Yeah, sure, he looks all contemplative and cute. But lets face it. Cats really aren't all ecstatic and rapturous over candle light and chocolates. Newton is merely waiting for it to move so he can pounce on it. Newt, along with his brother, Einstein, are what you might call pragmatic romantics. They love me because I feed them. It's not always best to have a clear understanding of a love relationship. Go with it if it works pretty much sums it up. Now get down from the table, you miserable yet adorable furball.
About a month ago I embarked on a social experiment. The only news I have to report is this. Whenever I have an urge to contact/message/call him or when I have an unanswerable conundrum about him running around in my head, I write a poem about it. This activity provides a somewhat cathartic effect. I am up to sixteen now, with two currently in progress. Which means at sometime tomorrow the count will be eighteen. Whatever works.
I will own up to being a physics geek. The math makes my brain hurt so I find the drawings helpful. Plus, this is February which contains Valentine's Day and this video has a pink heart representing the unstoppable force. Enjoy.
When Lil Sis Martine sent me these cups for Christmas, I couldn't figure out why. I mean, I don't give a flying fig about football. She said it was because of my fondness for pink and my love for black birds. Like crows. Or ravens. Until last night, I hadn't watched the Super Bowl for over twenty years. It doesn't count when you only tune in to the half time show. I have done that numerous times. But as far as actually watching the game action goes, nope. Around 7pm I plopped down on the couch with a Landshark, a plate of black bean avocado nachos, a blanky, my Chromebook, and a cat. And actually watched the game. The Baltimore Ravens won. So now I'm developing a system by which future Super Bowl winners could, just maybe, be predicted. It works like this. My sister, for whatever oddball (and a football is an odd ball, if you ask me) reason she may choose, sends me a pro football team logo emblazoned item for Christmas. This team shall win the Super Bowl. It's just that simple.
Yesterday was Groundhog Day. How more than appropriate that we take in our quasi-annual viewing of the film of the same name. For anyone who doesn't appreciate Bill Murray for the remarkably talented actor that he is, consider that he delivers the following speech with nary a snark. Were I to ever be the recipient of such a heartfelt soliloquy, I would be rendered into a quivering heap of rom-com blubber. You like boats, but not the ocean. You go to a lake in the summer with your family up in the mountains. There's a long wooden dock and a boathouse with boards missing from the roof, and a place where you used to crawl underneath to be alone. You're a sucker for French poetry and rhinestones. You're very generous. You're kind to strangers and children and when you stand in the snow you look like an angel.
I used to have one of these. My plastigoop creations never looked quite as fab as the ones on the cover of the box. But it was, just like the name says, fun. I think my favorite thing was the steamy hiss that ensued when I removed the mold from the little cooker device and dropped it into the plastic tray full of water. Ssssssss! Then peeling the flower or bug from its cavity and delighting in how it looked and smelled and felt squeaky between my fingers. I don't remember precisely how old I was when I received it either for my birthday or Christmas. Probably ten or so. I do remember having it long enough that I saved up my allowance in order to purchase more plastigoop so I could make more colorful flowery thingys. Nothing remains among the salvaged and saved playthings of my childhood of this particular toy. What reminded me of it is a lovely bracelet in pinks and browns that Linda made. It occurred to me that she is doing a grownup version of the Thingmaker with her polymer clay creations. If she had Fun Flowers as a child, I bet she made the coolest stuff with it.
I could not bear to put my sock monkey away with the rest of the Christmas decorations. I moved him into my room. He is hanging out with the stylish handbags and other assorted swank. No, I have not named him. Though this photo in particular inspires more than a few possibilities. For those of you who may not be aware, this is not my first association with monkeys. Don't even begin to start with that typewriters thing.
