Like the Moon, And the Stars, And the Sun

This morning, my horoscope advised against humor. Apparently, no matter what I do or say, it’s not funny enough on a day when the cosmos lines up glum. There’s no accounting for taste, however. Yesterday, I accidentally stepped twice on the tail of Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul. It was dark, and the little black cat was also, you know, dark. This morning before the sun came up, I went to pick up my weights and stepped on cat poop. Because it was right next to my weights, where I’d be sure to find it. In the dark.

He’s a genius. I am not. After my shower, I slathered my hide with Oil of Olay and some of it ended up in my eyes. I forgot to apply makeup so my co-workers are not at all walking past me, silent and wide-eyed. Not at all. Yesterday, Dom and I went shopping for fresh vegetables and took a stroll through Home Depot, thus all my swiss chard and spackle needs were met. I feel great. I look awful. I’m thinking the funny thoughts. This should be more amusing: walking by a window I saw what looked like smoking rising from the ground and a planter. After staring at this with the same comprehension dogs have of ceiling fans, I marched over to John’s desk.

Tata: I require science help. Come with me.

He doesn’t bother to object. I’ve already turned around anyway. He follows me to the window. He sees the fumes, much to my surprise. That’s the kind of thing I’d see and when I point it out to one of the other humans, that human usually says, “I do not see what you’re talking about. Perhaps you’re tetched.”

John: Mulch is decomposing.
Tata: In January? Why does it look like smoke?
John: Maybe it’s new mulch. Those are fumes. The ground is not on fire.
Tata: If I see something on TV resembling what I see here it is footage of where a forest fire has been.
John: And yet, this will bring us geraniums.

I hate geraniums. It’s like they substitute for real flowers. In a somewhat related story because in a way we’re still talking about smoking things and dead plants, when Paulie bought his giant, paintless pickup truck it came with a potted tree in the bed. It was green the first time I saw it.

The poor thing didn’t stand a chance.

Paulie developed a habit of tossing garbage and empties through the cab window and waiting for the crash. You’d think the truck would leave a trail like it’s snowing McDonald’s wrappers, but the truck harnesses the Power of Paulie to retain trash. It’s like solar but with tattoos and designer boxer shorts.

That’s one badass gear shift.

My favorite thing about the truck is that it’s archaeologically enhanced. Paulie hates pocket change so much he tosses it all over the seat. Paulie’s plan is rid the world of the terrible scourge of pocket change by waiting for the old truck to die, then taking the rusting hulk, change and all, to the crusher – I surmise.

Somewhere an enterprising kid with a crowbar is getting an idea.

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