Peckerhead

A visit to my doctor the other day, revealed something about myself that I was not aware of prior.  I was seeing my physician regarding another matter, when she, my doctor, revealed that I had Psoriasis.

For weeks, my skin was dry and itchy and even going so far as cracking and bleeding, as well.  To look at me, I resemble a man prone to bar fights, the way my knuckles, hands and upper arms are riddled with sore patchy skin.  I'd thought it was just dry conditions in my house, as I have rarely been venturing out this past winter season.  That  coupled with the fact that I've stopped chewing my nails, thus allowing them to grow out and actually do damage when I scratch an itch.  I should trim them, but it's been decades since I've actually had fingernails that extended past my finger tips. 

I also believed it was a necessary sign of aging.  I'm not that that old, yet, but I recall seeing my Great Aunt, Chrissie, when she was getting up in years.  Her hands and lower arms resembled what mine currently look like.  Her skin was thin and frail and the slightest wind would cause her skin to crack open and bleed.  At least, that's what I initially believed, but in retrospect, there may have been a more obvious cause for those abrasions and wounds.

Growing up, I lived on a farm, just outside the city limits.  We could see the sprawling houses in the distance, advancing closer and closer, like trudging foot soldiers.  The land belonged to my Great Aunt, Chrissie.  When I was quite young, she had cattle, which were a source of milk for many years.  She also had chickens, which were also a source of sustenance.  My dad, also farmed the land for seed.  Grain, flax and canola was his preferred crops. Eventually, the cattle were sold off and only the chickens remained.

Like clock work, every morning and every evening, Chrissie would walk down to the coop and gather up the eggs, returning them to the house.  It was during these spells that I'm sure the chickens would lash out at the large hand groping them and stealing away their unborn offspring.  As dumb as chicken appear to be, surely there's some sort of motherly instinct that exists.  These pecks at Chrissie's hands and wrists, now that I think about it, is a more obvious cause for those wounds, than mere Psoriasis.

Startled poultry, lashing out and pecking at prying hands stealing their young, it was a natural reaction, but pales considerably for the surprise that would eventually befront them in the not-too-distant future.  If they thought cold hands were a nuisance, then they were in for quite the surprise.

I was quite young at the time.  I do recall that much.  Heading down to the chicken coop with my mom and sister in tow, meeting Chrissie who was armed with a flashlight.  We would stand at the doorway, accompanied by very little.  Only the darkness and the muffled squawks of panic that were coming from inside the old chicken coop.  We'd hear some rustling as Chrissie would return to the open door and hand over a couple chickens, which we'd carry, two-by-two, over to the far side of the cattle barn, the side where the horse, Jim, used to reside.  Jim was a work horse who did very little else than tow cow manure out to be spread over the field for fertilizer.  At least, I think that's all he did...  That and fart.  I do remember my dad saying that he'd be reigning the horse, when in mid-stride, Jim would raise his tail and unleash a nasty smelly fart.  That's for another day and another blog, maybe.

Two-by-two, the chickens would be delivered into small pens in the old horse barn, where they'd stay until the next morning when their fate would be sealed.  Like those who opposed King Henry VIII, these poor chickens who'd sacrificed their eggs for our consumption (not mine, I was deathly allergic to eggs in my youth), were now paying the ultimate price.

I was not allowed in the barn at this time, with good reason.  Even the idea of all those chickens being beheaded and having their feet amputated so violently, bothers me now.  The little heads and feet were discarded out the door, where my sister and I would retrieve them and feed them to the dogs.  (*Editor's Note: I took a long pause here, pondering those actions.  It's disturbing.)  A few pecks and punctures were a small price to pay, I suppose, considering the huge sacrifice those chickens would ultimately pay.

These days, I don't want to know how the food gets to my table.  I like pigs.  Wouldn't want to hurt them in any way, but I also love bacon.  The method that gets that bacon from the farm to my table, doesn't concern me.  Nor what chickens have to endure, as well as lamb, beef, whatever the case.  Blissful ignorance is on my side.  As long as I honour the animal that gave it's life to feed me, I believe that's good enough.  The thought of becoming a vegan, based solely on fear of hurting animals, is weak and stupid, but that's a blog for another time.  Bon Appétit!

"The method that gets the meat to my table,
doesn't concern me.  Fried chicken is good!"

Shit Talking

The morning was cool and moist.  I'd loaded up my truck, arranging all the packages according to town and destination.  Normally it took me about an hour to load the Ford F-450 cube van all by myself, but the task flew by relatively quickly and I sped off, ahead of schedule.  The time was close to 5am and the sun had not yet broken the seal of a new day.  I headed north, towards Prince Albert, my first stop.  The world around me at that early morn, was stranger than usual.  The humidity hung in the air, evident only by strands of fog stretching across the four lane split highway, like ribbons on a gift wrappers table.  Each appearing as eerie as it did elegant and beautiful.  It's an image that returns to my mind on those brisk spring time mornings.

I'd arrived and departed from the storage facility in Prince Albert, located at the south end of town.  I had no incident.  In and out like an international spy, racing away with secret documents.  Only I didn't have any such items in my possession.  Only half a truck full of large boxes and some car parts.  My destination was now Melfort, located about an hour to the east.  By this time, the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, shining extra brightly, piercing through my visor and blinding me, by the time I'd reached Birch Hills, SK.  It was also around this time where I began to feel a little off.

It wasn't sickness or anything alike, but it was more of an uncomfortable pressure.  I had a poop coming on.  I was confident that I could not only make it to Melfort before anything bad might occur.  The guy I met every day, was usually a few minutes late arriving when I would be there, so I thought I could make it to the Tim Horton's in well enough time.  With the lack of traffic at that time I arrived with only minutes to spare, however, as fate would have it, the guy I normally had to wait on, was already at the meeting site.  I didn't have a whole lot to hand off to him, mostly just large items, so I helped load him up, all the while fighting the pressure that was building in my downstairs region.

I was relieved when the fella departed right away, rather than engaging in the small chit-chat that he regularly partook in.  I locked up my van and began the arduous trek across the uneven broken ground between the parking area and the Timmy Ho's.  By this time, my butt cheeks were clenched so tight, that if you'd have placed a lump of coal between them, I would have produced a diamond worthy of royalty.  My travel was laborious and difficult, on account I was only able to take small steps from the knees down.

Best I could, I rushed into the donut shop and headed straight to the washroom, but...  Yes.  It was too late.  The floodgates from hell opened up, filling my brand new red boxer briefs in the process.  I had just shit myself and yes, in case you needed to ask, I did feel tremendous shame.  I could have and should have excused myself, when I had initially arrived in Melfort, but like a "tough guy" I chose not to and now I was paying dearly.

In the following weeks, I had a couple more close calls, nearly filling my red boxer briefs before locating adequate facilities.  Once, I needed to duck between lockers at the storage facility in Prince Albert.  I rested my back up against the wall and unleashed the fury.  Another time, happened in Birch Hills.  I was much more vulnerable there, opting to hide behind some large farm equipment and doing my business there.  Again, I was wearing red underwear.  I began seeing a pattern here.  Every time I wore the red under garments, I either had a terrible accident or a near-fatal accident in my shorts.  Even around town, when I'm making a quick run to the grocer, if I'm wearing red undies, I'd better stick close to a public washroom, or else.

I saw my Diabetic nurse today.  A quick meeting to try out one of these sensor things that attach to my arm so I can monitor my blood sugars more easily.  For years, the doctor requested that I do blood check with the strips and the little device, but alas, I am a diabetic and even in Canada with our awesome healthcare, diabetics still get f*cked over.  Those strips cost a LOT of money and I don't have a benefits package at my job.  Hell, if we're being completely honest, I don't even have a f*cking job at this time, but I can't afford to pay, out-of-pocket for those strips.  So I was given some of these sensor pads to try on my phone.  Equally as expensive, so I'm told, but I thought I'd give 'em a try.

Diabetic nurse helped me out, then I was on my way.  I headed to the Wal-Mart to grab some milk, bread and subsequently, some treats for my boy, Monkey.  No sooner had I filled my cart with all my items, that I felt something rumble.  I farted, but it wasn't a fart. It was more beefy than it was gaseous.  Immediately, I recalled slipping on red underwear when I got dressed this morning (TMI?🤨) and the race was on.

Like a starter pistol had fired off, I began to push my cart back across the store.  Of course this shit happens (pardon the pun😉) when I'm at the furthest point away from the public washroom.  Stepping from my knees down, once again, I arduously raced past confused onlookers and congested hubs of hanging apparel.  As the destination drew closer, I felt something tickling my butt cheek, dancing down my leg.  I thought I was losing my keys through another hole in my pocket, but when I shook my leg to free up the keys, a meatball rolled out, coming to a stop under a display of dehumidifiers.  I paused, completely shocked and disgusted by what had just happened.  I'm not as disgusting as those videos of people dropping trow and shitting in a deserted grocery aisle or that pig who squatted in front of a counter at a Tim Horton's in Ontario and took a whopping shit, despite of all the onlookers.  I had apparently shit, nothing terribly catastrophic, but equally as bad.

The situation in the bathroom was not nearly as horrific as I'd initially believed.  It was actually a quick and easy clean up.  I used a LOT of paper, mind you.  Didn't require it, but in these cases, it's better to be overindulgent than thrifty.

This is the kind of shit (again, apologies for the pun), that most people probably wouldn't or shouldn't share with anyone.  Especially my friends and peers, but whatever.  Everyone has shit themselves at some point in their adult lives.  If they claim they haven't they're probably f*cking lying.

I remember one time when my nephew was quite small.  He was just getting out of the diaper-wearing game, so accidents would happen sometimes.  I remember this one time, he shit himself and my sister went off on him.  The kid had a lot of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) and this always lead to his accidents.  He believed that something exciting might happen while he was in the bathroom.  So this one time, my sister is shitting on him for shitting on himself and the poor kid felt terrible.  He came over to where I was sitting, with tears in his eyes.  I tried to comfort the boy by admitting to him that accidents happen.  That sometimes even adults poop themselves.  My sister overheard this and ripped me a new asshole, yelling at me to stop lying to him and that I needed to tell him I was lying.  Instead, I looked her dead in the eye and asked, "Are you f*cking high?"  Everybody shits themselves.  I've done it at least twice in my adult life.

I doubt anyone will read this, which is why I feel confident in writing this blog.  Judge me or don't.  I don't don't give two shits.  If a person can't laugh at themselves, sometimes, then they're just shitheads...  There's a lot of shit talk this post.  Hmm. 🤔

Flight of the Bumblebee

 

It's been said that a bumblebee should not be able to fly.  The span of it's little wings, is too small to actually allow the insect to gain flight, yet every spring and throughout the summer months, the bumblebee can be seen flying all about, gathering nectar from the flowers and trees and spreading it's seed throughout the neighbourhood.  The insect should not, by scientific terms, be able to fly, yet it does, the reason sloughed off, citing "It flies because it doesn't know any better."

Growing up, I had all kinds of dreams of what I wanted to be when I grew up.  At a young age, I had a million ideas running through my head as to what a young Jeff could become in the world.  Dreams at such a young age, can be priceless.  Many people, wanna be a police officer or a cowboy or even an astronaut.  I never had any dreams like those.  Mine were more, I don't know, for the age bracket, they were dreams that were a little outside the norm, but if endorsed or guidance would have been provided by a parent at such an age, who knows the prominence one might achieve in life.

At a young age, I remember drawing a lot.  I was always drawing up buildings and alike.  I can remember receiving compliments from people, my mom included, encouraging me to make more pictures.  One friend of the family even mentioned "You're going to make a fine architect one day."  I'd never heard that word, architect, before and began telling everyone that I was going to grow up to be an architect.  Until another family member, likely my father, but my mom had an equal hand in discouraging me from some things, like this.  Until about twenty minutes ago, I thought their intensions were malicious, but it may have just been their way of protecting me from disappointment in life.  Either way, we'll never know.

I remember wanting to be an architect, but was told there was too much science involved and I wouldn't be good at it.  I wanted to be an actor (not a movie star, like so many kids say), but I was told that I had a face for radio, not a TV screen.  I may have even mentioned that I wanted to try out for football (real football 🏈, not that soccer bullshit), but I was told I was too small and would probably be killed.  That last one sounds legitimate, actually.  I would not fair too well against those mastodons.

At one point, I actually went off to collage to study Film History and Production.  I was one of the first first year students to get into that film production class, as it was usually held over for second year students, at the University of Regina.  A terrible school for studying the artform as their equipment was obsolete, even then.  After applying to many schools, the University of Regina was the only school I could get into.  It was a wasted year, to say the least.  What I do recall from that era, was my dad introducing me to one of his friends or family members, including the fact that "Jeff is in university for..." he paused, glancing over at me, "I don't know.  Some kind of bullshit." He rolled his eyes with true embarrassment and I turned away, heartbroken.

I never returned to school the following year.  The University of Regina was a lost cause.  I knew that, but lacked the resources to go to a better school, but a year of neglect and shitty grades, would've prevented that, anyway.

I often wonder about the road not taken.🤔What if this? What if that? What if? What if? What if?

What if my parents had embraced my ideas as a young pup?  Steer me in the direction of honing my skills to help shape me and better prepare me for the disappointments that were sure to follow me in my quest for betterment.

What would be different?  Everything.  Would I be in a better place?  Who the f*ck knows?  Chances are I wouldn't have the great friends and acquaintances that I do.  While not the picturesque friendships that movies and TV would have, but they're awesome people, all the same.  I definitely wouldn't have my boy, Monkey.  I can't imagine a life without that furry little face staring up at me.

Nature versus Nurture is a common debate.  Nature dictates that a being is already wired for a certain behavior.  That it's a natural instinct to follow a certain path in life, without any outside influence.  Nurture suggests that if a being is influenced by an outside factor or it's environment, that it can be coerced or guided into a life path.

I don't recall receiving much praise or support from my family growing up.  I was an accidental pregnancy, while my sister was not and boy, was I reminded of that fact much throughout my young life.

My dad was an alcoholic.  Later in life, after he had passed, I came to peace with the whole ordeal.  I call it "Jeckyll and Hyde".  When my dad was sober, he was the best.  When he was drunk..., look the f*ck out.  Maybe, and I'm just surmising here, but perhaps because I was an accidental pregnancy and viewed as "the reason his life was shit", is the reason, subconsciously, that my life was somewhat sabotaged as an infant.  That's just being passive aggressive.  Blaming others for my own shortcomings, but wouldn't the same be suggested of his motivations?

I could have taken control of my own horse and carriage and steered myself in whatever direction I deemed best, just as he (my father) could have done anything to follow his dreams, as well.

By all accounts, the bumblebee should not be able to fly, but it does.  Does it do so, because it isn't aware that it should not be able to?  Or did the bumblebee receive more hugs as a larva?

Just look at that face! No matter what bad decisions I've made in my shitty life, I don't regret ever bringing this little dude into my life.  My little angel, Monkey. 🥰 

Dedicated to my little boy,
Monkey.

Algebraic Equation

 

Are you like me?  Struggling throughout the annuls of time, trying to find the exact ratio of cereal to milk.  That's me on an almost daily basis.  Not once, since I was knee-high to a gnat, have I been able to find the exact quantity necessary to marry up with the precise volume of milk in order to not consume more than the desired amount of breakfast substance.

I start each day by filling a desirable amount of cereal, whether it be Shreddies, Corn Flakes or even a chocolatey treat like Nestle's Quik or Chocolate Lucky Charms (because of the marshmallows), I can never pour a perfect amount of milk.  Either I'm left with an obnoxious amount of milk after the cereal has been consumed, of which I'm not going to drink out of the bowl.  I'm not a damned animal, after all.  Besides, the milk doesn't taste well enough on it's own to be drunk in such a barbaric manner.  So I'm left with the only option.  Add more cereal.

The extra bowl is welcomed, sometimes, so it's no big whoop, but then the milk runs out, leaving half a bowl of cereal flying solo.  That's not good either, so out comes the jug and more milk is added.  This is where it becomes tricky.  I tend to add too much milk, the second time 'round.  It's not voluminous, but it's enough to throw off the ratio, leaving me once more, with an ample amount of milk in the bowl and no cereal, so the bitter circle begins all over again.

I've found myself, time permitting, in the past finishing off an entire box of cereal before the exact equation of how much to put with how much is ever ciphered to completion.  This happens more with the sugary cereals.  They're not just a source of vitamins and minerals, but they're also a tasty snack.  The nice thing about the latter cereals is that usually, the milk turns chocolate brown and it is somewhat tasty, although, I still refuse to drink from the bowl.  On account that I'm not an animal.

I don't recognize this mission as OCD-related, although I have experienced a similar problem when consuming ice cream.  I live alone so I tend to not use a lot of crockery.  In that, I mean, I drink from the bottle or from the milk jug (chocolate), rather than dirty a glass or cup.  With ice cream, it's the same.  I tend to eat it right out of the container.  (If I'm going to have company, I get a new tub of ice cream.  Like I said before, I'm not an animal.)

With the ice cream, I tend to try to finish with the ice cream being perfectly level, before I can return the lid to the container and place it back in the freezer.  Only problem is, I'm so picky that the ice cream MUST be completely flat with 90deg angles up against the wall of the receptacle.  Anything less than perfect, gets carved out and placed onto my tongue.  I thought I was the only one facing this dilemma, until one night I was watching late night TV and saw comedian Gary Gulman discuss the fact he does the same thing, often resulting in an empty bucket, just like me.  I laughed so hard at the premise because it wasn't just a funny anecdote, but a detailed historic recollection.  Almost like Gary, himself, were peeking in my window, taking careful note of my process.

After the show, I took to Twitter, complimenting Gulman on his very funny stand-up appearance, adding that I did the same with my ice cream.  It was a nice exchange.

I tend to have that problem with a number of factors in my life.  I use too much ketchup when placed on the side of my dish for French fries or bacon.  Too much gravy on my meat and potatoes, but really.  Is there such thing as too much gravy?  I think not, so I might be onto something there.  Hmm.

The question in every high school mathematics class is "When am I ever going to use this in real life?"  I've only come across, in real time, occasions when an algebraic equation might come in handy.  Most recently was just twenty minutes ago, as I was fighting to pour the proper amount of milk into my cereal.  Needless to say, but I will anyway.  I failed miserably.

Them's The Breaks!!

 

I got f**ked by National Pizza Day.  Inadvertently f**ked, that is.  I'm sure the pizza place where I had acquired the pizza from, did not dispatch said pies with the intention of causing bodily damage.  This is not a plausible business plan.

Wednesday, February 9th, 2022, was National Pizza Day.  Or so I learned from the trusty interwebs.  If it is written there, then it must be true, am I right?  I hadn't had pizza for quite some time, so I thought it was in the budget that I could treat myself to some pizza.  I rang up my usual haunt and ordered three pizza's. (Given the outrageous prices for pizza these days, this establishment seems the best bang for my buck at $33 for three pizzas.)  I ordered a Meatball, a number 18 (beef, bacon, & sausage) which is my go to, always.  It's like a meat lovers, but without the ham.  I'm allergic to ham.  Then I rounded out the triad with a Chicken Teriyaki pizza, which is the only acceptable pizza to have pineapple on.

I quickly dispatched the Meatball, followed by the Number 18, into my belly.  I had been dreaming almost the entire day about having pizza for supper, so I avoided unnecessary snacks or mid-day lunch, just to make room for pizza that night.

I realize that by admitting that I devoured two pizzas all by my lonesome seems excessive, but they were small 10" pizzas, most of which are taken up by crust.  I'm not making excuses for my gluttony, as I don't need explain myself to anyone, except maybe my doctor, and I know she does not read my stuff.

The third pizza, the Chicken Teriyaki, I left for another day.  I placed it in the refrigerator until I could give it my full attention later, which turned out to be yesterday.  Friday.

I placed the pizza onto a plate, blasted it a couple times in the microwave to heat it up to optimum temperature.  Cold pizza is f**king disgusting, especially if it's been refrigerated.  I sat down in front of the TV and watched some Bitchin' Rides, while I enjoyed my pizza, now topped with more Teriyaki sauce.  (I buy the Golden Dragon stuff.  It really is the best.)  The meaty part tasted great, as I placed the crusts idly by until I could address them afterward.

The way I like to eat pizza, generally, is eat the center part first, then the crusts after, like a snack.  This is what I did with the first two pizzas from Wednesday night.  No issues, but I hadn't accounted for the crusts to get extra tough in the days since it was made.  Now the crusts were hard.  Really f**king hard.  Harder than I initially thought, actually.

Usually, the crusts firm up a little as they cool off, but they remain somewhat leathery, if that makes sense.  Thick, but manageable to bite portions off, but this was blatantly not the case with the crusts from the Chicken Teriyaki.  I guess the added 48 hours in the fridge caused it to thicken up like f**king concrete.  I wrestled my way through a couple of them, when all of a sudden, I heard a crunch.  Not the kind of crunch that sounds like a pizza crust being crushed between my molars, but a more distinguishable "oh f**k" kind of crunch.  I quickly vacated my mouth-hole to discover that I'd broken one of my lower teeth.  This little f**ker that I had my dentist work on last August, was now sitting in the palm of my hand.

I've always had weak teeth.  Ever since I was knee high to a squirrel, I've had bad teeth.  The dentists would give me shit, passing on the news to my parents.  I remember many a "discussion" with an extremely inebriated father, who would pull my chair in close to his and he'd scream at me to brush my teeth, to avoid having a nasty set like he had.  However, despite all my efforts to follow the guidelines set upon me by the National Dentistry whatever, my teeth have always had cavities, chips, breaks or worse.  Hell!!  When I broke my back, I also managed to break five and a half teeth in the process.  That extra half was because one was already broken, ha ha.

What sucks is, I had insurance at the time, when I broke those teeth along with three vertebrae.  I don't have insurance, now, though.  Every dentist visit is paid for straight outta pocket.  Canada rocks, as far as health care, goes, but dentistry sucks balls.

So far, I'm not feeling any pain.  Chances are, the one that broke on me, had previously had a root canal, I suspect.  Memory losses over the years, hinders me from actually recalling what has been done to what.

Tomorrow is the Super Bowl.  I had planned on making some ribs for the occasion, but to say the least, I'm a little gun shy.  I doubt anything else will be tumbling out of my mouth, but ya never know.  I'm sure if something does, I'll be writing about that too.

Profligation

Dreams.  What could they mean?  Merely products of an overactive mind?  Or do they provide a glimpse into an uncertain future?  It's difficult to say for sure, but for decades, there has loads of science investigating the unconscious state of dreaming.  The causes, the need and/or the necessity of dreaming.  That's not what this is about.

My dreams tend to air on the side of strange.  I know this much about my unconscious state.  My dreams tend to be something as stupid as white water rafting with the likes of WWE superstars, The Undertaker,  Hunter Hearst Helmsley (Triple H) and Stephanie McMahon or I've dreamt murder/mystery stories that could be blockbuster films if ever realized on the silver screen.  Most of the really good stuff, quickly disappears once I awaken and I can't remember the finite details.  (Plus, I can barely write this blog that no one reads, let alone pen the next Hollywood hit.)

This morning, I awoke about a half dozen times, from the time of 5am all the way up to the present (8:30am).  Normally when I wake up this often, my head is plagued with a number of images and stories, but not on this day.  I woke up every time, wondering..;  Is trounce a multiple of bounce?

Now before the one reader who mistakenly wandered onto this site and decided "What the hell?" and read it anyway, saw this statement and has declared me a f**king moron, keep in mind, I've already Googled the meaning of both and know that bounce doesn't restrict an item to hitting the ground twice and trounce doesn't refer to three rebounds or more.  If I continued down the path of trying to declare this to be the case would be shear idiocy. This is simply an example of how my brain works.

       

In the back of my mind, I knew there was a difference.  That the explanation wasn't as simple as bi meaning two and tri meaning three.  The English language can be a little f**ked up, but it makes more sense than this.  Again, my brain works differently than other people's.  Always has, even before I had my accident.

I had a dream once, where I was at a Agriculture show with two people of whom I was familiar with (in the dream, but in real life, I hadn't met them yet).  The reason this dream was so memorable was the three of us were speaking to a farmer about emu's.  Up to this point, I had never heard of an Emu, and when I awoke, I had to investigate whether or not this was a real thing.  It is.  Many months later, I was attending a class at SIAST and our class was sent to the local Agribition, where I hung out with classmates, Christine and Derek.  Two people who I hadn't known when I had the initial dream, but whom I was familiar with that day and... Yes!  We stopped and spoke with a farmer who raised... [dramatic pause] ... Emus.  F**king weird, right?

I could fill volumes about the strange dreams I've had and have been able to remember.  Who the hell knows about all the shit I've forgotten?  I'm willing to bet that I probably did have a few million dollar ideas in the mix.  However, I believe this blog has strayed far enough off the initial subject that I had hoped to address in this blog, this morning.  I'm like Hulk Hogan, by which I mean, I can't seem to stay on one subject and am distracted by all the shiny shit that accompanies said subject.  (If you're one of the sorry souls who read Hulk Hogan's book from way back, you'll understand that reference.  It was a painful read, to say the least.)

Bounce: (verb) (of an object, especially a ball) Move quickly up, back, or away from a surface after hitting it; rebound (once or repeatedly).

(noun) Rebound of a ball or other object.

Trounce: (verb) To defeat heavily in a contest; To rebuke or punish severely.

Emu: The emu is the second-largest living bird by height, after its ratite relative, the ostrich. It is endemic to Australia where it is the largest native bird and the only extant member of the genus Dromaius.

Profligate: recklessly extravagant or wasteful in the use of resources. (Or this edition of Brain Matter.)

I don't really have an out for this blog, so I will leave you with this.  If you've made it this far into this blog and liked it?  You're my audience and you may enjoy previous entries.  They're not all golden, but some of them are pretty good.  If you begrudgingly made it this far and haven't liked a single word, except maybe Emu (because it is a fun word to say), you have my apologies.  However, you may want to check out past entries.  They're not all golden, but some of them actually are pretty good.

In closing, everyone have a Merry Christmas! 🎅

Fat Lip

 

I'm not a fan of winter and never have been really.  Some folks look forward to the fall season, followed by winter.  My nephews, especially, as the ice skates come out and they play hockey in the back yard.  They play hockey all year 'round, but building happy memories of skating in small circles and putting that puck in the net, that is just so much more appealing.  I guess if I had something special like that to look forward to, my feelings about winter would be different.

My reason for disliking winter go way beyond my playing hockey outside.  In fact, I've never laced up a pair of skates solely for the purpose of playing any kind of winter sport, let alone hockey in my own backyard.

One of the many attributes that winter provides, besides locking up all my joints, is my lips.  My bottom lip, usually, although the top has been known to act up.  I rarely go outside, anymore, for reasons besides necessity.  For instance, you'll probably not find me standing at rink side, in my sister's backyard, cheering on my nephews.  I just don't like being outside in the cold.  However, when I do venture out into the subzero climate, my lips chap up.  I try to keep my face and mouth covered, but somehow my mouth chaps up.  When they do that, they crack.  Then, for some reason, because I can't leave well enough alone, my tongue gets in there and starts rubbing the hell out of the opened spot.  I guess Dr. Tongue feels it knows more than my brain.  Now the spot is irritated even more.

Meanwhile, my brain and the rest of my body, tongue and lip in tow, venture through my house, seeking out that single tube of cherry lip balm that I remember using either... Was it last year or the year before?

By some stroke of luck, I manage to locate the item, pop the cap and am surprised that it's still good and place it, immediately, upon thine own self.  The coolness of the medicated stick immediately brings some relief to the sore area.

The days that follow, remain up in the air.  Either the swelling will go down and I can carry on with life as I know it or the spot is going to be continually irritated by my stubborn tongue.  It's really a crapshoot after that.

Even now, my bottom lip split about a week ago.  I managed to control the irritation with chap stick, but I don't always remember to take it with me when I venture away from my house.  It's an ongoing fight.