Thursday, June 2, 2016

I need some Bougainvillea, ASAP!

Oh, nothing. Just sitting here at 5am with my throbbing, infected toe soaking in a pan of salty peppermint water. Just the usual.

I went on a plant/tree/flower shopping frenzy about a week or so ago and ever since then I've been playing Ron Weasley wizard's chess with the trees. Dragging them around my hugemongous and embarrassingly bare front yard. Trying to find the perfect spots for all of them. And then I've also been waiting on the actual desire to get out there in the considerable heat and humidity and dig twenty-teen motherfucking holes. So, it finally rained while John and I were out (he was having an ultra-sound,  after which I was unabashedly buying more goddamn plants.  Canna and Asiatic lilies if you must know.)  Anyway, it rained a goodly amount and cooled off some and softened up the ground, so I carpe diemed the shit outta the moment and dug and mulched and planted. Two gardenias, a magnolia, a mimosa. a dogwood, the lilies and a sedum plant. Yay Me! And I only dug up one Charter TV cable and I only shoved something foreign and painful up one big toe.  Did I say "Yay me!" yet?  I smooshed some brownish-bloody pus out from beneath it about a half our ago. We'll see how it progresses from here on out.

In other news and events, two weeks ago I lost my job of basically 14 years. It wasn't unexpected. Everyone lost or is losing their job as the company, whom we'll call BandAid, decided to close three of it's DC's and build one ginormous one in SC. Ain't nobody got time for SC. So I, and 90% of my co-workers chose to be severed. As in, Give me my mother-clucking severance check. Like I said, it's been two weeks and I'm still waiting on mine.  In the mean time, I've already gotten another J-O-B. But I need some time to write a novel and plant a garden and dig-holes and annoy John and my crazylittlemama and my sisters and all the nieces and nephews, and do some fare to middlin' traveling, so I won't be starting the new job until July 11. Plus, we desperately need a new front porch, as ours looks like something out of an Erskine Caldwell novel. So I have to help John over-see that project. He's my shmoop, you know. And he found out today he has a 2.2 centimeter "nodule" type thinf on his thyroid. If you're a praying type person, now would be the time where I'd ask you to send out some love and healing vibes for that sweet and confounding man of mine.

As my toe-water has turned tepid, I'm gonna peace the fuck outta this post. See if I can squeeze some more mud out of the nail-bed, then snuggle back up with John and a cat or three. Gotta get up in an hour anyway to go flea-marketing/thrift-storing/shenaniganing with my eldest sibling. "Goddammit! Don't you people have fucking jobs?!!"

Thursday, January 14, 2016

Page 394

So 2016 is shaping itself into a big ol' dry hump of a year, huh? Me, oh I'm aight.  But this week alone we as a culture have lost David Fucking Bowie and my longtime, not so secret, sigh-inducing, swoon-worthy, lover man, Mr Alan Goddamn Rickman. This I learned this morning in the break room at work while watching Live! With Kelly and Michael.  Now I love me some Kelly Ripa.  Largely because she and my sister Angie could pass for twins.  They look alike, they share personality traits.  What's even better is that I've never mentioned this to Angie because Angie really, really, RILLY doesn't like Kelly.  "Oh! I love that scent your wearing! What's it called?  It's called Ironical by Patty Duke."  So anyway. I like Kelly.  But she's not the person I wanted delivering such heart-rending news.

I have loved Alan Rickman since Robinhood: Prince of Thieves.  Screw Kevin Costner and early '90s Christian Slater.  I'll take the evil, surly Sherrif of Notingham!  I was 15ish.  But by God, I knew what I was about.  Then a few years later Kate Winslet let that namby-pamby goober Willoughby sweep her off her penniless feet.  But not me, no sir!  Ever the dissenter, my heart held court with Colonel Brandon.  And I have loved him ever since.  I think what really set it in stone was Emma Thompson's combined script and  behind the scene's diary of Sense and Sensibility.  If you find a copy of it, buy the thing and fall in love with Emma and Alan and Kate and the whole movie crew.  It's full of lovely, utterly British and profane one-liners.

Honestly though, I know very little about Alan Rickman's personal life.  He wasn't much of a schmoozer, and he seemed quite private.  So really, I loved him for his work.  For his presence and ability.  If an actor's sole responsibility is to make the audience suspend disbelief and truly forget that what they're watching is pretend, then Alan Rickman was one of the world's finest at his craft.

I guess I've always had a thing for older dudes.  At least from afar, you know the ones in the Arts and Entertainment fields.   And up-close too, cause Hey John!  So now I've lost Bowie, who was my Goblin King when I was too young to understand that his tights were hella inappropriate, AND I've lost Colonel Nottingham.  What the fuck?!? It's not even the end of the week, let alone the end of the First month of this new year.

Kelly Ripa, if you're reading this, can you do me a solid?  If Kevin Spacey or Michael Stipe or Pat Conroy pass on to the Great Beyond anytime soon, can you call your doppleganger Angie and have her break it to me in private so I don't start sobbing at work like some mental case?   Otherwise, I swear to God I'm gonna storm your set and flip your little ass outta that chair of yours.  I can't take this shit no mo'.