremely efficacious to boot. It's the sock-in-mouth cure, and the older and smellier the sock, the better it works. Not pretty, I agree, but effective.

As to the English language being quirky, m'dear, even a week-old marmite sammich has more quirk per centimetre. Not to mention runny marmalade. However, I digress.

As you have so graciously suggested that I may be properly salted and peppered as far as bloGGz go, I shall let that bit about the bulls go. Or perhaps not.

Re. the bulls, then. It depends on what sort you meant. Istanbulls? Picasso's bulls? El Toro types from Pamplona? With a gored and bloodied matador impaled on a sharpened horn?

They say it's true, bulls DON'T see red. And since you asked...it's a fact that they only see black, white and grey. It's the movement of the matador's cape that gets them.

No, I'm not done yet; you asked the question, now listen to the answer. Why bulls don't see red: the colour-sensitive cells on the retina at the back of the eye are called cones. Cones have a higher stimulus threshold, which really means they like being tickled and also need more light stimulation than the black-grey-white-sensitive cells called rods. Fancy that.

You admitted to seeing red. Therefore we may safely surmise that your cones are in perfect tick and you are not a bull. I am relieved; this makes it amply clear that you're not likely to come charging out of your corner, snorting and pawing at the ground with your hooves, and burying your horns in my gut. Ole!

Next time, let's just talk bullshit.

Aaargh, Runaway Blogger on the loose!!!

OMG. That didn't take long, did it?!? I'm starting to see this was a BAD idea. A dimbulb idea. You haven't been on here 3 hours yet and you're already into an advanced case of OCD. And it's all my fault. I have created a monster.

About the new shoes: here's a neat trick I learnt. Get someone to break them in for you. Only trouble with that is you're not likely to get them back till they're past retirement age and ready for Shoe Heaven. But hey, it's worth a shot!

Ah, and blisters. Unfortunately bloGGz don't give you those, they only give you an even WORSE case of acute verbiage disorder, and so far there is no cure for it. I believe it can be quite ghastly, with symptoms that include severe cramps in the third metacarpal of the right hand, and rubberjoint syndrome, which apparently causes your elbows to start flicking out the other way. Flappidexterous?

Apropos of which, let me just say here that it seems to me you're starting to like the the look of your own serifs. Just mind you don't trip over them :-)

Then again, if you DID trip over them you may want to consider going barefoot henceforth, no more shoes. Which means you could skip blithely through life without ever having another blister again. Think about it...

Stultiloquent?!!

I have some strange friends. This one, for instance. She can talk. And she knows her affliction by name. Even gave me some useful little words to describe it:

Stultiloquent: to babble idiotically
Pleniloquent: full of talk, to talkalot

I wasn't sure if those were autobiographical, but I'm using them here anyway. I'm hoping this is how it will work: she sees this post, sees red, and attacks the blogsite instantly, posting a horrific excess of verbosity, while I quietly melt away into the shadows, missionAccomplished. My EVIL or what?!? Muahahaha!