It Took So Long To Break It

In honor of Random Memory Monday, I present a reminiscence from a whopping 24 hours ago. Hey, I'm getting older: I've got to catch these things before they slip away...

One Friend was up here for a little birthdaying this weekend. My birthday, her dime, because she loves me just that much. Ain’t she a peach? Seriously, I sometimes weep for how unworthy I am of the good friends I have. (Of course, at other times I weep for how unworthy I am of the bad bastards that otherwise surround me, but that’s a therapy session for another time.)

One Friend took me for sushi on Friday night (Johnny thinks sushi’s a dirty whore, so he didn’t join us), and I got carded when I ordered my Sapporo Extra Dry! Happy Birthday to me! I thought the waitress might see my cumpleaños on the card there and comp me my cerveza, but that puta no lo hecho (I don’t speak a word of Japanese that isn’t on the sushi menu, so forgive me if I make do with what’s left of my Español).

Being mistaken for 20 on my 39th birthday could very well have been the highlight of my weekend, but then One Friend surprised me with a Saturday morning trip to the Harbor Islands. And when I say “surprised,” I mean: she blindfolded me, put me in the back seat of her car, and drove the thousand or so yards from my house over the bridge to the dock from where you catch the boat.

Seriously, I can just about hit the Harbor Boat dock with a rock thrown from the AssVac’s door. And yet, when I took off my blindfold, I had no freakin’ idea where we were. “Are we getting on a train?” I asked my One Friend. Yes, Erin. Because trains always come in over the water, and they always make big foghorn noises when they do. Doy.

The Harbor Islands were the Best Day Trip Ever. Did you know there’s this big medieval-looking fortress on an island in Boston Harbor that reminds Johnny and I of this castle we climbed that time we were in Ghent? I just googled it – the castle, I mean – and I looked in Wikipedia, but neither of us are sure, exactly, which castle we saw. I think it was this one, but Johnny says it wasn't on the water. Anyway, we do know that it was definitely Ghent. As in Belgium. And this star-shaped fortress-thing I'm talking about that we saw this weekend was definitely in Boston Harbor – as in Massachusetts. As in U.S.A. So I thought that was pretty freakin’ cool. It’s called Ft. Warren (although to be honest I had to google that to know for sure): the signs say the fort itself was George Washington’s idea, and Abe Lincoln ordered Confederate prisoners held there during the Civil war!

Cool...

Then we went to this other island and climbed a hill made of garbage and tunnel guts. At the top Johnny and I had a little disagreement over which direction was due east. While we were, erm, discussing the finer points of the compass and the map, One Friend pretended an immediate need to see what was written on a distant sign, so that she could sidle away from the hot and mildly angry couple – who in turn realized they were making asses of themselves and followed her across the grass. Turns out the sign she was looking at said that due east is over there. Which meant we were both wrong, which I know will shock and awe you all.

While we hiked back down the island, Johnny threw his knee out. It popped back in again, but we decided that was a sign we ought to go home and have a cookout in the yard. This was a big success, despite the fact that the food part was a proper bust.

First of all, the gas grill was still all warped and melty from the chicken-wrangling fiasco, so we had to bring the charcoal one up from the cellar. It turned out we hadn’t cleaned that wee thing since last time we used it, which (we think) was sometime in 2005. Then One Friend and I got stuck at the grocery store with the Dumbest Cashier in the Universe, who froze up in confusion when he saw the beer, but then had the nerve to say “No, you look more than old enough” when we offered our IDs.

The corn we bought (and stole) turned out to be ultra-yackalicious, and the cajun spice we tossed the shrimp in had altogether too much salt. I’ll bam you, Mr. Lagasse! It would have tasted better if we’d flavored it with earwig poo. Ooh, and speaking of earwig poo, you should have seen the army of pinchy fuckers I found in the cooler when I went to fill it up with beer! Or on second thought, you shouldn't have. Seen them, that is. Because then you would be scarred for life like I was. Earwigs. Yeesh.

Despite the fact the food was crap, though, we had a fabu time. One Friend doesn’t drink, so she watched Johnny and I get toasted and then she reminisced with Johnny about their competitive swimming days (they didn’t swim together, of course, but it’s water: you flap your arms and blow some bubbles; how different can it be?).

At some point in the evening, I thought I heard the phone ring in the living room. I ran, but didn’t get to it in time, so I brought it outside with me in case whoever it was tried to call again. It never did ring again, though, and now I’m pretty sure it never will. Because after eight hours and nine beers, I forgot to bring it back in when we went to bed.

And then it rained.

It rained. A lot.

So, to anyone who’s ever called us: consider yourselves warned. It’s possible that we don’t have your numbers. There’s a slight chance that, for some of you, we’ve been making do with flipping through our caller ID cache every time we’ve wanted to be in touch. And it’s a sad fact that the cache has now gone the way of pastry in Macarthur Park .

What I’m trying to say is: there’s an ever-so-remote chance you'll never hear from us again unless you call us first. So call us! Everyone we’ve ever known!

Please?

Call us?

Booo...

Does This Door Suck, Or What?

I know I said I was taking the day off today, and I am. And I know I said I wasn't going to bitch about the door for a while, and I won't. But I have to just say this...

Apparently it doesn't matter whether I bring the thing inside or not. If it rains outside, this magic door gets wet, even if it's inside. Look!

See the dark parts? Those are where I was squirting it yesterday -- but it was dry when I brought it in last night, I swear. I thought it was stain, or water-stain, and I thought it was odd that it seemed darker this morning (which I assumed would mean drier) than it was fourteen hours ago (when, okay, it might have still been just a little damp). But when I took a closer look, I saw a sheen. And when I touched it, it was slick.

The reason it's actually not raining today like they predicted apparently has something to do with the fact that my door is sucking all the moisture out of the air.

I'm not bitching. I'm just saying.

Anon.

Day 12, Project @#!^!: Follow The Good Intentions

Last week -- last Thursday -- the reason I couldn’t do anything around here or write about it was that I had promised to milk the goats. Remember? The baby goats? Well, the baby goats are weaned now and that means their mamas need a-milkin’. Papa goat-owner is away for a while (down the Cape with Johnny, as a matter of fact), and the person he got to milk them for him couldn’t make it that one day, so I volunteered. I’d milked a goat before: why not help a brother out? (And if that sentence has ever been uttered before, I’ll chew on a tin can.)

Except, it might be a stretch to say I’ve milked a goat before. Not dry, by any means. Certainly not by myself. And not for like twenty -- okay, more like thirty -- freakin’ years. But I'd done it, in the sense that I had once, long ago, made milk come out of a goat, and that’s got to count for something. Even if now I’m thinking that it might have been a cow…

Well, I got milk to come out of the goat just fine. I just didn’t get much of it to go into the bucket. Actually, that isn’t fair. It went into the bucket. Mostly. It just didn’t stay there. I don’t know what happened. Mama goat jumped up on the milking thing no problem, but right about there is where things started going wrong.

Mama goat said “Hey, get your hands off me there!” and aimed a good sharp kick. I caught the bucket as it bounced off my chest and decided the best way to go about this would be to hold on to her foot with one hand while I milked her with the other. This, unfortunately, left the bucket and all three babies to run the fly route on me.

Baby goat #1 said “Hey, what’re you doing up there, Mama? Can I come up there, Mama? Wow, it’s high up here, Mama!” And Mama said “Get down, baby goat!” And kicked him. Whoops, there went the bucket off the milking stand.

Baby goat #2 said “Hey, what’s in that bucket? Can I have some? Whoops! Snarf! Cough! I can’t drink out of a bucket yet. Help, I’m drowning! Phew, that was a close one. Bye!” And took the bucket with him when he jumped to dry land.

Baby goat #3 said “Hey, Mama! You still got milk in those things? I didn’t know you still got milk in those things! Can I have some? Can I? Huh?” “NO!” Mama goat said, and knocked the baby -- ass over milk-bucket, as it were -- straight off the milking stand.

And on like this for two mama-goats’ worth until they both were dry. I got the milk out of the goats all right -- and I know that’s the important thing -- but when I was done even the two ounces I had managed to save in the bottom of the bucket were so foul with goat hair and goat feet and goat shit that I gave up and fed it to the dog. Drove all the way home smelling like goat cheese, too.

So why am I telling you all this, when I’m supposed to be reporting back on my latest Manifestly Puritan achievement?

Because I’m not going to say today what I plan to do tomorrow, anymore. Every time I do, my g-d bucket winds up getting kicked all up and down the yard…

It’s not raining today, in case you were wondering. It’s beautiful, lovely, 75 degrees. But this morning, when Johnny was setting out to bleach that g-d door, I told him not to do it because the weatherman said it was gonna rain. So I had to hit the 5F5 again this afternoon. Except then my train was late going into and coming home from work (“switch problems” and “police action,” respectively), and when I finally made it back to the car at the end of the day I got stuck in traffic. Because June 4 to July 4 is the optimal time to re-pave Quincy Shore Drive -- you know, Quincy Shore Drive? Where the frigging beach is?

So today Prudence Puritan got home from work, opened the coffee can she’d stored the hinges in, poured a bunch of 5F5 over the lot and put the lid back on. There. That’s her manifesto for today. First thing tomorrow she promises to--

No.

Tomorrow she promises to wake up. That’s all. Anything that happens after that is gravy.

(Shit. You think I shouldn’t have said that? Have I jinxed the waking-up part, now? Oh, well...)

Day 12: Screw it.
Time: An endless song.
Cost: Not less than everything.
Bananas: Priceless