Speaking of salt licks...

Is it possible that, just like the old woman with too many kids, I have too many words in my head and I'm eventually going to start losing them more and more? That they are there, catalogued and indexed and ready for use and I am just looking down the wrong cerebral aisle? Even worse, maybe somewhere along the line I took the word out of cortex??

This, folks, is where I learned to waterski.



Where utopia and the apocalypse meet to dance a dirty tango...

To Know Me Is To Have Seen Me In The Ocean

I lost another word. It was on the tip of my tongue and I went to speak it and it was gone. I stood there in a moment of confusion, frantically searching the wordroom in my brain, but I could not, for the life of me, find the word. I ended up using an ersatz one instead. Hmph.

I can't stop thinking about Mexico and the day we spent in the ocean. No one has been able to rattle me at work this week cuz when they start to, I just think about the surf and I'm gone. Take your problem and your "better than you" attitude and vamos, muchacho. No tengo tiempo para esa mierda.

Yeah, Poseidon loves me. In the past, he's shown some jealousy towards whatever boy toy has accompanied me onto his surfturf, but he was clearly able to see the diff between this boy and the others - he settled for a single mano-y-mano kick to los cajones, then let us play to our hearts content relatively undisturbed. Only one other time did he seem to be sending a subtle message, when he acted like he was gonna drag me out to sea and I panicked a tiny bit and monkeyboy got concerned. I believe the King of the Sea could tell that this mere mortal was willing to risk his own shaky footing and limited oceanic skills to save me; relenting, Poseidon sent a wave of seahorses to carry me to safer ground, a bit of "No, I'LL doing the rescuing, but dude, the expression on your face was just sooooo cute. You can love her on land, but don't forget who's her daddy when you are in MY sea, 'k?"

Whether or not handsome knows it, he won a significant battle that day and not just against the god of the sea.

THAT was a truly beautiful day. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the temperature both in and out of the water was a perfect hot°F. The waves were breaking left to right when they weren't breaking right to left. And the waves rolling in were high-fivin' the waves rolling out which, by the way, were uncharacteristically not spent.

The sea bed was somewhat unreliable - I've always thought Poseidon likes his bed a bit rumply. I walked in on rough sand to stand in three feet of water when the sea bed dropped like the five-foot mark on a swimming pool - no gentle slide, just shallow, then deep. From this vantage, the five-foot swells breaking out a distance looked like giants and there was no way I was goin' in deeper.

Then Poseidon chuckled and I realized he was just messing with me. I took another look and could see sandy bottom out 10 feet or so. Sure enough, two steps and the water depth diminished significantly. A few more feet and I was standing in a foot and a half of water on fine sand, not bobbing along as I had thought I would be. Farther out, I was still in shallow water, and closing in on the crestline. I'd forgotten, though, that the waves going out were not spent, they were still carrying enough energy to meet the incoming waves with a force that shot rooster tails high in the air. Standing in the midst of that was amazing and exhilarating and wildly exciting if not the tiniest bit scary.

Then further out and time to watch the waves with assiduity. It may not be nice to fool mother nature, but turn your back on Poseidon and he will bitch-slap the ever-lovin' shit out of you. Trust me.

I have a technique that I religiously follow. I watch the waves and move closer or farther depending on how deep the water is and where the waves are breaking. I want them to just start to break and I want to be in five feet of water prior to this point. Timed perfectly and all planets aligned, I can jump and the boyancy of the salt water combined with the swell will carry me high up and head clear of the waves, then set me gently back down on the smooth ocean floor. I love this game and can play it for hours.

Of course, in an ocean where waves break L2R AND R2L, where the ocean floor slopes drastically down and up and down again like a roller-coaster at California Adventure, where waves are chest-thumpin' each other with you sandwiched between, hours turns into two at most, one is simply too exhausted to remain in the water for much longer than that. Then back up to the beach, spread thin on a towel and let the sun turn your body into a golden dry salt-lick with bits of glittering sand in romantic yet slightly uncomfortable places :)

Sigh! If I could describe that day in one word, it would without a doubt be...SHIT, I LOST ANOTHER WORD!

There was an old woman who wasn't me.

There was an old woman
Who lived in a shoe
She had so many children
She didn't know what to do
She gave them some broth
Without any bread
Then whipped them all soundly
And sent them to bed.

So I woke up with this nursery rhyme in my head. For the life of me, I don't know why. But being me, I immediately began asking questions. How big was the shoe? Was it a boot as commonly depicted? Or a Halmor Diamond Tip Super Flexi Jig shoe? How many kids were there and what constitutes too many? 8? 27? 4???

Quite honestly, I'm fascinated with the idea of living in a shoe and I'd kind of like to try it. My shoehouse would be a boot with a fairly substantial heel. It would lace up the front and zip down the back. It would be black patent leather to shuck the rain and prevent interior water damage. The insole would be laid with a half-inch padding and berber carpet to make cleanup a snap.

We would have our main living quarters in the toe of the shoe, with a cozy round table set in the cozy round toe. A small kitchen would run along the left side of the ball of the shoe and the arch would be hardwood floors, highly polished by 18 pairs of wax-bottom socks sliding repeatedly down it every day. Walking up the arch would be a bitch, but would provide good exercise to facilitate a healthy style of living. In a shoe.

The stem of the heel of the shoe would have a pole running down the middle and a staircase spiralling the sides. 12 inches of foam would cushion the bottom of the stem to allow the children to stick the landing. The tongue of the shoe would double as a slide; the laces would serve double duty for swinging and climbing. In inclement weather, the tongue would be retracted and tied firmly in place, and play would be redirected to the heel.

At night with our hearty broth eaten, I would spend a few moments tossling heads and tickling sides, then whack the bottom of each child and send them scampering up the arch in their slippery socks to the heel where they would begin an upward trek to their beds, each with an eyelet for a window, and oldest children at the uppermost part of the boot, younger ones at the bottom (in case they needed a glass of water in the middle of the night...).

And each night, my final motherly act of the day would be to climb the interior staircase and kiss each of them softly on the head and wish them pleasant dreams. In our cozy shoe.

What dogs write in their diaries:

8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm - Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Milk Bones! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with The People! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

What cats write in their diaries:

Day 983 of my captivity...

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets.

Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.

The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.

Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a 'good little hunter' I am. Bastards.

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of 'allergies.' I must learn what this means and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow, but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.

The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicating with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now...

Are you a cat or a dog or are you some other creature altogether?