Why do Norwegians cook with so much milk?
To add color and spice to their food.
If you ever ate my grandmother's cooking, you would be howling with laughter at that one.
The pooches and I encountered a most curious creature on our walk the other day. At first glance, it looked like a stick. A burnt stick, curved like a piece of charred drift wood, right there on road. The dogs completely ignored it, while I stooped to take a closer look. It wasn't wood at all, but a chameleon, turned almost completely black to blend in with the asphalt. Now, I'm sure this method of defense works well in the rainforest. It certainly worked with my dogs. The little critter had no color (or is black considered all color?) and no smell. But I knew that wouldn't protect him from the next 2000 pound mass of steel and rubber rolling his way. So I picked him up. He was not happy about this and opened his mouth in protest, but no sound came out. Apparently, chameleons in Hawaii don't have the same gift of gab as Budweiser iguanas and Geico Geckos. Gingerly, I placed him at the edge of the forest lining that stretch of road. (Picture me dressed in the flowing red robes of a Buddhist monk, head shaved and a placid half grin on my face. All life is sacred, right? "Run along, little chameleon. Be safe!")
Chameleons aren't native, of course. Other than a few beautiful, endangered birds, some insects and sea life (which ironically we almost never see), nothing is from here, including most of the people. The chameleons are native in the sense that they were born here. They've got that over me.
Lately our weather is either rain or vog. Today is sunny, so it's vog. I really can't complain, however, since much of the Midwest has been flash frozen to super-sub zero. It's 82 degrees in L.A. today, which is perfect of course, except for the fact that it is L.A.
I've been farting around the past couple of days (literally and figuratively, but the literal is an issue with broccoli with details that you probably don't want to hear, so we'll just dwell on the figurative), yes, where was I? Oh yeah, farting around, lazily ignoring my keyboard. Today, it's back to the writing grind. Once I get started, I don't mind being there, parked in the chair, staring at the words and struggling to add more. It's just those first few lines that stick me, like stepping into mud and sinking up to my shins.
Life is so exciting here. Ron and I put the awning back up over our driveway yesterday so the car and tractor will stay dry. Dry, that is, relative to how they would be exposed to the daily deluge, though not dry relative to a vehicle parked in Las Vegas. Shoots, brah. Stuff rusts indoors here. You should see my two-year-old toaster and the door to my refrigerator. We had taken it down to allow for a backhoe guy to get his rig through several weeks ago. But the rain wouldn't let up and the guy's now gone (he was just a fellow Ron met down the road), so no hoe. I bought another litter pan for the kitties. With three babies plus Abby preferring the indoor clay to the outdoor dirt (Lucy and Mr. Sox always go outside), we needed another. They're cute little poopers, but poop they do, in spades. Make that spade-loads. After purchasing said pan, toothpaste, dog food, chewies, biscuits and a few random, boring groceries, we're out of cash 'til I get paid. Whomever coined the phrase "Money can't buy happiness" was an idiot. Life is much more fun (and therefore happier) when you can buy whatever you want. Seriously. Money can't buy happiness. What a maroon.
A hui hou. Aloha!
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