Sunday, September 10, 2017

So Yesterday Being Saturday Means This Has To Be Sunday, Or It's My Day Off

It's so strange how the day feels like a day between Saturday and Sunday. Yes, I've lived through the phenom before, this extra day reserved for times like this. It only comes into use after eclipses, and strange weather occurrences like the Galveston Flood aka the Great Galveston Hurricane. What would the betwixt and between day be called if it were recognized by markers of time? Scatterday? Something beginning with an S though, right? Secondaryday? No? Do Over Day? There's no S though. Yeah. But that'd be okay though, huh? Everyone deserves a do-over day. No. We might have to add another week to the calendar if our extreme weather patterns keep adding up. Scratch that one?

Amazon delivering on a Sunday still really throws me off, but delivering in two days what was promised in seven truly makes it almost too Twilight Zone-ish. Maybe I'll just write this today, save it as a draft, and post it on a day when life feels less strange. Well, hell. Strange is almost an everyday thing here, so . . .

Ever read a book in five minutes? Ever read a book that was so depressing sad you felt it all over the pages? "What did I expect from a book with such a title?" you ask. Well, smarty Arty, that's not what I meant. It's a compliment. The author and illustrator did what they set out to do. The two expressed a universal emotion exceptionally well: Sadness. Its causes and effects. Sadness squared is actual depression. Sad is just sad. 

I've got it! The Day between Saturday and Sunday should be called Shatterday! On this day we can shatter a day's worth of "wish I could do overs . . . " That's better, yes?

Michael Rosen's Sad Book has one of the best endings ever. I promise. I wish it didn't stink so loudly though.  Perhaps the Universe is sending me a major message in code. Maybe it's telling me it's time to stop wasting time reading. . . Old books, new books, and magazines are more toxic to me and my peculiar peers these days. Soy inks aren't necessarily all good inks as it turns out. Dust mites, silverfish . . . New inks? New sizings for paper? You have no idea how old all this has gotten to be. *sigh* The book is meant to be a gift. Surely it's not fair to give a gift that makes me sick? What if it makes them sick too? What would you do? It needs to go out in Monday's mail. 

Did I tell you I stopped buying dinosaur books for Alex after the last one I gave him triggered an asthma attack? We were on the patio and you know how kids read, right? Faces all close to the page, inhaling words and ink too. He'd read and trace along the words and illustrations with his finger before he'd stop to tell me bits of info he knows but isn't included in the text before him. 

After awhile he coughed. He kept clearing his throat and he huffed like the big bad wolf. You'd think I'd have read the clues, right? Erin was asthmatic before she was three. I ended up walking Alex home because his chest was tightening, and he said he needed his inhaler, only he used Spanish to describe it. His sister knew what was up the moment she opened the door and saw him. 

It was awhile before he was well enough to come over to thank me for the book. I believe it was his way of letting me know that he was okay and he said it wasn't my fault. I've held on to that guilt until now. Telling it here is part of me letting it go. Guilt is a powerful thing. I haven't taken him to the book store or the hobby store since then. But I gave him an old Natural History Magazine with dinosaurs a few months back. All was well. 

I thought I'd learned my lesson but I guess not. I bought 24 pencils encased in what might be toxic plastic. I have no idea what the erasers might smell like. They're stored behind the door to this room. Unopened. Heck I don't want to make myself sick either. So,

And there's this. The vinyl doesn't stink but I didn't open the backpack before I mailed it either. See? This is my Shatterday. If I could have a do-over these would be included. There's a watercolor set but are there smelly markers too? That pathway to hell is still paved with good intentions. *sigh*

Plagues come in different forms, don't they? Karma calling? We've been plagued with fruit flies this month. Of course any remedy has to be natural so I went with apple cider vinegar and dish soap. Erin advised sweet wine. Fruit flies are secret alcoholics. I forfeited an entire bottle of pomegranate wine to the elimination cause. No more bananas in the house! 

The little _______s get drunk and hang out on the saucer and ramekin rims like they're in fly bars. Hahaha! Bar flies. Get it? They land and lift off to party on the ceiling I guess, since there are little dots of wine on the rims too. Then some of them are so drunk they fall in and I have to dump the contents, refresh and wipe down surfaces like I'm Suzy Homemaker. I have better things to do but I don't want fruit flies in my tea cup or anywhere else in my home either! The little blankety-blanks!

So. Last evening, totally beyond annoyed, I swatted a fly whose flight plan crossed my path. It fell to the floor, or so I imagined, else what was the dot on the tile before me? Without having to think about it, I lifted the chair beside me, and instead of picking the little _______ up off the floor with a paper towel, I just put the chair leg on top of his sorry ass. (See drawing below.)

(drawn 9-10-17 @ 2:06 AM)

The chair is a lovely one made from teak. Made in Vietnam. It's low. It has a lovely white cushion and three or four back slats. The arm rests are ideal. It's a patio chair. Yep. But it's my indoor chair. I get to watch the backyard's great outdoors through the kitchen's glass door any time I want, which is where flies belong. And when I see old houseflies resting on branches or leaves, I disturb them out of spite. I'll take a swipe and watch them act all surprised, and I grin with glee. That'll learn 'em. 

Karma comes unbidden, huh? 

Surprise! I didn't use the word letter anywhere in this post. Not "mail" either, except here of course. And yes, they called me Egg Head in school. What's an egg head anyway? Brb. Gonna Google it

Even letter writers need a day off. Draw something silly instead!


  1. Oh, that fruit fly ... so funny! I was at a dog shoot last month and the people had fly guns. Actual plastic rifles that shoot salt and kills flies. They demonstrated it for me and it was a HOOT! Only $44.95 at the outdoor store. I'll pass on that but bet my hubby would go in search of flies if he had one.


    1. Gosh but you make me feel better about myself. I cringed after posting the drawing, thinking folks will think I'm a nasty, lazy, no account, shiftless woman who can't be bothered to pick up a stunned fruit fly. Now it seems just as funny as it was when I drew the experience at 2 AM.

      I read about the fly shooter/fly gun somewhere? Or did I watch a demo on Vice News? LOL. I just had a vision! Egg Head shoots at a fly and JC gets caught in a fly-by. Your mister sounds like someone I know. JC uses my BB pistol to scare the neighbor's rats away from the bird food.

      Aw gee Susan, thanks for liking my draws. :) I'm not a trained cartoonist so they could be better, but drawing is such good medicine for me. It's a small part of my life that's undisciplined. :) I finally allow myself to color outside the lines! Yay! THANK YOU!

      I'll return to drawing realistic birds when I'm 70-ish or something. You keep shooting with your camera. You're doing so much good with your third eye. Hugs.