Browsing "carpentry"

Cry for Her

love, memory, alzheimers, marriage

As a crescent butter moon sets and the soul searing sun of the morning rises into an indigo sky
the days and nights endlessly bleed into one another like so many forgotten dreams
creating one sad and lonely heart, the shattered pane of a window in
an already fragile life that time seems to have forgotten.
the clock strikes ten, he’ll lay in bed and stir
and he will cry for her . . .

62 is a number he used to know but now he’s innocently unaware of its significance
it was a day so long ago, a crystal blue frozen moment in time that is elusive
to a cobwebbed place that once inhabited sweet thoughts, wooden cribs to be built and fighting ships on the oceans of his forever’s but
the clock strikes ten, and then again
he will cry for her . . .

She loves the man, the 62, but she knows she’s only human too
her tired eyes, her daily goodbyes, her love for the man she thought she knew
She goes to bed, rest her weary head, dreaming sunny memories of days gone by,
while never wondering why
she will still cry for him . . .

For H&G  . . .

~m

Linear Beercan Language

A guy comes into the store today and says,
“I want 4 packs of American Spirit Yellow.”
We ring him up, take his money and say, “Would you like a bag?”
He says, “No thank you, I have gloves.”
I have gloves?
More like you have a frozen mush of a cerebellum.
Jesus Krispies.
It must be the cold here in New England, huh? (7 degrees)
That would be like ordering at a drive-thru Burger King
and telling them, “I want to eat it here though, thanks.”
A definite WTF moment.
Damn, I encounter far too many these days.
Maybe it’s me.
Not!

Theme Junkie

I’ve never been accused of many nasty things in the blogosphere in terms of blogging in general.
I’m a pretty easy going blogger that posts some nice stuff from time to time and
I feel I really don’t violate many “unwritten” rules.
Although, I do have moments in my life that find me a tad bit busier than I’d like.
Replying to comments and visiting folks on my blogroll tends to take a proverbial backseat, something I feel bad about but it happens to all of us at some point in time.
We do eventually get caught up.
I have, however, been subtly accused (and not so subtly accused) of being a template junkie.
I tend to hop on any “template train” that arrives via the FireFox Station.

If you’ve visited me over the past few nights you may have seen as many as three, maybe even four template changes in less than 20 minutes.
And yes, I can hear you . . . I can hear you screaming.
The frustrated cries of despair, the arrgghhh’s the oh-shits.

“What the . . . ?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake he’s changed it again.”
“Murphy’s bi-polar, I swear, he’s bi-fucking-polar with this template crap!”
“Multiple blogging personality whackjob, I think.”

I’ve come to accept the fact that I am a veritable blogging template/theme “Sybil”.
Alright, a junkie.
I shoot these themes straight into my veins and I like it.
Love it, perhaps.
But if these dysfunctional template changes I occasionally make have caused you epileptic seizures, I apologize.
If my Vista “Segue Script” font made you kill your beloved pet, throw away that computer, blame me.
I’ll take it.
Maybe most people don’t even notice just how much I screw with my blog.
Maybe they do.
Boys will be boys, I guess.
One of these days I’m going cold turkey on this template changing thing.
I am.
Just not tonight . . .
:mrgreen:

Blondezilla

I got on the train one morning several weeks ago and settled myself in for the train ride into Boston.
I was on a double decker train in a seat for one, perfect for writing or sleeping, the latter of which I do in the mornings I leave early.
A woman (I think she was a woman) with incredibly confusing blonde hair sat in front of me reeking to the high heavens of a cologne that almost made me gag.
Eau de Litter Box, perhaps?
All I could think of was the feeling I get when I walk in to Bath & Body Works at the mall; a total devastation of the olfactory senses to the point of nausea.
Anyway, this woman proceeds to flog the ever-loving shit out of her hair, cooties, dandruff and dead hair flying everywhere as I sat there taking it like a man, too tired to move to another seat.
That wasn’t quite enough though. She pulls out her compact and begins to violently swab her face to beat the band with the finesse one would use to scrub a dirty truck bumper.
I don’t scrub my ass that hard in the shower, for God’s sakes.
This went on for twenty or so minutes and it was disturbing, to say the very least.
The lips took at least half of the twenty minutes ending with that yucky “schmupp” sound.
I’m thinking Blondezilla must be an absolute vision when she’s finally done primping and packing her fat little face.
Sometime shortly after the “schmupp”, I fell fast asleep.
Thank God for small miracles.

Later that day, I thought about my wife, a minimalist when it comes down to makeup; less is more, period.
She’ll argue with me until JFK comes back from the dead but when she’s done up for an evening out (a rare event these days, sadly) she IS a vision.
Her face is just beautiful.
A few mornings ago I got out of the shower and dried off before opening the medicine cabinet for a Q-tip.
I saw a small innocuous looking package and I could swear it read “FaceSpackle”.
Now I looked up “spackling compound” on the web and found this: A white pre-mixed compound or powder to which water is added for use in mending cracks in plaster, holes in sheetrock walls, skimming old wallpaper seams, should be sanded smooth and flat after drying
Wow.
This was disturbing.
Dear God, please not my wife.
I put my glasses on and saw that the writing didn’t say anything close to what I thought it said.
It was some kind of newfangled facial exfoliant from Origins.
As a man, I have a difficult time understanding all these exotic things women use on their face.
But my wife has taught my daughters well though; easy on the rouge, light on the eyeliner, gently shadow the lips.
Whenever one of them wears makeup they look like women, very pretty women. What happened to my little girls, I’ll never know.
If they continue to take their mother’s advice, the future years will treat them kindly.

As the train pulled into Boston that morning, Blondzilla got up and made her way to the exit.
Lord have mercy, I think she used to do makeup for Bozo the Clown . . . Ringling Brothers at the very least.
And if she happens to read this?
I’m getting my ass kicked some unsuspecting morning.
I think I’m safe . . .

Norm Abrams, I’m not

I’ve been promising my wife that I’d put together a cabinet for the kitchen.
She bought it several weeks ago and everytime I’d walk through the kitchen I swear I could hear “baaaawk, baaaawk . . . “coming from inside the box.
Its purpose was supposedly going to reduce some of the cabinet clutter and organize the pot and “pandemonium” wreaking havoc in the heart of our home.

How hard could it be to put together a small and innocent antique cabinet?

I’m no Norm Abrams, alright? Building things just isn’t my thing (stop laughing, Laho).

I consider myself a reasonably intelligent man but when an inanimate object begins making a monkey out of me, I have a problem.
I should have known better when I spied the little gold oval sticker proudly proclaiming “made in China” on all 76 pieces.

Assembling this hunk of shit (from the directions given) was worse than trying to comprehend quantum physics.
I seriously think the Chinese are out to get us, all of us.

Said directions were a series of “exploded” pictures; no words or explanations, just pictures . . . all 14 of them. Bastards.

Does the term 3-D puzzle of wood mean anything to you?

The cabinet was mainly black and I almost went frickin’ blind trying to screw this thing together. The phone starts ringing, I spill my coffee, I gotta take a crap and one of the cats starts throwing up a hunk of the Styrofoam packing this thing came in and I’m only Step #1.
I only have 13 more to go.
Please shoot me.
Point the gun at my brain stem and mercifully pull the trigger.
End my pain.

I think about throwing the damn directions away but err on the side of caution and instead start talking dirty to the sad looking unassembled pieces still littering the kitchen table. Things start clicking and I’m beginning to enjoy the dirty talk.

By the time I was finished (2 hours later) I look Chinese, well, my eyes do anyway.

Some people really have a talent for this building shit.
Not me.
I say pay another 20 bucks and let some other choad go Oriental.
I’m an artist, damn it, not Norm Abrams.

~m

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