Sunday, February 07, 2010

Long distance relationships are the best.

High on hot chocolate and shivering under a faux fur lap robe, it's hard to think of anything to write. It suddenly got cold, me wearing heavy robe, socks, guzzling hot chocolate and jacking up the thermostat cold. I'm half tempted to turn the oven on and get some real heat in here.

It's snowing outside, a granular, salting of tiny crystals kind of snow that hits the ground with a weak sizzle since it hasn't been that warm all week. We've had a heat wave with the temps in the low to mid 40s, barely above freezing, but it hasn't been bad and my thermostat hasn't been over 65; I've been comfortable -- until today. Good thing I moved my herbs into the bathroom where there's more light and heat and the occasional whiff of steam from the shower. The only thing I don't like about winter is how much it dries out me and everything else. I can almost hear the atmosphere sucking up moisture through a straw.

John Of Arabia asked about my relatives. As I told him, I have them, but I'm keeping my whereabouts a secret lest they come and visit me, bringing an eastern seaboard blizzard with them that would trap us all in my little cottage (and I do mean little) for so long it would make the Donner party except with French sauces and cheese. I have lots of cheese. Since I prefer healthy food, I'd have to toss Mom to the wolves, crows and ravens because I don't eat junk food. No, hot chocolate, or rather cocoa, is not junk food, especially when made with whole goat's milk and 65% cacao, organic, of course. Hoity Toity would have enough fat on her to make eating her stringy flesh almost worthwhile as long as I marinated her for a few days in vinegar. Not too much vinegar, since she's pretty vinegary already. Beanie would barely make an hors d'oeuvre and I wouldn't eat her anyway. I would have to knock her out with a handful of Mom's narcotics and feed her myself since she would probably rather starve than eat her relatives, at least until she got hungry enough or I managed to convince her the gumbo was pork and smoked sausage. The aroma should be enough to make her mouth water. She's always complaining she can't get good gumbo since I moved away. Well, I can't get oatmeal cake since I moved away either, but at least I can bake it myself. (Note to self: get organic coconut and walnuts for oatmeal cake.) The Mushroom wouldn't come so that would be all right, especially since it would take too long to de-hair him to find out what meat is available. Beanie sent me a picture and I'm still not sure it was him under all that hair. He looks like Grizzly Adams, except not as neatly groomed. I told him all he needs now is sackcloth, ashes, and a cave to be a real hermit. Why do you think we call him the Mushroom?

Do you know how some mushrooms are cultivated? In manure in the dark.

Speaking of which, a friend asked if I'd seen Brad Pitt lately. I had to admit to watching Troy (I was avoiding work) because I liked the naked Brad Pitt shots. Yes, I was looking for dangling bits. It's been a while since I've seen any up close and personal. (Note to self: must get male in compromising position while naked.) She said I wouldn't want to see him now. He's gained some weight (not necessarily a bad thing, I like something to hang onto while I'm riding), sporting a scraggly, unkempt beard (that must be where the Mushroom got the idea that women like it) and people say he smells. Also, not a bad thing. "He smells bad." Okay, definitely a bad thing. Angelina, she said, looks like a plucked chicken, a really stringy, skinny plucked chicken. I'll bet her nose is white, too, unless she's stopped riding the white line or smoking the glass pipe and has moved into the main line.

What is wrong with people, especially people who have it all? If they're not running to the plastic surgeon for Botox, collagen and knife work, they're dragged out on drugs. I still remember the horrific story of Bobby Brown disimpacting Whitney Houston's brown load because she was so out of it she was constipated. No, that's not love, that's insanity. No one is worth that, especially if they're not senile or suffering from Alzheimer's. Gag me with a pitchfork.

Seen in the light of Brangelina and Bobby and Whitney, maybe my family isn't so bad. Okay, the Mushroom needs to come out of the cyber closet and trim the beard or cut it off, get his hair trimmed and meet real people in real time, Hoity Toity needs to stop complaining about her boobs touching the sides of her arms and Beanie needs to make me an oatmeal cake and deliver it personally, but they're my family. We won't even talk about Mom. She's not my mother. I have proof. They left me off my father's obituary, which is a blessing in disguise. Every time Hoity Toity and Beanie call to talking about what new irritating thing MY mom did, I can now say, "She not MY mom. I wasn't listed on Dad's obituary and she was his wife." Works out really good for all concerned.

Okay, it works out really good for me. I don't care about the rest of them. That's why I have an unlisted number and refuse to tell them where I live now. It's safer.

I've found that some relationships work better when they're long distance. Now, if only I can get their mother to move to Pluto, everything would improve.

That is all. Disperse.

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