Gone but not Forgotten

Finally getting around to watching the last season of LOST.

I know, but I don't have television service anymore. I have to wait for the Dvd.

I know, I heard already but still.

About halfway through, and it makes absolutely no sense which, if you go with that, kinda makes it fun.

Stay tuned.

I am.



Epilogue

Sunday we watched the finale. :P

Stupid, lazy ass writing cheat.

Tales of the Old Dog

After I passed the EMT-B class, my next project was to learn to speak French. To this end I signed up to audit a Elementary French class at the private college in our nearest town. Yesterday was the first class.

Fifteen, brand-new, bright and shiny Freshman plus Dearest and me.

The professor is a middle-aged French woman, expressive, positive and kind.

Quite a change from the Christian Brothers trained demigod instructor of Irish class, but I digress.

Oh, how Madame coaxed the newly-minted college students to participate. First order of class acknowledge the rules and resources.

Nowdays, everything is computerized. Madame instructed with the aid of Powerpoint. The college hosts an online repository where each class can download assignments, interact with classmates, check grades, and post profiles. When she came to describe this resource, she clucked her tongue, clasped her hands together and said to the babies, “Of course, our non-traditional students will be lost. Can you tell them how to access?”

One coed, front row, started talking. Madame stopped her, pointed at us, “Tell them.”

WTF?

Sigh.

I suppose non-traditional student is better than slow learner.

Madame then went on to discuss cliches about France that are not true.

Hello ...

A Day In The Life

Born to Boogie

I am sure that some are born to write as trees are born to bear leaves:
for these, writing is a necessary mode of their own development.

If the impulse to write survives the hope of success, then one is among these.

If not, then the impulse was at best only pardonable vanity,
and it will certainly disappear when the hope is withdrawn.

C. S. Lewis

One Dark Night

I don't remember how I stumbled across this blog, but Suebob is hilarious.

Her mouse-that-refused-to-die post reminded me of a story.

A long time ago,

In a land far, far away?

No.

A long time ago, or at least, beyond recent memory. Right here at the old home place, kiddo's cat died.

Don't worry about Fat Pete. He lives and eats on. This was the much beloved Fat Pete's much beloved predecessor.

So, the cat died by car.

(Which explains why Fat Pete doesn't get to go outside, but I digress.)

One night, shortly thereafter, in the middle of the night, I hear stealthy quiet foot steps on the carpet. I turn on the light.

Nothing. Nada. No one.

Lights out.

In a few minutes, I hear those same quiet foot steps on the carpet.

Lights on.

Nothing.

So, I wake up Dearest, who, it is well-known, could sleep through a nuclear device being detonated on our front lawn.

I'm being haunted by a ghost cat, I tell him.

Now, I betcha, of all the things we wake up our spouses in the middle of the night to say, I'm being haunted by a ghost cat, must rate a ten on the Say What scale.

Not to my Honey Bunny.

He says -- there is no such thing as a ghost cat, and if there was such a thing as a ghost cat, you could not hear it walking on carpet.

And he goes back to sleep.

Oh really.

Lights out, but this time I don't try to go back to sleep. I lie there, clutching a flashlight to my chest like famous personage lying in state clutching a lily in cold dead hands.

Shortly comes the stealthy, quiet foot steps on the carpet. Then tap, tap, tap.

I snap on the flashlight, shine it toward the sliding closet door, where I see illuminated, not a ghost cat but a live mouse.

But not just any mouse.

Mouse-Zilla.

Mouse-Zilla carrying a Milk Bone dog biscuit, and the tapping noise is Mouse-Zilla trying to force the dog biscuit horizontally through a vertical opening of the closet door.

The whole house is awakened by screams.

Dearest sets a mouse trap and goes back to sleep.

Really, I ask you, what is it with men?

Not me, baby. I stay awake wondering, where did the Milk Bone come from? Who was it for? Baby-Zillas or something larger?

Was King Kong bigger than Godzilla? I can't remember.

SNAP.

eew.

Wake Dearest up again.

Corpse-Zilla unceremoniously disposed of in the garbage in the garage.

And then.

And then.

The husband goes back to sleep without commenting on the auditory acuity of someone who can hear a mouse walk across carpet.

A fact, which seems to me, should be noted in scholarly articles and record books somewhere.