Slate is now inviting word nerds like you and me to diagram the Donald’s endless “sentences.”Stop laughing! That is not a sentence, it is the sound of a million primary school teachers crying in frustration.
Someone else’s driveway can seem ancient, broken and glamorous. However, this is just a shady spot on a damp street.
Here at Poor Impulse Control, we have a new motto: Words. They’re not for everyone!
Baby trash panda looks totally adorable when not lunging for me.
The raccoons have been gently evicted from the eaves of our house and relocated to a more rural locale. We hope for the best for them, but at least one did not have the best survival instincts. Fingers crossed, they live long, happy lives, full of delightful and mysterious leftovers. We hope so, but they couldn’t stay here. Pete found one of the babies inside the chicken run, nibbling chicken food, near very alarmed chickens, so that had to be the end of that.
I have one more week of American Sign Language class. Earlier this evening, I suddenly realized I’d acquired enough of the basics to tell a story. As you know, stories are my thing; being able to tell a story is kind of hip, kind of cool, kind of Charlie. Tomorrow, I’m going to tell a story in class, which would be much like tearing off my Foster Grants to reveal my superhero identity, but since I am a middle-aged person, I have zero doubt my young classmates will notice a bird, a plane, Superman.
I think about writing. I do. Every day, all the time, I think about writing because I am a writer. It is one of the basic things I know about me, like that I am left-handed and that no one will see my natural hair color without a court order. I’d also need another six hours every day to be all the other things I know about me.
Pete is thinking about bread. We get up in the dark every day now and get on our bicycles before the mornings lose their blueness. It is interesting for him to contemplate breads he will later bake while we dodge drivers oblivious and homicidal. Tomorrow: miniature flatbreads, but we could use a better bike path.
Several of my annual projects are close to completion; I may have mentioned it. Perhaps I didn’t, but thought I was boring you senseless about project x, project y, project z and group efforts 1, 2 and 3. This happens, sometimes. One summer, I thought I was complaining ad nauseum about a family wedding, but it turned out I had zipped my Love That Red lips. Only one person at my job remembered hearing I’d be celebrating crankily, while everyone else scratched their heads. I’ll take pictures. Also: do not scratch that.
Lettuce. Is too!
Pssst! My little town has a weekend-long, town-wide garage sale every September. Last spring, a friend who teaches second grade in the city about 200 yards across a mossy river, asked folks to clean out their shelves for extra kids’ books. Yesterday, I collected the books on my street; I wish I could have gone a few blocks in any direction, but my creaky back lodged a formal complaint. Anyhoo, books for the kids. Shhhhhh! It’s a secret!
Eucalyptus and Asparagus, obviously on their way out for a couple of cosmos.
Brain Damage #1
“Why is everyone laughing?”
The adult said, “You asked
over and over for someone
‘Pass the butter, please.’
Then you said, ‘This place
is like Congress: you have to apply
to get anything passed.'”
Whoever is home in my noggin
when I am out
should not quit his day job.