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Sunday, January 28, 2007

scatterbrained, incoherent post

And now the fifty meter dash for thoughts with no sense of direction.
On your mark,
Get set,
bang.

  • i had a chance to toss the old lacrosse ball around with my eldest son yesterday. It was hard to concentrate because i was repeatedly getting creeped out by a Field of Dreams experience. As if, instead of flingin' and catchin' with my son, a teenage me had come out of the cornstalks. Which is doubly weird since up till he hit gawky pupa i would have said he looked like his mother.
  • hmm. Think i just called myself 'gawky.'
  • 'pupa?' ewww.
  • i have also reached the conclusion that Elwood Station, that's what i call this tumble-down pile of matches, our well ventilated wooden tent, our twin we share with a squirrel in the attic, the bane of my existence, the big, blue box o' belicosity, i have made it as official as such a thing need be that Elwood Station is cursed. Tools secret themselves, even when i buy duplicates. Despite seven years of pouring enough raw materials into this black hole of futility to rebuild a plague-riddled, war-ravaged fourth-world nation, i can still get halfway into a project and be missing the one nail that would have made it a productive day. Techniques that work just fine, nay! bring success and fortune in my professional life as a remodeler bring nothing but abysmal, beard-tearing, sackcloth wearing, self-flagellating, weeping and teeth gnashing failure here. Short of an exorcism on the scale of Operation Overlord i am considering a new name...Sisyphus Station.
  • Friday afternoon i set two goals for myself to accomplish this weekend: one-finish the purchase, packaging and shipping of my long-distance friend's Christmas gifts. (Yes, i am aware it is nearly February. i am somewhat less than punctual and consider it still on time if i get it to him before his birthday in March. Yes, i have often missed this deadline too.) Self-appointed milemarker of self-loathing number two-write next Sunday's worship service. So, here i am, two cups of coffee into Sunday morning, willfully, somewhat guiltily declining my Heavenly Father's invitation to brunch with the family and i have yet to make serious headway into either task. i suck.
  • Rascal, my youngest son, is a video game junkie. In an effort to meet him where he is i sat down to a little EA sports Nascar racing. Three restarts in practice mode later my virtual driver finally unhooked his seatbelt, abandoned his smoking ruin of a car, froggered the pixel crushing river of death of other racers flying past, scaled the outer wall and ran screaming into the stands to get away from me. Apparently my Atari-trained, five thumbed paws can't quite grasp the idea of a nuanced joystick. It ain't Indy 500, that's all i know.
  • Sign that the scruffy puppy is getting to be an old dog. i'm starting to like a nice, hot cup of tea at night before bed.
  • Other signs: my knees, my hands, my sciatic, my elbows, my jaw, my ability to stay awake past eight, scatterbrained, incoherent posts...
  • Since the Mynk has screamed out of pit road and back into the Rat-Race 500 as the manager of an H&R Block office, (all of a sudden i'm picturing a black car with a big, green square on the hood and a pit crew of tax professionals. Go Mynk, Go! ;) ever since then i have taken over the cooking duties here at Sisyphus Station. All hail the crockpot! Preparing a meal at five in the morning before work however has nixed two of my favorite parts of being the chef: Blasting the Blues from the kitchen radio and Shooting the booze. i generally cook with alcohal, some of which goes into the food.
  • Speaking of which, i gotta go get dinner prepped. Today's special: Black Bean soup with a dash of Buddy Guy and shot of Jose' Cuervo 1800. Mangia!

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