Showing 38 posts from December 2008
Today, my good wife whom I love dearly has the bandages on her foot replaced, and my onery but still cool stepson probably will stay home one more day of school (and get a ton of homework brought home to him courtesy of his stepdad). And I'm getting sick of writing about both things, as I'm sure you're getting sick of reading about them.
So today I'm going to indulge my vanity. Over to the right, if you scroll down, you'll see a nifty little thing called a Feedjit live traffic map. It shows everyone who's "hit" your blog since you installed the map.
Now, according to this map, this humble ol' Blind Dog Blog has a small boatload of readers in its hometown of Olathe, Kansas (and surrounding Kansas City burbs), a respectable number of Hoosier participants, a couple folks north of Atlanta who apparently are eating several of its entries alive, a few European types, a couple of readers in Argentina and one in Singapore.
Y'all have me fascinated. Who are you people? What brought you here? Any requests? How about a quick post to let me know? Just click on the link that says "0 comments" (maybe there'll be a number there by the time you read this) and let me know. I promise not to stalk you, or infect your computer with viruses, or add you to six billion mailing lists, or any other evil of our modern electronic age. I am simply a humble blogger from Kansas who will do you no harm. So say howdy, okay?
DiDi was anything but a slacker. The more I think about it, the more I see it. She wore grooves into the back yard running from gate to gate, alerting us to such potential evils as other dogs, strange people, strange people with other dogs, and fog.
Does our cat do ANY of this? Pffft. You jest. She just stares. We can just imagine her watching thieves ransacking the house while thinking "Oh, go ahead. They'll just buy more. Besides, there's more space for me to lie in the sun now. Those inconsiderate people block every angle of the sun they can, while expecting me to eat brown pellets every day. The indignity of it all."
Other stuff:
* This is probably my last entry on this blog for at least a week, barring something happening I feel overwhelmingly compelled to write about. As the last post mentions, I head out for Indiana this Thursday, visiting friends and relatives in St. Louis and Louisville along the way. The friend in St. Louis is someone I knew back in high school who I haven't seen in close to--maybe over--20 years. It'll be good to see her again, and her husband too. Same age as me and has two grown and one almost grown daughters. She's a manager and doing quite well for herself.
* Speaking of managers, my good boss talked about Bosses Day to her husband, who apparently thought the whole concept was ridiculous. She asked what he was giving his boss for Bosses Day. His response was "a fat lip."
So, in honor of all bosses who received a fat lip from their loving and respectful employees last week, this is for you.
* Election Day is November 4th. Does anyone care? I'm having a hard time motivating myself to. I'll vote, I always do, but quite possibly neither for the pachyderm nor the jackass. Which, the Kansas ballot being somewhat limited, gives me the fine choice of Bob Barr (Libertarian), Chuck Baldwin (no party listed), or Ralph Nader (Independent). I've heard of Bob Barr and certainly of Ralph Nader, but never of Chuck Baldwin. So, I Googled him, and found out he is the Constitution Party candidate. To give you an idea of what his stands are, Ron Paul has endorsed him. His website is www.baldwin08.com. It is chock-full of his writings. Have a read. He'll either make profound sense to you or convince you he's insane. Such is American politics. I'm sorely tempted to vote for him, and that is as much out of me politically as you're going to get.
* Bosses Day is October 16. This Thursday. A day to show appreciation to the soul who makes or breaks your immediate livelihood. I'm blessed to have a very cool one right now whom I could write about for several paragraphs. I won't, because I want her to stay my boss; but I could. Honestly, I've had several bosses throughout my 25-odd years of working life, and I can count on one hand--maybe three fingers--the ones who were bad. I won't write about them here either. For a short time I was one, when I was a young and tender 25. Soured me for life on the whole prospect, though I like to think I'm learning enough from my current one to try again someday. She gives me a lot of hope that I could actually be myself and still succeed as one. She can, why not me? The point is, the stereotype of the loudmouth tyrannic narcissist expecting daily ass-kissings is actually rare, and the person managing you probably could stand some small show of respect. If nothing else maybe it's an excuse to have a beer before Friday. So, hey.
* Jeff Escape Day is October 23. This is the day I'm going home to Indiana by way of St. Louis to visit a friend I haven't seen in 20 years and Louisville to see my oldest brother. It's been over two years since I've been home. That's just too long. I'm looking forward to it.
* Jeff's Wife's Foot Freedom Day is next Tuesday, I hope. This should be the day she escapes The Bionic Boot and learns to walk like a normal human being once more. I kid her about having to goose-step for a week until she acclimates to not having the extra weight.
* How come nobody's commenting lately? I'm feeling insecure and needy. Please?
I have to face the sad truth: my cat is a slacker.
Why? I'd really like to know. She has the run of the house. She sleeps on everything soft and cushiony, including my wife (but not me). She gets two square pellet meals a day and all the water she can drink. She has a lizard and a fish she can watch endlessly, no doubt daydreaming about eating them. She gets scratched behind the ears a lot. Her litterboxes are cleaned daily and on demand.
So why, tell me, can she not handle a simple chore like waking my sixteen-year-old stepson up? How difficult can it be to roust a comatose teenager? I put her on his bed every morning and tell her to wake the kid up. Then I come to the kitchen, and five seconds later, there's the cat, expecting feeding, but no stepson out of bed.
It's frustrating. All she has to do is get in his face, yowl soulfully, and bite him on the nose; and he would be out of bed quickly, and all would be well. It would take, what, 30 seconds? Two minutes? Half an hour? Yet she will not perform this simple task despite having free room and board and constant entertainment.
I'm going to have to kick her out, I'm afraid. I'm going to have to expose her to the world. She's going to have to get a job, find her own apartment, pay for her own mice and rodentia (she eats our pellets only grudgingly, and stares at us expecting tribute at every dinner). It may just be the only way to make this cat realize one small task is not too much to require to be under our roof. Oh, she'll bat those pretty green eyes at me I'm sure; but she's gotten by on her cuteness for far too long.
I tell her this and she seems not to care. Spoiled brat! I’m sure she thinks all she has to do is mew softly and some other sugar daddy will show up and give her a car and a mink blanket and all the Fancy Feast she can gorge. She’s got another think coming! She’s never had to deal with the corner dogs—you know, the bad corner dogs—or the occasional falcon who’ll happily sweep her off her feet in ways she’s never imagined. She’ll regret all those days she cackled safely behind the glass at the squirrels that went to their doom that way. She needs to see the other side of life lurks on the precipice of being another species’ meal! Maybe then she’ll appreciate the small, simple task we ask, for which we graciously give far more than she should reasonably expect.
Wish me luck. Stay tuned.
Why? I'd really like to know. She has the run of the house. She sleeps on everything soft and cushiony, including my wife (but not me). She gets two square pellet meals a day and all the water she can drink. She has a lizard and a fish she can watch endlessly, no doubt daydreaming about eating them. She gets scratched behind the ears a lot. Her litterboxes are cleaned daily and on demand.
So why, tell me, can she not handle a simple chore like waking my sixteen-year-old stepson up? How difficult can it be to roust a comatose teenager? I put her on his bed every morning and tell her to wake the kid up. Then I come to the kitchen, and five seconds later, there's the cat, expecting feeding, but no stepson out of bed.
It's frustrating. All she has to do is get in his face, yowl soulfully, and bite him on the nose; and he would be out of bed quickly, and all would be well. It would take, what, 30 seconds? Two minutes? Half an hour? Yet she will not perform this simple task despite having free room and board and constant entertainment.
I'm going to have to kick her out, I'm afraid. I'm going to have to expose her to the world. She's going to have to get a job, find her own apartment, pay for her own mice and rodentia (she eats our pellets only grudgingly, and stares at us expecting tribute at every dinner). It may just be the only way to make this cat realize one small task is not too much to require to be under our roof. Oh, she'll bat those pretty green eyes at me I'm sure; but she's gotten by on her cuteness for far too long.
I tell her this and she seems not to care. Spoiled brat! I’m sure she thinks all she has to do is mew softly and some other sugar daddy will show up and give her a car and a mink blanket and all the Fancy Feast she can gorge. She’s got another think coming! She’s never had to deal with the corner dogs—you know, the bad corner dogs—or the occasional falcon who’ll happily sweep her off her feet in ways she’s never imagined. She’ll regret all those days she cackled safely behind the glass at the squirrels that went to their doom that way. She needs to see the other side of life lurks on the precipice of being another species’ meal! Maybe then she’ll appreciate the small, simple task we ask, for which we graciously give far more than she should reasonably expect.
Wish me luck. Stay tuned.
... things are better in the household of our late blind dog. My good wife whom I love dearly finally, finally, has the bandage off her operated-on foot for good. She still has to wear The Bionic Boot to work for two weeks, but at least it's over a sock-covered normal-size foot now, which surely will be more comfortable for her. As I write, she relaxes and watches television, the most mellow and toasty of mood she's been in for weeks. Life is good.
I'm pretty mellow myself, though I'm not sure why. Work sure as hell wasn't mellow today (why I will not blog about because my employer frowns upon such things, and even if it didn't I don't betray my friends like that). My stepson had an appointment with the family shrink to get his ADHD medication updated. I've never done the "parent talk" with the good doctor before--his mother usually takes him--and, having the word "step" in front of my title of father, I expected a grilling because, don't you know, stepparents are the lowest form of scum to walk the earth, breaking up natural marriages and all? It didn't happen. It was a reasonable and relaxed conversation. (And for the record, I did not break up my wife's first marriage--she was widowed--nor have I broken up ANY marriages, nor do I intend to do so.) I even got to work within five minutes of my usual time.
You ever feel like that? Even though your life has stress left, right, up, down and sideways, probably much more than mine, you still feel relaxed and secure? Tell me about it. If you want to witness, witness. If you want to vent, vent. But do leave your thoughts--this blog's been too quiet lately.
