Life Is Such A Sweet Insanity.

Earl and I were talking about how bewildered my relatives must be by living with us here at our happy little home. I like to think that what I write on the blog is accurate as to what our life is like, but I could never write about everything that we do. I guess what I write about are little glimpses into our habits and lifestyle.

We are used to the two of us and the routine we’ve tweaked over the past 12 or so years. My relatives must find it odd that we spend hours in our basement pecking away at our computers or that I talk on my iPhone in the woods behind the house (where the cell reception is best).

No one has said “how odd” as Earl and I have progressed through our routines with a little audience, but it has made me step back and take a look at how we get through our daily life.

I like what I see.

I haven’t been as chatty as usual in my blog. We’ve been busy enough: this weekend we went to the New York State Fair on Saturday (as evidenced by my ‘Top Spin’ video), yesterday we went to a weekend barbecue at our friends’ Al and Mike’s, which was quite delightful. Of course, Earl and I have had my relatives in and out of the house since the little guy was born two weeks ago. There’s a lot going on and all of it is good, I just haven’t felt inspired to write about it.

One thing about the New York State Fair: whomever came up with the idea of renting out those little motorized scooters to lazy fat people should be flogged and not in a pleasant manner. Broken limb? Handicapped? Maimed in a war? You should have all rights to one of those monstrosities. Eat McFat and smoke too much? I say walk or stay home.

I’ve been doing a lot of bike riding. I’ve ridden at least 25 km a day for the past week. I can confirm that it’s best if cyclists stick to the trails because motorists don’t give a fuck anymore and will just hit you whilst they chat on their cell phone, eat a McBomb and balance a cup of coffee in their crotch. I don’t know how bikers manage with their motorcycles¹; in fact, a car pulled out in front of my father this past weekend (car didn’t even stop as he pulled out of a gas station parking lot); Dad went down with the bike trying to avoid the car that pulled out in front of him, the motorcycle landed on top of him. He came out of the ordeal o.k. (aside from a “good sanding” as he called it), but he was still rushed to the hospital. Drivers just don’t give a shit anymore. I feel it’s an accurate reflection of a shocking number of Americans. People don’t give a shit.

I feel like my blog should be something more than a journal of what I’m doing. There is some heavy stuff going on in the world today. This whole Anastacia Beaverhausen thing as McSame’s running mate is ridiculous. I could go off on that whole freak show but many others are doing it and I don’t want to just write “what he said!” I’m afraid that the sheeple are just going to lap it up along with all the other shit in Washington, D.C. these days. At least Obama talks about hope. Perhaps there is hope after all.

My sister came home from Wal*Mart (which is apparently WalMart* now but is still ‘Always White Trash, Always’) where she had to show her driver’s license to return something. The last thing I want to do is give my driver’s license to some surly WalMart* employee so they can record the information into their computer. People are entirely too cavalier with their personal information. Ironically, I talk about my life pretty openly right here on the tubes so what do I know.

¹ Moby, dude, I’m glad to see you’re recovering seemingly well.

When my sister moved in with us a couple of weeks ago she brought along her cat Xena. Xena is around seven years old and very set in her ways. She’s nearly the direct opposite in demeanor from our cat Tom; she’ll think nothing of swatting at you while you’re feeding her or hissing at you if she doesn’t like your boots.

I’ve always been a cat person (perhaps I was meant to be a lesbian or something) and I have always been able to tame the wildest of the feline beasts. Folks would tell me that their cat hides from everyone but I’d always manage to get them into my arms and perhaps evoke a purr from the whole ordeal.

Xena, on the other hand, hates my guts.

Because Tom doesn’t let along with other cats and Xena isn’t diggin’ the new digs all that much, she is living in the basement. She has quite the set up; sleeping bags to hide in, cat toys to bat about, a litter box that is cleaned daily and several servings of “treats”.

She still hates my guts. She screams and hisses at me every chance she gets and once in a while she’ll come batting at my feet. I once laid down on the floor to get her to cozy up to me and she acted all innocent and then when she got within a foot me she started screaming and hissing and coming at me with her (lack of) claws. I usually speak to her in a stern voice when she does this and she’ll go running up the stairs and into the rafters between the basement and the first story floor.

She just hates me.

I’m not giving up the challenge though. I’ll still make sure she’s well attended to and keep trying to get on her good side until we ship her off to Switzerland with my sister and the baby (my brother-in-law is playing hockey on a Swiss team this season).

But it’s obvious that there is no love lost from Xena to her Uncle J.P.