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Pastimes : Don't Ask Rambi -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: melinda abplanalp who wrote (30985)	7/6/1999 11:54:00 AM
From: jpmac	Respond to of 71178

Taht does sound rather gross. Look at it this way, 30 minutes for working out, and 30 minutes to cover your ice cream intake. That's not bad. I'm kinda smug. I got the floor cleaned. It's very nice. I've cleaned it a couple of times with a rag, but this is the first real cleaning with dust mop and cleaning stuff. It feels way better in here. Now if I get a little rug to cover the all wires from the computer, etc, it'll look civilized in here.

To: melinda abplanalp who wrote (30985)	7/6/1999 1:51:00 PM
From: Gauguin	Read Replies (2) \| Respond to of 71178

That float was indeed a queaser. Speaking of queasin cuisine, I had a tall chartreuse plastic glass I was drinking wine out of Sunday (kind of already queasy, isn't it?) ~ and I went and refilled it, and it tasted odd. I looked down in the glass plastic, and there were a bunch of potato chips I had dropped on the floor and picked up and put in there to take to the kitchen. Barbecue ones. I don't like barbecue potato chips. Yet, in an act of true economy, I tried to drink the wine anyway. A tankard of wine is a tankard of wine. (Duh!!) And; I thought it would teach me a lesson. A more permanent lesson than simple self-admonishment; the lesson being to look into glasses, before I start filling them. (And to check coffee cups for flies.) I have to try to beat behavioral sense into myself. Trusting my motor system to learn is the only hope. (Dash's cell phone was stolen by the time I learned to lock his truck...... uh-huh. I just "get out", we don't have to do "other steps" here. So the theory would be to do something like shut my foot in the door every time I get out, and learn to associate the two. "It hurts to get out of Dash's truck! Lock the door.") I don't remember well, in real-time, so every sip, I thought, "What the hell is in this wine?" And then I look down, and there'd be soggy orange-y red potato chip stuck to the bottom of the limey glass, through the yellowy chardonnay. It was quite ~ quite ~ a struggle. You can usually get used to most sensory experiences, like a stinky place, or a cat shutting off your circulation. Speak of the Devil, Fui's favorite foods on earth are potato chips and sharp cheddar cheese ~ that's what they have in the middle of the roads in Kitty Heaven, and you have to eat your way through. When they throw up a roadblock on the way to the cheese and chips, that's what you get. But she thinks barbecue chips are dope, sprayed with paraquat. Ruined. A plot. Satan's work. She lifts her paw and turns her head like she can't even bear the sight or stink of it. Like shielding herself from a furnace. Satan's Furnace. If she's hiding, so as not to get rounded up After The Weather with the rest of La Cosa Nostra to go out, you can extract her, like a sliver, by going to the potato chip cupboard. It makes a little squeak when you open it. The bags will be in there with the paper clips over the folded tops ~ order equals freshness, for Pete's sake ~ rattle the top of the bag, the tiniest little "I'm trying to keep this quiet so Fui doesn't know" rattle, and then you will hear a little thunk somewhere in the house. For super-fine tuning experiments, just the cupboard squeak is enough, to win a bet from the gullible. She cannot quite tell the difference between the bag-rattle of barbecue and regular chips. So you can use either. I get a special joy out of using the barbecue bag for her little snot head. She's the smartest cat either of us have ever had, but she's a sucker for that. I wait 'til she gets here. "'Barbecue', Fui." Heh heh.