MSN

It's probably appropriate to begin with the ironic. Or not. I place a high value on the ironic, perhaps too high. But I digress. As I was logging in to my hotmail (I know that this dates me. My younger friends have all sniped at me numerous times for maintaining my allegiance to hotmail. I feel that my foray into this new decade exempts me from such scorn. I'm now just showing a certain strength of character in sticking with them) account one of he stories in the MSN sidebar was "Do you have adult ADD." I'm sorry, but anyone who is reading the sidebar stories as they are logging out of Hotmail is pretty much already engaged in behavior indicative of adult ADD, which, most frequent internet users pretty much suffer from. I've no reservations about saying most. Anyhow, if you might be suffering from adult ADD please be sure to check out this link, which will take you elsewhere for a little while.

Of late, the house has begun to shift into a state of disrepair. Rest assured, S was up at the crack of dawn to remedy this situation. However, I looked at our purchases of IKEA patio furniture as an accomplishment in and of itself. I've discussed inviting friends over for a BBQ and requiring that they put together a bench, or chair, if they want a seat. It seems a fair trade.

Also, the night after we purchased the furniture we heard a bang in the living room, and I was once again sent to investigate. Mind you, I go to investigate with no weapon by my own rapidly beating heart. The best I could hope to accomplish with an actual burglar would be to faint into him at an inopportune moment. I've notified S that we need a solid Louisville Slugger to place under the bed because I, like most men of a certain age harbor certain fantasies about foiling a robbery with a baseball bat. I blame television shows. However, in this case I argued that our strewn IKEA boxes were already serving as an effective burglar deterrent. I figured if anyone would have come in downstairs they'd have seen the furniture, not quite put together, and probably politely asked me for tools while they put it together before stealing it. By that time the cops would have arrived, and the both of us would have been struggling to unearth one of those little wooden pegs, misplaced in a too large hole.

I also possess a wiffle ball bat, which I'm sure would scare the daylights, no earthly clue why we have that saying either, out of any six-year old who ventured into our home. Perhaps I could impress the burglars by showing them how well I can hit a curve ball. I don't really know how these things work having never been in the crime business myself.

M: Are you going to take that?
B: You're damn right I am.
M: Okay. I just think it might be easier if you turn it to the left.
B: This way.
M: No put it on its side.
B: Like this?
M: Hmmm. What if we put it upright?
B: Can we take it out a window.
M: Hold on. Let me just get my arms underneath it.
M: (Setting it down) Now lets think about this for a minute.
Bam cops arrive.

In other news I strained a calf last week playing basketball and did some reading on the subject on the internet where I learned that the injury most commonly occurs in a "Middle aged" person, a weekend warrior. It usually occurs when a person is still active, but only occasionally and has lost the flexibility in the muscle. Needless to say, I was thrilled to realize that I fall pretty much in the middle-aged weekend warrior status who suffers, what I'd probably have deemed when I was younger, an old man injury.


Fiction (cont)
We sat in lawn chairs in various ergonomically incorrect poses. We had already dispatched three bottles of red wine while discussing the Arawak matrilineal society and its effect on views of the afterlife. The general opinion, if I’m recalling correctly, being something along the lines of, cultures that value the role of women, this despite the tribe’s occasional practice of polygamy, which is unrelated and probably not worth mentioning, are more apt to hold a positivist, though slightly less complex or nuanced view of the afterlife. The use of the word complex probably sets off your alarm bells, but we did not intend it pejoratively. Women, we concluded, have traditionally filled a more pragmatic, less superstitious role than men, and thus would develop an affinity for an afterlife that reflected this pragmatism. You die. You go there. It’s a good place. End of story. No judgment. No pearly gates. No Saint Peter. I’m sorry. It may seem that I’m a bit off track here.

Ever since I recalled the repressed event I’ve struggled to interface with members of the opposite sex. It’s miraculous that the two of us are conversing with such ease. The word verbose has been used in conjunction with my name in a derisive manner. Do you mind keeping your face turned like that? Thank you. Just like that is fine. A regular Helen of Troy.