Monthly Archives: July 2011

PMSin’.

I normally try and post just three times a week ’cause regimentation loves uniformity.

Or is it the other way ’round?

Anyway.

I was just sidling along, doing nothing until I read this and HAD to link  to it for y’all. It’s just TOO fucking funny. Check it out. The “Got Milk” folks have rolled out a new marketing campaign tying calcium deficits to increased PMS in and amongst our womenfolk. Seems you babes should’ve been drinking more milk. Who knew?

And dudes? It seems like maybe it was never our fault. Everrrr.

Yessssssssssss.

Billboards have sprung up all over California showing confused, bewildered men holding out offerings of cartons of milk with taglines like “I’m sorry for the the thing or things I did or didn’t do” and “I’m sorry I listened to what you said and NOT  what you meant” and “I apologize for not reading between the RIGHT lines”.

Bwaahhhahahahaha

I don’t live in California, but it sure does make me want to ’cause it’s just so flipping hilarious.

Right?

And of course the chick groups are criticizing the campaign calling it the usual stuff and saying it portrays men? as victims of PMS like that’s something new?

um. helloooo?

Anyway.

Check out the website if you can. The pearlescent gem includes a “current global PMS level”, a “video apology enhancer”, a “mistake verification system”, and a “puppy dog Eye-Zer” to make you more apologetically adorable. Or adorably apologetic.

Good stuff.

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Decision.

Yeah.

So I made the decision.

There are lots and lots of pros and cons and there was lots and lots of overthinking the whole thing.

But when it comes right down to it- I wanna do it. I want to drive these big motherfuckers.

And I don’t know why. I just wanna.

So I’m gonna.

Magic.

Dudes this is just fucking magic.

I know. I know. My credibility withers daily but this is the best shit I’ve read in a long, long time.

Don’t get me wrong.

There were times when I was reading The Tiger’s Wife wondering why I was.

Miss Carol would look at me and go- do you like that book?

And I’d go, no?

‘Cause I wasn’t sure. It was cool and really well written, but I just wasn’t getting it.

And then it all clicked.

Like a smooth bore sliding home it slid in.

And it’s fricking magic.

Poops.

One of the seemingly lost short term memories about the long holiday weekend that finally bubbled to the surface of my rememberances was my brother and me walking the boys.

Check this.

When we have house guests, everybody wants to walk the dogs. ONCE. But then they’re done. The heat, the humidity, the plain choreness of it is just kinda a buzzkill.

So, that first night, he and me are walking the hot mile and my brothers’ wine is sloshing out of his glass and tourons all along the way are offering refills and we’re laughing about whatever we drunk locals laugh about. Life’s good right?

Then shit got serious.

It was poop time. Ya know? For the dogs?

We were coming up on a young touron mother and her tiny touron kid playing way too close to the road.

Oh shit I said.

And, then, that’s exactly what Cutter did. He pooped right in front of them.

I whipped out a plastic bag and grabbed the turds but it was too late. Touron Mommy and touron baby were scampering away, horrified.

I felt bad, but the dogs jerked me back into walking them, snuffling each other like they were sharing some kinda secret joke.

Are they giggling? my brother asked.

I sighed.

More like snickering I said.

He stopped, wine sloshing every whichaway. No they’re NOT he said.

Yeah, they are. I said. They have trouble with some sounds ’cause they don’t have any lips. I said. And they like to poop where it’ll embarrass me the most. I said.

Just then, Cutter and Tug, straining at their end of the leash, looked back at us and grinned their stupid dog grins before snuffling one another again.

NO they DON’T he said, struggling with the idea.

I looked at him and shrugged and Cutter and Tug chuckled.

Blur.

Whew.

So, yeah. This was pretty much my holiday weekend.

Is it any wonder I didn’t post on Monday?

Is it any wonder I’m barely posting now?

More as short term memory coalesces. Or re-coalesces. Or whatever.

doggy truckin’?

Decades and centuries ago I told my granny that I was thinking of driving dynamite across to the Eastern Shore.

Ooooh, stop, she twittered (back when twittering was something different) and patted my hand affectionately and told me she loved me and smiled up at me like grannies do.

But I was. Seriously thinking about it, I mean.

But then the years and years and years zipped by in gale force winds while I did other things.

But then.

In the last coupla months the dream has somehow re-kindled and taken root. And now its gnawing obsessiveness is becoming a siren song, something I’m not sure I can ignore much longer.

Dudes, I’m thinkin’ about getting my CDL and driving a tractor trailer. Not local, and maybe not long haul, but, yeah, maybe long haul. I know me. I could never drive local, and regional might be a stretch boring-wise, but, man the long haul lure is there and the hook is tight.

Escapism as epiphany, ya know?

I meant to talk to Miss Carol about this again tonight and break it to her, but it was her birthday and we did other stuff and I forgot so she’ll probably read this instead.

Ooooohh. That’ll be fun.

Granny’s grinning.