Yesterday, I finished reading Wild, by Cheryl Strayed. Read it over two days, in fact, and could have finished it in one day if I didn't fritter my time away with cooking, laundry, blogging, and driving to town for a 44 oz. Diet Coke. It's a tale of hiking the Pacific Coast Trail as a single woman with no previous hiking experience.
It was a compelling page-turner. I know it's a memoir. But I could have done with more hiking and less backstory. Not that I am an experienced hiker. I used to walk a local trail in the state park every day. Just for fun and exercise. Not on a personal quest for inner peace.
My trail was blacktopped. Bikers used it too, which was disconcerting at times. Just like Linda said today over at her blog. One minute, I was walking along, at peace with the world, and the next minute I'd hear a bellow of "TRAIL!" right behind me where a cushion of solitude had buffered me from the world's hustle and bustle. The only thing to do after hearing "TRAIL!" was jump off the side into the twigs and dead leaves. Quick. Because in the woods, nobody can hear your bones break. And it's going to take a while to get the message out that you are incapacitated, and then haul your broken body to a medical facility. By the same token, you want to be careful to watch your step. Slipping on an errant acorn could cause a sprained ankle that would hamper your two-mile hike back to the road. The bicyclists didn't ride it every day. Depending on the time I chose for my outing, I was often the only person on the trail.
This was before I was married. Before I had kids that needed minding during my two-hour escape. Oh, it didn't take me that long to walk four miles. I chugged along at about 20 minutes per mile. But I had to get ready. And drive to the park. The whole trail is 11 miles long. I only walked the whole trail about once every three weeks. It was kind of an all-day affair. And I took a companion most times. Because it's kind of eerie to be a woman alone five miles into the woods when a biker rushes past you. You never know. This was in the dark ages, before cell phones.
At least I never had to worry about getting lost. The trail was paved, for cryin' out loud! So I didn't have to wear hiking boots. My comfy, broken-in walking shoes were fine. I didn't carry a hefty backpack with all of my belongings. I didn't have to find a place to sleep and set up camp and cook a meal. I could shower and put on clean clothes when I finished. But still. Eleven miles is an accomplishment. Heck, even four miles is an accomplishment. I wish I could do that today.
I admit that I have a vivid imagination. Sometimes, on my solo daily walks, I would wonder what might happen if the rustle I heard down in the holler was a fugitive camping out. What if some un-law-abidin' scalawag jumped from behind a tree trunk and waylaid me? Who would know? Nobody, until I failed to call my mom the next morning. Because it was summertime. The living was easy. Teachers across the nation recharging their batteries in unemployed bliss.
The trail had a lower trail-head and an upper trail-head. The whole thing was a loop. At the deepest point in, I was only four miles from a blacktop road. I could choose to go either way at either end. Four different courses. The distance was painted on the blacktop every mile, if you looked close enough. My route varied, and depended on whether I wanted to start out level, or uphill, or downhill, or with the best panorama. Wildlife abounded. My biggest animal fear was skunk. I smelled them on occasion, but never was the reason for the spraying. Next came dogs. Best not to look them in the eye. Keep walking at a steady pace. I was ready to shout NO and BAD DOG if one came at me. Because any dog in there was most likely an escaped pet from the campground, and would have had people experience.
The scariest incident related to my trail-walking was the time I disregarded the seasons. It was fall, and school had started up again. I had agreed to keep the scorebook for boys' basketball games. We had a Friday off school, and I figured I had time to squeeze in a trail walk and get cleaned up in time to show up at the gym. The weather was perfect, just a little chill in the air. I had not been walking in the park for a while, but instead had walked in town. At my two-mile turnaround point, darkness began to creep into the woods. Sunset comes at a different time when you are in the middle of the forest. It was stressful. I knew I was on the trail. But light was leaving me. Every crunched leaf was a hillbilly ax murderer following me, biding his time. My breathing grew labored. My muscles tensed. I felt like I was striding two steps forward and three steps back. With a half-mile left, the woods faded farther from the trail. It was a little clearing of sorts. With just a short stretch of trees left at the edge of the road. I was never so glad to end a walk in my life.
I can't imagine walking hundreds of miles along the Pacific Coast Trail. Alone. But I can imagine writing about it.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
Be Careful Not to Bite Off More
Pardon me. I am almost too pooped to post. Worn out. Weak. Limp as a noodle. Shaky as Jello.
The reason for my malaise is my supper. Last night I cooked up a delicious roast. Full of onions, baby carrots, and Klondike Rose potatoes. Mmm...steeped in a tasty pot liquor of meat juices, Worcestershire sauce, steak sauce, and powdered Hidden Valley ranch mix. The boys eat it up. Because I live in a house full of carnivorous menfolk, running out of meat is not an option. So I always cook two roasts. We eat on it for several meals.
Save A Lot is my store of choice for meat. They have their own butcher. They don't add water to their products in order to charge you for nothing. The taste is fantastic. And there is not a Product of Canada sticker on the package. Not that there's anything wrong with Canada. I don't go in for fancy high-end cuts. A rump roast or an arm roast is okay with my live-in beef-eaters. All were pleased as punch with their sumptuous repast.
Tonight, I warmed the remains slowly in the oven. I carved off a hunk for The Pony. Sliced it into bite-sized pieces for him, because I baby him. Filled his plate with carrots and potatoes, no onions. He added ketchup and two biscuits. And pronounced it good. Genius was away at a friend's house, having snuck out without taking the trash dumpster to the end of the driveway for tomorrow morning's pickup. Hick was called back to work by the security company within thirty minutes of his home arrival. So I hacked off a hunk of roast, dredged up some tasty onions, carrots, and potatoes, and settled down to sup.
Au contraire. I can barely type, what with the cramp in my right elbow from sawing at that fibrous flesh like a madwoman. I now have a forearm like Popeye. My jaws are too weak to chew warm butter. I need to chew it, you know, because according to many, it won't melt in my mouth. My roast could serve as a training table item for competitive eaters. I'm surprised I have not come down with TMJ.
I declare! That roast could not have come from a run-of-the-mill, everyday steer. No way, Jose! That's a fact, Jack! The way those muscle fibers wove and twisted, I'm suspecting my roast beast was actually a cut from the abdominal muscles of a Tasmanian Devil. Not the actual bad-natured but cute-looking real animal. The cartoon, spinning, twisting, tornado-shaped Tasmanian Devil.
Food Network chef Robert Irvine, with his phenomenal biceps and knowledge of tenderizing techniques, could not have made my cut palatable. It could have been wedged under the saddle of Attila the Hun, and ridden, at a trot, across eastern AND western Europe, and still not been made chewable by any human, even one in possession of the entire Osmond family's teeth and Jay Leno's jaw.
The more I chewed, the bigger each bite of meat grew. I could have marketed it as beef-flavored gum. Like a Willie Wonka product. Not because it was three courses. But because it was never-ending. Like an Everlasting Gobstopper. Only gum.
Because hope springs eternal in the Val Thevictorian breast, I kept trying. Again. And again. Don't think I was swallowing that chunk whole. I'm a lady, dagnabbit! I spit it out. Nobody was there to see me. No need to be polite and hawk it into a cloth napkin. I had a little bowl that I'd put my biscuit in to protect it from the pot liquor. So it served as a rejected meat receptacle.
Funny how when I finished eating, I had a bowl full of meat. And a pronounced case of exhaustion.
The reason for my malaise is my supper. Last night I cooked up a delicious roast. Full of onions, baby carrots, and Klondike Rose potatoes. Mmm...steeped in a tasty pot liquor of meat juices, Worcestershire sauce, steak sauce, and powdered Hidden Valley ranch mix. The boys eat it up. Because I live in a house full of carnivorous menfolk, running out of meat is not an option. So I always cook two roasts. We eat on it for several meals.
Save A Lot is my store of choice for meat. They have their own butcher. They don't add water to their products in order to charge you for nothing. The taste is fantastic. And there is not a Product of Canada sticker on the package. Not that there's anything wrong with Canada. I don't go in for fancy high-end cuts. A rump roast or an arm roast is okay with my live-in beef-eaters. All were pleased as punch with their sumptuous repast.
Tonight, I warmed the remains slowly in the oven. I carved off a hunk for The Pony. Sliced it into bite-sized pieces for him, because I baby him. Filled his plate with carrots and potatoes, no onions. He added ketchup and two biscuits. And pronounced it good. Genius was away at a friend's house, having snuck out without taking the trash dumpster to the end of the driveway for tomorrow morning's pickup. Hick was called back to work by the security company within thirty minutes of his home arrival. So I hacked off a hunk of roast, dredged up some tasty onions, carrots, and potatoes, and settled down to sup.
Au contraire. I can barely type, what with the cramp in my right elbow from sawing at that fibrous flesh like a madwoman. I now have a forearm like Popeye. My jaws are too weak to chew warm butter. I need to chew it, you know, because according to many, it won't melt in my mouth. My roast could serve as a training table item for competitive eaters. I'm surprised I have not come down with TMJ.
I declare! That roast could not have come from a run-of-the-mill, everyday steer. No way, Jose! That's a fact, Jack! The way those muscle fibers wove and twisted, I'm suspecting my roast beast was actually a cut from the abdominal muscles of a Tasmanian Devil. Not the actual bad-natured but cute-looking real animal. The cartoon, spinning, twisting, tornado-shaped Tasmanian Devil.
Food Network chef Robert Irvine, with his phenomenal biceps and knowledge of tenderizing techniques, could not have made my cut palatable. It could have been wedged under the saddle of Attila the Hun, and ridden, at a trot, across eastern AND western Europe, and still not been made chewable by any human, even one in possession of the entire Osmond family's teeth and Jay Leno's jaw.
The more I chewed, the bigger each bite of meat grew. I could have marketed it as beef-flavored gum. Like a Willie Wonka product. Not because it was three courses. But because it was never-ending. Like an Everlasting Gobstopper. Only gum.
Because hope springs eternal in the Val Thevictorian breast, I kept trying. Again. And again. Don't think I was swallowing that chunk whole. I'm a lady, dagnabbit! I spit it out. Nobody was there to see me. No need to be polite and hawk it into a cloth napkin. I had a little bowl that I'd put my biscuit in to protect it from the pot liquor. So it served as a rejected meat receptacle.
Funny how when I finished eating, I had a bowl full of meat. And a pronounced case of exhaustion.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
To Sleep, Perchance to Scream
Our recent brief deluge seems to have driven the arachnids inside. I intercepted a tick on my thigh, on the way to no-man's-land. And another on my knee. And a spider hanging out on the base of the shower stall. Of course, I suspect they hitched a ride on Hick's about-the-grounds clothing, rather than scurrying about in black-and-white striped shirts and black bandit masks, seeking entry under the front door in the dead of night.
Both ticks were given a free pass on our subterranean water slide. The same fate was planned for Mr. Spider. He had other ideas.
Mr. Spider was tiny by Backroads standards. Nothing like the Diomedes fishing spider that Hick has twice hauled into the house, to show me. He was half the size of a dime. But you never can be quite sure when Mr. Spider is Mrs. Spider, full of tiny babies that will jump off her back when she is jostled.
I thought I would quickly squeeze Mr. Spider between a couple of squares of toilet paper, and send him on his watery thrill ride. But no. He had other ideas. Namely, charging me like a madman when I reached down to the baseboard where he had scurried. CHARGED ME! Came running straight at my sock foot. Like John Wayne as Rooster Cogburn charging Lucky Ned Pepper, guns ablazin', in True Grit.
Of course I stepped aside. No spider is going to run up my leg slick as a whistle. No sirree, Bob! Mr. Spider was so speedy, he was a blur moving across the shower mat, onto the tile. I watched in horror as he disappeared into the air conditioning vent.
Please, please, please...don't let a shower of spider babies shoot out onto my face as I sleep.
Both ticks were given a free pass on our subterranean water slide. The same fate was planned for Mr. Spider. He had other ideas.
Mr. Spider was tiny by Backroads standards. Nothing like the Diomedes fishing spider that Hick has twice hauled into the house, to show me. He was half the size of a dime. But you never can be quite sure when Mr. Spider is Mrs. Spider, full of tiny babies that will jump off her back when she is jostled.
I thought I would quickly squeeze Mr. Spider between a couple of squares of toilet paper, and send him on his watery thrill ride. But no. He had other ideas. Namely, charging me like a madman when I reached down to the baseboard where he had scurried. CHARGED ME! Came running straight at my sock foot. Like John Wayne as Rooster Cogburn charging Lucky Ned Pepper, guns ablazin', in True Grit.
Of course I stepped aside. No spider is going to run up my leg slick as a whistle. No sirree, Bob! Mr. Spider was so speedy, he was a blur moving across the shower mat, onto the tile. I watched in horror as he disappeared into the air conditioning vent.
Please, please, please...don't let a shower of spider babies shoot out onto my face as I sleep.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
A Sasquatch Warning Label
Do not mess with Sasquatch today, people. Just don't.
Maybe Sasquatch has had a headache from the crack of dawn. A sinus headache that resulted in a pain between the shoulder blades due to muscle tension over the headache.
Maybe Sasquatch was without his right-hand helper all day.
Maybe Sasquatch has tired of telling other Sasquatches in his band not to eat the piece of Devil's Playground chicken that had been lolling about in a baggie since last Sunday, only to have one of them declare it suitable for consumption, and ingest it anyway.
Maybe Sasquatch had to use up a coupon for a free pizza that expires on July 31, and the clerk, after peeping out of the back room for five minutes, waddled to the second cash register, and rudely engaged in a stare-down with Sasquatch, who was lined up at the only open cash register behind one other customer, and in front of five other customers, until Sasquatch had to initiate the announcement of Clerk's grand register opening by asking, "Are you open now?"
Maybe Sasquatch took offense to the sneer and the huff of Clerk, because it is not Sasquatch's fault that the state of the economy requires people to work until the day after death, and Sasquatch pays enough in taxes to support Clerk on disability for a year, if Clerk would only file for it and lay about her home, rather than gimp her way from register to kitchen and back on two braced knees, forgetting that the Sasquatch is always right.
Maybe Sasquatch was irritated that the free pizza he had paid for with self respect was not of the single topping ordered.
Maybe Sasquatch had to endure a lecture from his mate, pertaining to the alleged fact that Mate cannot see Sasquatch while talking on the phone, so it is not really Mate's fault that Mate talks over Sasquatch every single time they converse by cellular microwaves, since everybody knows that a proper conversation is not possible without looking at your fellow conversationalist, those things on the side of your head called ears being of no use whatsoever.
Maybe Sasquatch had to balance a tray of pizza on a paper plate, a plastic cup of ice, a plastic cup of ice water, a 44 oz. Diet Coke, and a pair of bifocals while descending thirteen rail-less stairs into his dark basement lair where he could consume his free pizza unmolested.
Maybe Sasquatch reached the bottom step, step number twelve out of thirteen, when his load shifted, sending the entire paper plate over the edge of the tray like so many idiots in barrels over Niagara Falls, at which point every single slice of the wrong kind of pizza flipped cheese side down on the tile floor trod by barefoot Sasquatches on the way to and from the pool and hot tub.
Maybe Sasquatch just really needs a break today.
Maybe Sasquatch has had a headache from the crack of dawn. A sinus headache that resulted in a pain between the shoulder blades due to muscle tension over the headache.
Maybe Sasquatch was without his right-hand helper all day.
Maybe Sasquatch has tired of telling other Sasquatches in his band not to eat the piece of Devil's Playground chicken that had been lolling about in a baggie since last Sunday, only to have one of them declare it suitable for consumption, and ingest it anyway.
Maybe Sasquatch had to use up a coupon for a free pizza that expires on July 31, and the clerk, after peeping out of the back room for five minutes, waddled to the second cash register, and rudely engaged in a stare-down with Sasquatch, who was lined up at the only open cash register behind one other customer, and in front of five other customers, until Sasquatch had to initiate the announcement of Clerk's grand register opening by asking, "Are you open now?"
Maybe Sasquatch took offense to the sneer and the huff of Clerk, because it is not Sasquatch's fault that the state of the economy requires people to work until the day after death, and Sasquatch pays enough in taxes to support Clerk on disability for a year, if Clerk would only file for it and lay about her home, rather than gimp her way from register to kitchen and back on two braced knees, forgetting that the Sasquatch is always right.
Maybe Sasquatch was irritated that the free pizza he had paid for with self respect was not of the single topping ordered.
Maybe Sasquatch had to endure a lecture from his mate, pertaining to the alleged fact that Mate cannot see Sasquatch while talking on the phone, so it is not really Mate's fault that Mate talks over Sasquatch every single time they converse by cellular microwaves, since everybody knows that a proper conversation is not possible without looking at your fellow conversationalist, those things on the side of your head called ears being of no use whatsoever.
Maybe Sasquatch had to balance a tray of pizza on a paper plate, a plastic cup of ice, a plastic cup of ice water, a 44 oz. Diet Coke, and a pair of bifocals while descending thirteen rail-less stairs into his dark basement lair where he could consume his free pizza unmolested.
Maybe Sasquatch reached the bottom step, step number twelve out of thirteen, when his load shifted, sending the entire paper plate over the edge of the tray like so many idiots in barrels over Niagara Falls, at which point every single slice of the wrong kind of pizza flipped cheese side down on the tile floor trod by barefoot Sasquatches on the way to and from the pool and hot tub.
Maybe Sasquatch just really needs a break today.
Friday, July 27, 2012
How Do You Solve a Problem Like Bookarrhea?
I have an embarrassing problem. Loose books. They appear with abnormal frequency, and flow all over the house. I can't contain them. It's a chronic condition, which causes undue stress. I've had this affliction since childhood. In fact, I think it's hereditary. My paternal grandmother suffered from the same ailment. Of the immediate family, only The Pony has inherited the disorder.
I have piles. Caused by my bookarrhea. Hick tried to cure me, or at least relieve some symptoms. When he started finishing the full basement, he built shelves into my office. One whole wall. Ten feet. Four tall bookcases, floor to ceiling. Seven shelves per case. He added two more shelves on two other walls. I have four more tall bookcases scattered throughout the basement. And another one that is chest high. All full.
Some favorites have a home forever. I will not part with them. Others are unread. So they have a reprieve. The books I have read and am ready to release are filling up the house. Oh, I try. I packed up many boxes, and told Hick that he was welcome to take them to the auction. Set up a flea market booth. Do what was necessary. His action? He put them ALL on a tall bookcase in his workshop. Really? REALLY? I sorted and packed and set them on the counter by the door...and he unpacked them.
I donated several boxes of paperbacks to the local library. They put donations on a shelf up front. Sometimes more in a side room. And sell them for twenty-five cents. A dollar for hardbacks. Of course, on the day we dropped off my overflow, the library was having a sale. Ten cents. Genius picked up ten books. And I picked up ten books. How could we not? TWO DOLLARS FOR TWENTY BOOKS!
One of my work friends always donates her books to her church charity organization as soon as she finishes reading them. Except for John Grisham. Her husband allows her to keep a collection of Grishams. But everything else must go.
I've tried offering my books to Genius. He could set up an eBay account. Or Amazon Sellers. Make a good piece of change. But he says it's too much of a hassle. Hick says the auction is a waste of time. People might bid to get one book out of a box. Or the whole box will go for one dollar. No doubt for the buyer to make a killing selling those books online. I've even thought of asking if I can take a box to school, to the teacher workroom, and sell them for a couple bucks apiece. These are hardbacks. Like new. I know I could give them away at work. But selling might be frowned upon. I've thought of giving them away through my blog, but that is entirely too much work, what with garnering addresses, and hauling them to the dead-mouse-smelling post office, and paying to ship them.
My last resort is to look up that Amazon buy-back program. You can ship them a whole box, and get a paltry sum in return.
My bookarrhea is becoming advanced. I need a cure. STAT!
I have piles. Caused by my bookarrhea. Hick tried to cure me, or at least relieve some symptoms. When he started finishing the full basement, he built shelves into my office. One whole wall. Ten feet. Four tall bookcases, floor to ceiling. Seven shelves per case. He added two more shelves on two other walls. I have four more tall bookcases scattered throughout the basement. And another one that is chest high. All full.
Some favorites have a home forever. I will not part with them. Others are unread. So they have a reprieve. The books I have read and am ready to release are filling up the house. Oh, I try. I packed up many boxes, and told Hick that he was welcome to take them to the auction. Set up a flea market booth. Do what was necessary. His action? He put them ALL on a tall bookcase in his workshop. Really? REALLY? I sorted and packed and set them on the counter by the door...and he unpacked them.
I donated several boxes of paperbacks to the local library. They put donations on a shelf up front. Sometimes more in a side room. And sell them for twenty-five cents. A dollar for hardbacks. Of course, on the day we dropped off my overflow, the library was having a sale. Ten cents. Genius picked up ten books. And I picked up ten books. How could we not? TWO DOLLARS FOR TWENTY BOOKS!
One of my work friends always donates her books to her church charity organization as soon as she finishes reading them. Except for John Grisham. Her husband allows her to keep a collection of Grishams. But everything else must go.
I've tried offering my books to Genius. He could set up an eBay account. Or Amazon Sellers. Make a good piece of change. But he says it's too much of a hassle. Hick says the auction is a waste of time. People might bid to get one book out of a box. Or the whole box will go for one dollar. No doubt for the buyer to make a killing selling those books online. I've even thought of asking if I can take a box to school, to the teacher workroom, and sell them for a couple bucks apiece. These are hardbacks. Like new. I know I could give them away at work. But selling might be frowned upon. I've thought of giving them away through my blog, but that is entirely too much work, what with garnering addresses, and hauling them to the dead-mouse-smelling post office, and paying to ship them.
My last resort is to look up that Amazon buy-back program. You can ship them a whole box, and get a paltry sum in return.
My bookarrhea is becoming advanced. I need a cure. STAT!
Thursday, July 26, 2012
My Well-Hidden Persona
Imagine my surprise today to learn that the The Writer magazine is going on hiatus. Thanks, Donna, for keeping us informed.
Now I must find something else to stack to great heights on my lamp table, piled askew like a wayward column in a less-than-sober game of Jenga, a leaning literary tower of Pisa-like engineering.
I don't mean to put on airs. Get all highfalutin. But I sometimes think of myself as TheWriter. You know. Like Christopher Walken is The Continenal on SNL. Except that I don't have a pencil-thin mustache, wear a smoking jacket, or offer guests champagne as I try to lure them behind closed doors.
No, I am no Continental. I am TheWriter. Which is not to say that I am all thin and glossy and uniformly shaped, full of helpful information on writing. Nor do I slap a label near my bottom, curl up around Victoria's Secret and the cable bill, and wait for you to squeeze me out of your mailbox, stash me in your armpit, then spread me across your lap.
I try to put entertainment on a page. Like caviar on a toast point. An hors d'oeuvre for the mind. I've tried to steep my gray matter in the work of TheWriters who preceded me. "What fresh not-heaven is this?" I ask, upon hearing someone tap tap tapping at my chamber door. "Shall I invite him in, risking a slow, wasting death from blood loss after two odd punctures on my neck? Perhaps it is only my buddy Huck, eager to swing a dead cat in a graveyard to make my warts disappear. Or maybe Hester, here with my sewing."
So I sit. TheWriter. Not writing, but daydreaming about writing. I can always write tomorrow. After all...tomorrow is another day.
Now I must find something else to stack to great heights on my lamp table, piled askew like a wayward column in a less-than-sober game of Jenga, a leaning literary tower of Pisa-like engineering.
I don't mean to put on airs. Get all highfalutin. But I sometimes think of myself as TheWriter. You know. Like Christopher Walken is The Continenal on SNL. Except that I don't have a pencil-thin mustache, wear a smoking jacket, or offer guests champagne as I try to lure them behind closed doors.
No, I am no Continental. I am TheWriter. Which is not to say that I am all thin and glossy and uniformly shaped, full of helpful information on writing. Nor do I slap a label near my bottom, curl up around Victoria's Secret and the cable bill, and wait for you to squeeze me out of your mailbox, stash me in your armpit, then spread me across your lap.
I try to put entertainment on a page. Like caviar on a toast point. An hors d'oeuvre for the mind. I've tried to steep my gray matter in the work of TheWriters who preceded me. "What fresh not-heaven is this?" I ask, upon hearing someone tap tap tapping at my chamber door. "Shall I invite him in, risking a slow, wasting death from blood loss after two odd punctures on my neck? Perhaps it is only my buddy Huck, eager to swing a dead cat in a graveyard to make my warts disappear. Or maybe Hester, here with my sewing."
So I sit. TheWriter. Not writing, but daydreaming about writing. I can always write tomorrow. After all...tomorrow is another day.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
The Road to Submission is Paved With...
What? You expect me to work in this heat? For a salary of zero dollars and zero cents? That's not enough to keep me in sweat-stained trucker caps. I could topple off my paving machine, delirious from the sizzle of my broiled brain.
The road to submission if fraught with obstacles. You might as well try to taxi your yellow Alaskan bush plane with the bouncy fat rubber inner-tube tires down an interstate highway laid with police criminal-stopping spiky nail strips. Don't expect to get from Point A to Point B in the time listed on Google Maps. Even though, in your misspent youth, you could dash off an 'A' paper in fifty minutes, after two hours of sleep, and of questionable sobriety, that approach now will be about as successful as your yellow Alaskan bush plane take-off.
Time must be budgeted for obstacles. Side trips. You don't want to miss a stop by the Russell Stover candy outlet. CANDY, people! Cheap! And samples! Or you might want to ride a ferry across the Mississippi river and back, just to say you did. Or hike down a trail to see where a mastodon fossil was excavated. Or eat a delicious homestyle meal while dodging thrown rolls. Stop and smell the azaleas.
Good intentions are not good enough to pave this pig trail. I have a deadline to meet. And I need to find a flea market where I can purchase one of those Olivia Newton-John Let's Get Physical headbands.
The sweat of my brow is hindering my progress.
The road to submission if fraught with obstacles. You might as well try to taxi your yellow Alaskan bush plane with the bouncy fat rubber inner-tube tires down an interstate highway laid with police criminal-stopping spiky nail strips. Don't expect to get from Point A to Point B in the time listed on Google Maps. Even though, in your misspent youth, you could dash off an 'A' paper in fifty minutes, after two hours of sleep, and of questionable sobriety, that approach now will be about as successful as your yellow Alaskan bush plane take-off.
Time must be budgeted for obstacles. Side trips. You don't want to miss a stop by the Russell Stover candy outlet. CANDY, people! Cheap! And samples! Or you might want to ride a ferry across the Mississippi river and back, just to say you did. Or hike down a trail to see where a mastodon fossil was excavated. Or eat a delicious homestyle meal while dodging thrown rolls. Stop and smell the azaleas.
Good intentions are not good enough to pave this pig trail. I have a deadline to meet. And I need to find a flea market where I can purchase one of those Olivia Newton-John Let's Get Physical headbands.
The sweat of my brow is hindering my progress.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)