It was a weekend. What can I say? Do laundry, do dishes, walk the dogs, take a nap (notice the picture of Mate in front of the TV!), see a movie…
I mean, all told, I’ve had over 2600 weekends in my life–not all of them can be cracking, right?
Still… this one had moments.
* The air quality dipped below 100 on the index, which meant that we could breathe and my joints didn’t hurt. It took me a while to put the joint pain together with the shitty air, and then I remembered that I spent time both in Reno and in Denver this year, and both times the altitude fucked up my joints like nothing I can remember. Oxygen deprivation–I would imagine there’s a correlation in there about oxygen and the cartilage in your joints, and how when you’re not getting as much oxygen with every breath EVERYTHING HURTS. I’m hoping the worst of the air quality is over, now that California is running out of beautiful wilderness–and residential areas!!!– to burn.
For the record? Our traitor-in-chief and usurper of the presidency, pustulating shit-bag etc. can eat a bag of dick-shaped turds the next time he wants to open his mouth about the environment and the way water works. Jesus fucking Christ–may Goddess fry that fucker like an ant with her anger. I have no mercy left in me for that fuckery.
And on a lighter note…
* We saw the Meg at the movie theater today. It was pure popcorn, omg lookit-Jason-Statham’s-abs.
*happy sigh* Shark-go-boom-then-there’s-pecs. I can’t recommend it as therapy often enough.
* Was doing some housecleaning this weekend (don’t faint–it happens) and I found this picture of the lot of us in Chicago. That’s a background, of course, but you may remember we were actually there. (The cape, btw, saved my life.) Anyway, those of you who have been following the blog may note that five years ago, ZoomBoy and Squish were… well, babies. Nine and seven. Just looking at them makes me all verklempt.
* Also– I put two shirts on the couch for Chicken to use now that she’s been promoted to manager and doesn’t want to buy new shirts to wear in the kitchen.
You may notice an irregular guest-dog-shaped lump in the shirts.
That’s Gibby’s trademark burrow. Just now, we caught the little shit tugging at my knitting–I have a half-finished sweater on my yarn pile–and she wanted it over her. She’s got half a dozen dog-sized blankets, btw, but before she leaves this house, I may have to make her one just for her.
I mean look at her. She’s not Geoffie caliber cute, but I give her style points for trying.
Mate folded clothes. He’s always so good. His clothes end up in nice neat piles, all delineated and shit, and mine end up in semi-coherent towering mountains. Anyway, notice Steve. Notice that he left a Steve-sized spot on the bed, for Steve to Steve.
And Steve she has, as all Steves should.