Flukes and Spouts

I wonder if whales have a sense of humor? Do you think that they ponder our existence at all? Or are we like squawking seagulls dropping doo doo over their heads? You know--loud, obnoxious, bossy, pushy, messy.

Yes, we went out whaling again and this time we got us some whales. One hundred ninety people shooting at them like mad. It was a mess. I thought we would capsize every time they would say, "Whale at 3 o'clock!" and everyone would stampede to the keelhaul side, which is nautical speak for the right side of the boat. The left side is the peg leg side, the front of the boat is aye matey, and the back of the boat is the poopdeck side. I am so educated on those terms now. (There is some fancy measurement on when a boat becomes a ship, something like if it is longer than 150 yellow rubber duckies it is a ship.)

I felt kinda of bad for the little kids on board. (Yes, yes. There were little kids on the boat. No, I didn't heave any of them overboard. I was the model of restraint.) I mean, they totally don't get the o'clock stuff. We are going to have to invent a whole new way to do that. They have no idea how to tell time. My Teddy Bear got a fancy new watch for Christmas and she loves wearing it because it's pretty, but do not ask what time it is. She will pull out her cell phone. She says the watch is just a fashion accessory, it's not really meant to tell you the time. How could it be she tells me...there are no numbers on it, only little lines. Whatever. Sesame Street needs to get cracking on this problem.

Anywho, whales, dolphins, and sea lions were out in force...and so were the looky loos. Not us, of course. We motored out past buoy SD-1. Sailboats were far out on the horizon. The San Diego skyline was off to our left looking beautiful. I had a Bloody Mary in hand. Sunlight sparkling off the water. Life was beautiful. Except for all the people on the boat. If you remember, the last time we went whaling, it was raining and there was maybe 30 people on that excursion. This time it was sunny but not hot and we were packed like sardines with 190 people. And thank heavens the little kids stayed on the middle deck for the most part. When I did become such a curmudgeon? I used to be able to tolerate decibel levels that would make a Children of Bodom concert seem quiet by comparison. I was the mom that let the kids leave the cool fort they made in my living room up for days because they weren't done with their adventure.


Back to point. 


You could see other boats wayyyyy out there. Until we started seeing whales. Then it was like a crash on the 405 freeway. The other boats start racing toward us going right over where we had seen a whale. That is OUR whale, go away! There we are floating with our engines trying to be as quiet as possible and here comes the gawkers (not us, of course). It was a traffic jam. Gridlock. 

I think the whales are going to need a car pool lane. 

And the whales were everywhere~! Flukes and spouts. One at a time. Two at a time, sometimes even four at a time. There we were running back and forth trying to see them all. I finally just stayed put in the perfect spot. 

I don't think my mailman will be amused. But like I have said before, he can bite me. He only brings me letters from the tax man and junk mail. 

So, is everybody ready to float around and drink rum and yo ho ho on the Pacific Ocean? I'm sure that a whale spout enema doesn't hurt too much.

If You Waive Good By, Is It Really Hello?

Aisle be missing you...what? Did I say something wrong? Know, it looks write two me. 

I was in the shopping isle at my local market. What a splash! Serial and crackers all over the place. 

What??!!

Gosh, quit interrupting. So rude. 

Fine. I guess I better get back to work  since you can't seem to contain yourself. (Do you know in medical transcription you can't use contractions? No, you can't, not at all.) 

How much does grammar matter? Spelling? Do you judge? And, by the weigh, is it judgment or judgement? Traveling or travelling? Must be proper, you know. 

For all you righters out there, how many times do you write and rewrite a post? Lots? Nun at all? Some of you are so eloquent. Your posts have a point, they follow a path, they get to some conclusion. Some of you are snarky and sarcastic. Born storytellers. I wait with baited breath for the next line. 

Or are you like me? Start typing, let it fly, hope it makes cents, and then off it goes? (And spend more time looking for the proper video to go with your post?) I can never be a real author, it takes too much time. I have Blog Attention Deficit Disorder. BADD. This format suits me fine...short, hopefully, pithy, and if you make mistakes, you hope people will forgive you for egregious errors and lack of loquaciousness. Nobody wants to be thought of as a diminutive dimwit. 

Can you tell it's Monday and I want the week to end already? It's Presidents' Day for goodness sake. Nobody is in school, the mailman is taking the day off, the bank is holding my money hostage, so why are my docs in the box...I mean, office? 

Sigh. 

Why Do They Call It a T-Shirt?

L at Tampons and Chocolate is very bad...she sent me an e-mail asking if I had seen this video. No, I say and off I go to YouTube land to take a peek. That's like telling a crack addict, "Just one line." 


I play in my playlists. I link to other videos they suggest. 


I need help. 


I was in the middle of transcribing a pain report. Wait, that sounds wrong. A doc was dictating a report on a pain patient. That still sounds wrong. Oh, well. Do you know how many times a day I transcribe, "There was no gross bleeding."? Sheesh. I would think all bleeding is pretty gross. I guess that's better than typing "The patient had no frank symptoms." Poor Frank. He gets picked on a lot in medical dictation. 


They call this kind of video stop action. That's almost as funny as gross bleeding. 


Gotta go...
 

FCINO or Baa Baa Demon Sheep

I am a political junkie. I love economics and following the financial shenanigans going down now. At age 13, I was clipping newspaper articles on Watergate. I was in college when California passed Proposition 13. I came within a semester or two of a degree in Economics but then got married and had kids. (Can you get a Ph.D in kids?) 

I kept waiting for John Cleese to pop up somewhere and start singing a song. What's next? The Knights who go nee? Or is neep? 

I am taking no position here on any candidate (let me be perfectly clear) but this ad is too good for anyone to miss who doesn't live in California. This should be our state video, an emblem of the nuttiness that is California. 

Enjoy the demon sheep~!

I Plan On Keeping My Marbles

I love Chinese checkers.

I bite the big one at chess. 

I know. Chess is for the super smart among us. Those who memorize a chess board and plot and strategize like a mad Napoleon. They ponder. They extrapolate. They freaking drive me crazy. I know how all the pieces move. I'm not a total dunderhead but I don't play with a strategy, which is why I always get my butt kicked. I like sliding that old Bishop in a diagonal dash across the board. Move my pawns so they can be taken like the peons they are. I like the quirky Knight and like to jump him all over the board just to move him. 

And is there anything more humiliating than getting your King or Queen bumped off by a pawn? I don't play the right way so a real chess player will never play with me. Thank god. They get mad when you win because you just wanted to move the castle near your knight because in my mind I am re-enacting the scene from Monty Python, The Holy Grail, and thinking of coconuts and swallows or some such folly. 

No, I am definitely not a chess person.

I like Chinese checkers. So egalitarian. All the marbles are the same size, just different colors, and they all have the same chances. None have super powers. They can't jump up one and across two. One marble does not get to say "Off with your head!" I would also say that unlike regular ol' checkers and chess, you don't lose your marbles. Isn't that a great metaphor for life? Nobody assassinates your King or Queen, or kings you and takes your chips. 

The goal is to jump all your marbles to the other side before the other guy does and you keep your marbles. 

I also like games that move fast. Jump, jump, jump. None of this head hurting planning. Jump. Jump.   

But I like to kick butt and win, too.  (So much for egalitarian!)

Does anybody want to play? You can keep your marbles, too.

Puke and Possum

Why?

I mean really, why?

Minding my own business typing away in my home office trying not to be distracted by YouTube and keep working and then this happens. Teddy Bear came running into my office to tell me a dead possum was on our front porch. I actually laughed. 


"Ha, ha, sure. It's probably playing possum."


I thought I was so funny and witty. I mean, my Christmas tree is still on my front porch because I missed trash day this week. You would think I have a car on blocks on my front lawn and blackened out teeth and drive a pick up truck with a gun rack or something. But I live in a nice suburban neighborhood in Temecula. With a homeowner's association who frown on brown lawns and send snitty messags to you if such a calamity occurs. 


But there I am. Dead Christmas tree. Dead possum. It is blowing rain, cold and windy here. It has rained for days and the temperatures are down in the 30s at night. 

Teddy Bear's friend, Mr. Guitar Player, even poked it with a stick. Yep, rigor mortis. Even the tail was stiff. A possum popsicle. The only thing moving on it was one ear that kept gently flapping in the wind which made Teddy and I jump. I am tempted to leave him there and hopefully a coyote will decide to come along and help himself. I can get a sign pointing to it and everything. Like Wile E. Coyote and the roadrunner. Anybody know the number for Acme? 


The last time I saw a possum was in my mother's backyard. The whole family was over with all the dogs. Big ol' Tank, fat bo, clueless Cabo (who is huge!). They are going insane barking at something. There it is. A possum. On the lawn. Just lying there. The dogs jump at it, then jump back like they got electrocuted. They look positively stupid. Like they have some sort of doggie neurologic disorder. They are trying to channel their ancestral wolf genes but they end up looking like city slickers on a dude ranch. The possum continues to lie there. We finally round up the dogs and bring them inside and, lo and behold, the possum is gone the next time we look. 


So now I have to run to the hardware store and get a shovel to shovel him into a box. I will have to do this at night because I am quite sure I will be gagging and trying not to puke while I do this. 


For heaven's sake. I just got myself all out of my funk. You all are such good therapy. I even watched Pollyanna. 


Anybody want to play the Glad Game? 


We can be glad I have a dead possum on my porch because...because...I got it!! It will keep the holy rollers from knocking on my door and making me read the Watch Tower! (I know, I know. I'm going straight to hell. Is there a Heathen's Anonymous?) 


Maybe I should turn it into a door stop or something with a note pinned to it: No Solicitors Allowed. Do you think it would work?

Time for My Stoutness Exercises, or Tut Tut, It Looks Like Rain

Yes, I am good at my stoutness exercises. I am stout, round, and I have found I improve my appetite when I exercise. That Winnie the Pooh was a genius. 

My diet is going as well as Pooh's disguise at being a little black rain cloud. I have only walked the dog ONCE since the first. 

Today is Monday, so I am going to pretend this is the first of the year because there is just no way it is already the 18th. January is more than half way done. Kaput. Done. I only took my tree down a few days ago because in my mind it is only January 5th or so. 


What do you do when you get the blues? I am thinking I am due for a mid-life crisis. Not that I think I am going to live to 104. (Fancy math, huh?) Nor has the Grim Reaper paid a call to fill me in on my day of reckoning. Of course, if HE did show up, I might have a coronary and that would be all she wrote. 


I have been blue. In a funk. Not cranky but definitely not myself. I feel like not only is the glass half empty but someone is drinking my half. 


I have absented myself from company because I believe that going around in a bad mood is like going around with body odor or bad breath. (My favorite talk show host actually says that...I am totally stealing his line.) I don't want my friends and family to go sniffing around me saying, "Ewwww, bad mood...get a life!" Like people who smell their own armpits. 





I am trying to invent a bad mood deodorant. Puppies, kitten, stuffed animals? My personal Teddy Bear, my lovely annoying daughter, has lately made me want to run off to Build-a-Bear and get a new model. 


So I have been thinking what I could do to show everyone I have finally lost it, slipped into mid-life decrepitude. Men go out and buy sports cars, which would be my number one fantasy. I love to drive fast. But somehow you just look lame zooming along in a minivan. No cool factor there. I'm too old to run away and be an astronaut and there is no way I'm ready to wear adult diapers. 


I think jumping out of a plane and parachuting might be taking it to an extreme and bungee jumping would only make the blood rush to my head and give me a headache. Not to mention I'm a chicken and afraid of heights. I would love to do that squirrel flying with those funny suits. You know, you jump off a cliff wearing a suit that makes you look like a flying squirrel and haul ass down the mountain. But the fear factor strikes again. 



I would go on a pilgrimage seeking answers but I also believe in the saying, "Where ever you go, there you are." 


I will be exercising this week and trying to see that glass as half full. I just hope whoever was drinking from it didn't backwash.