Racing Thoughts

My intensites are running at intense-even-for-me levels this pre-dawn. Again, the visualization of high intensity electrical lines runs through my psychosis. Not the intensely regulated voltages which are currently powering the laptop upon which I currently type and the cell phone charger which is silently feeding the phone which will ride on my pocket, as usual. Yes, dear, I know. . . ALL of my technology is antiquated. My phone could be MUCH smarter, as could my literally heavyweight laptop. Perhaps when one of them breaks I will let you show me all the latest greatest shops you have so carefully researched. Yes, dear, I know you are ready NOW. Perhaps after I finish moving this demolition pile. Well just it all. . . I am sorry you are bored, Dear.

The component within the visualization which calms my racing thoughts this morning is the usually white cannister to which the overhead power lines are connected to distribute the power to a smaller collective of buildings, et al. Don't let the distance fool ya. That cannister is larger than it appears from the patio. The intensity of the power supply would literally fry every one of our gadgets if we plugged into it directly. Film makers love the dramatic effects of having one of those lines hopping freely around an accident scene. The folks who have to catch that power line and put it back in its place are seldom begrudged the big bucks they are paid by the drama artists who are working their vision of that accident scene.

Before I find myself lost in metaphor again. . .

Yesterday was a busy day. It is stillnae time to pack up for the 14 hour to drive the Grand Party, but a surly releif from all the wait time the Gnarly Old Dickhead (G.O.D) has been torturing me with. It started comparatively early with the resonating knock of the brass door knocker on the front door. My groaned AssUmption was that it was one of the local Romeos who are convinced a foxy older woman like me needs their manly protection. I am running out of polite ways to say, "Fuck off, shithead." I pulled myself from whatever DS entry was interrupted by the knock and was reviewing my list of ways to say, "Fuck off" as I stomped to the door to pull it open and. . .

I'm sorry, K. Looks like I mistook you for somebody else again. . . Thank you for your forgiveness. What are you doing in those clothes? Not even *I* would wear that outfit to a shopping mall unless I was formally contracted to do so. Legal approval required. You want to scuff your manicure? The Lord does, indeed, work in mysterious ways.

K and I were in danger of the sin of pride when we stopped for lunch on the way back from dumping the first load. I ate almost all of my lunch!!! French fries whelm me easily. Still, I finished most of them. We were feeling fit and ready to roll as we headed back for the next load. As I prepared to back Boy Toy through the still open gate in front of the demolition pile, I was harshly reminded that this is a wetland region. Watch that mud. . . You toying with me again, you Gnarly Old Dickhead? I ain't your fucking play pretty.

The drama of getting Boy Toy out of the mud eliminated the possibility of a second load. He is free now and in position to finish the journey between the now closed yard gates. K promised to be back around the same time today. I wish I had noted what time that was. . . No big. It will unfold at the speed of life.



It is not unheard of where I grew up to carry fifty pounds of cat litter at all times, with two planks (two by twelves). Against mud/snow issues such as Boy Toy just could not resist, b/c, being a boy, hey, boys and mud, right? Let's roll with the sexist cliche for a second...

That odd trivia aside, the speed of life is everchanging, so I wish you puma purrrrrrz to help keep things ticking. Bad metaphor mixing unintended.

Love them puma purrrrrrz. . . Eagerly appreciated. Thank you.

Forgive me for getting literal with your clever metaphor, beloved puma, but. . . Sexist freak flag waving AGAIN. . .

Mud pies, mud pies
I love mud pies
Mud pies, mud pies are for me
I likes 'em runny
I likes 'em clumpy
I likes 'em mixed and in between
Add sticks you gots bricks
Add sand you gots cement
Add some loam and it's potting soil

Not a one of my five brothers, nor the five sisters were willing to take me on in a literally childish mud fight. United, maybe, but not alone.

If I am translating correctly, Boy Toy, says I can keep my mud pies. The effort to get some traction to the spinning tire cost him some literal tread. Nothing like the smell of burning tire tread. . . If my literal ifs were in alignment, I *should* have replaced the tire last night. I willnae be surprised if I find that tire flat this morning. Reckon I should go check. I was careful to park him on literal high ground, just in case.

Memory check:

"Mud Pies" to the tune of "Shortnin Bread" written by James Whitcomb Riley in 1900. Cartoon from which I stole the melody still unlocated. Currently popular as, "Five Little Monkeys."

Editorial note:
The correct answer isnae important in my memory checks. My literal memory was literally damaged by the Trauma Induced Amnesia. Memory checks are about testing the literal limits of my strictly personal memory functions on any given day. It goes haywire easily and often.

Apologies. Why, btw, does the truck have to be Boy Toy? Is it a toy that's a boy or a boy's toy? My mom called her pickup truck "Cinnamon". Flaming red, and aabout as traditionally "girly" as a ... um.... what's traditionally girly?...Well, not my mom! :-)

Scarily, I figured mud pies was to "Shortenin' Bread" without the second note. It was all that made sense to my eyes' ears. (? What sense is that?!)

And of course! Keep your mud pies, I was being silly and failing at humor. (Per usual?) .... My favorite feeling is earth in my bare hands. I don't grasp the purpose of gardening "gloves" unless a thistle is involved. (For that wonder of nature, I'll wear leather gloves. Yowch. Stepped on one barefoot once.)

I'm told to plant hellebore. I intend to culture some "weeds" that attract pollinating critters and won't require seventeen hours of attention per day. I annoy neighbors by turning my bakc yard into a haven for thsoe awful native plants that they want to kill with their golf-course grasses.

Doyou know, not once in all the years on the farm did my late older sister manage to become dirty or muddy? My mom, however, had to orde rme ot hose off before I was allowed indoors after I was out p laying with the dogs in the woods, creek, mud, whatever.

I reminisce b/c I miss living where nobody found it odd to usebare hands with dirt. I mean, okay, not the manure pile, but... I cannot bring myself to civilize to the level of my in-laws. Bare feet, bare hands, bare earth = happier puma!

"Scarily, I figured mud pies was to "Shortenin' Bread" without the second note. It was all that made sense to my eyes' ears. (? What sense is that?!) "

My current favorite name for that sense is, "Gossamer Connection." Don't tell my shrinks. *They* call my "Gossamer Connection" a "Delusion of Grandeur." The names for ^it^ are still rapid cycling on both sides of the therapy desk.

I'll bet you dollars to wishes that you also have some accurate visuals on what happened when my mean big sibs and their playmates tried to take my mud pies away from me. . . My gentle big brother was smart enough to be out of harm's way before the battle began. The little sibs sure enjoyed the show. Literally. Didn't even complain about the shrapnel. . .

Insert Twain quote here. . . Of course fact is stranger than fiction. Fiction is obliged to make sense.

I like Gossamer!

Good Twain reference.

Puma purrs. . .

Arfie , I truly admire your resilience. Triple hugs.