A week of Christmas: avoidance
December 22, 2011
In what I suppose was a subconscious avoidance technique against my parents’ impending Christmas visit on my last free evening (bowling tomorrow night and parental arrival for supper Friday), I fully honored the winter solstice. I did it not with a pagan, sway-y dance around large stones on the Salisbury Plain, but rather by participating in MacKenzie Pub’s “longest dark day” stout, porter, and black IPA takeover of their taps. #longestdarkday
I’m not a fan of stouts, but I do alright with a lot of porters. Black IPAs are usually just fine.
I started with the Upstairs Bar Flight. I was very glad they were doing flights. I quite enjoyed the Bell’s Java and Southern Tier Choklat. Then I had the Black IPA and Stout #1 flights.
I still haven’t gone to work out. In order to get three in yet this week, I must get up tomorrow morning. I work best under pressure.
I suppose that’s why I frittered away this evening and will now have to cram all of the housework in to about six hours on Friday. Six hours if I’m lucky to have so long, after I don’t set my alarm, do get up and go work out, then come home to shower and eat. Stay tuned.
Monsters under my bed
September 13, 2011
I still psych myself out about there being some ghouly under my bed that will surely grab my ankle when I get back into bed after a mid-night trip to the bathroom. I don’t know where this comes from. My parents didn’t terrorize me as a child and I’ve never been any kind of consumer of the horror genre. A few “X Files” episodes maybe qualified, and I did watch all of those. These days it doesn’t occur to me very often, now that I think about it. Though now that I’ve thought about it I’ll probably do a number on myself tonight.
A while back, when Bibi the rabbit was living with us, things really did go bump in the night. I’m certain that she started the destruction you see above. Robbin is so well-behaved—he doesn’t chew and he doesn’t dig. But Bibi was a master digger. She scratched up most of the carpet, backing, and padding under the head of my bed.
She would have reached up and scratched at the soft and saggy stuff over her head. She probably created a starter hole, and then Robbin and CJ joined in. CJ, being a proper cat, would have noticed a hole to somewhere and gone in. Though she would have stayed on the slats, it wouldn’t have taken long for the hole in the wispy, flimsy material to become enlarged—enlarged enough to look tempting even to an athletic and adventurous rabbit. More than once, after being awakened by the sensation of scuffling down below, I looked under the bed to see a big sag between the slats and had to shoosh Robbin out of there.
I don’t particularly care. What purpose other than cosmetic does that covering over the box spring serve? None, really.
Bibi was a landlubber so she never went up.
Front, Bibi. Back, Robbin. Top, bed in more intact times.
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