Over At the Frankenstein Place

Pretty Buckwheat is smart, too.

On Wednesday, I was deliberating on a riddle –

Q: What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at midday and three legs at twilight?
A: Wrong riddle. Try again.
Q: How much hip pain would keep me from working at the food pantry?
A: Mmmm, exactly as much as I have now.

– while making dinner for my Handsome Husband, and as I was rough-dicing sweet potatoes the power went out. The only light in my kitchen was the flame under an empty pan into which I dropped chopped onions and diced sweet potatoes and dinner turned out fine, but if you’re ever in need of a little heart-pounding excitement, give some thought to dicing root vegetables in the dark.

Speaking of Nature, when is Nature like sharing a room with your sister? Buckwheat knows: when giraffes fight over a blouse!

Buckwheat dislikes the monkey suit!

From inside my house, I could see two lights a few streets away behind the house and a street light two blocks in front, so I knew the outage was local. I lit some candles and protected them from curious cats with one hand while calling my sisters at the family store six blocks away and not in the dark with the other. Pete and I ate steamed pork bao dipped in fragrant sauces, washed the dishes and settled in to hours of talking, knitting and writing by candlelight in our living room. The lights came on as I dialed Siobhan to discuss jarring applesauce in the dark, which I was about to do. I was almost disappointed to be able to see what I was doing.

Thursday morning, I barked at my boss Gianna, who lives two blocks from me, “What did you do last night?” She looked at me quizzically. “Power failure from 6 to 9?” I hinted.

“We didn’t have a power failure last night,” she said, “but don’t feel bad. We have one every day. The power goes out and everything blinks. We stopped resetting our clocks years ago.”

Knowing Who To Cling To

Miss Sasha casually mentioned North Dakota was enjoying a blizzard yesterday, so it should come as no surprise that last night the power went out in the tiny New Jersey town just as I started dinner. I made dinner, then called Miss Sasha to tell her the depth of sympathy, which was insufficient. Panky had just tossed his dinner on the floor.

Her Face At First Just

I’m jarring applesauce, while Topaz stares at me.

The vet says her weight is up and her symptoms have subsided for the time being, though I was prepared for news about surgeries and special diets.

My house is peaceful, and Topaz sang all afternoon.

Tomorrow, I’ll go back to work, but my heart’s not in it.

I’m very, very tired. Topaz blinks gently, gently, gently.

Bright Red Drop Dead Nails

Last time I tried stuffing Topaz into a closed room to protect her it took half an hour and Topaz clawed me in the eye. I was covered with scrapes; Topaz, Pete and I whimpered and cursed. We didn’t speak to one another for several days – and I do mean all three of us.

Tomorrow morning, Topaz has an appointment with the vet, which means I have to stuff her into a cat carrier. I started hyperventilating yesterday, but I’d been worried for a week, and I do mean varsity level, paralyzing, stocking-up-on-Neosporin-and-bandages worried. Is it too soon to don my helmet?

Sometimes the Clothes Do Not Make the Man

Previously on Poor Impulse Control, I waxed enthusiastic about credit unions and community banks. I fucking hate the big banks. No surprise there! Wanna read what I wrote? Yeah, me too. It’s a lot harder than it used to be now that I have to google my own blog posts. Anyhoo, in August, I flipped the pages in my checkbook and realized that for me, it was now or never, and never was not an option when it comes to getting out from under. With great trepidation, I contacted the credit union and asked them to body-slam Wachovia if the bank fuckers tried to direct deposit my check again, though not in so many words. I used far fewer words, and the delicate souls at the credit union flinch when I talk so I chose them carefully and signed up for online banking. Then I waited for hilarity to ensue.

At some point in the future, when I have recovered from spending more than six weeks cursing the ancestors of professionals who are supposed to know more about what I’m doing than I do, I will describe this comic battle through interpretive dance. Suffice it for the present to say the Greek chorus regards me with fear and won’t take my calls, but my bills are paid.

This morning, I closed my Wachovia accounts and when asked repeatedly why, I repeatedly answered, “Wells Fargo and Wachovia are a criminal enterprise. Please let me say that clearly, in case this call is recorded for quality purposes. Wells Fargo and Wachovia are a criminal enterprise – emphasis on the word CRIMINAL.” What, you thought I’d put on pants and go to the bank in person? Oh hell no. I was wearing flannel pajamas. I was happy in flannel pajamas. Even when Wells Fargo hung up on me twice I was happy. Fuck those guys!

What a relief it is to feel like I’ve quit aiding and abetting those craven motherfuckers!