Paragraphs...
Mar. 20th, 2006 11:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
senoritafishI missed the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
dailyparagraph for few days:
My Saturday morning dozing is broken by a pop, follow by a tinkle, and then little-boy giggling. My sleep-fogged brain is trying to decipher the noises and decide what they mean, when another two pops occur in quick succession. It finally registers what I'm hearing, and I bound from my comfy quilt and dash to the patio, clad only in my t-shirt and underwear. And of course, they haven't even got their shoes on. I roar at them to get the heck inside, you two! and what the hell do you think you're doing?!, close the sliding door behind their now guilty looking faces, and trudge to find my slippers and the broom. Dammit. Weren't the raw eggs bad enough? And who left the damn package out on the counter?
It's alway touted as a place to haggle, a place for bargains, but I am a poor negotiator. Any time I've tried it, the sales people laugh in my face. It seems to be a joy in life for some people I know, but I've always been content to just pay the price marked. If it's more than I have, then I don't really need it. I don't enjoy arguing enough to want to engage in it for entertainment purposes. And in any case, for all I feel the pinch here at home at the end of the month, I'm comparatively privileged; and I don't begrudge the pesos that I didn't save if it means a little extra on table of that street vendor's family.
It's possible I wouldn't have married my husband without them. A friend arranged a trip to a diatomite mine where he knew one of the staff members. A large area of white mineral that is used for swimming pool filters and diatomaceous earth to keep slugs out of your tender bulbs in the garden, also contains the remains of millions of sardine ancestors and other members of that defunct pelagic community. We carpooled on the six-hour round trip drive, and I discovered, he wasn't just on the make for every female that came into his lunch counter, he really was just earnestly friendly and he was actually capable of carrying on an intelligent conversation. A day of digging for long-dead fish skeletons was probably the beginning of "us."
I had two rats for several years before I went to college. An old high school acquaintance had given them to me, from a litter her rat had. They were hooded rats, one with a light brown head and shoulders, and the other the same pattern in black; the rest of their bodies were white. I named them Millicent and Minerva, and for four years they shared my bedroom. I found them to be much smarter than hamsters we'd owned previously. I could leave the cage door open and they would explore the room but always came back to their cage to sleep or get a snack. If something scared them, they'd run to me and hide in my lap. When I transferred to university at the other end of the state, my brother said he would take care of them for me, as warm blooded animals weren't allowed in the dorms (my snake was ok). They were getting rather elderly, and Millicent passed away before I left. When I phoned my brother later to see how Minerva was doing, he told me he couldn't take care of her any more, and had let her go in a vacant lot at the end of our street. I was angry and heartbroken; how long do you think an elderly rat who's lived in a cage all her life, and half glaring white besides, survived? I wish I could've provided a better end for her. I'm close to my brother, but it's one thing I've never quite forgiven him for.
John has a peculiar bedtime ritual. After we've finished watching the tube for the day, and as I'm snuggling down to sleep, he grabs the remote. He has to cycle through all the cable channels, not to see what's on, but to see how many of them have switched over to infomercials. He'll even check the guide to see if it's for the rest of the night, and which infomercials are following the one that's on. Occasionally, he'll even determine a percentage, although it seldom varies from night to night. His version of turning around three times before lying, I suppose.
It's funny how they're the last thing I want when looking for a snack. I just don't feel like I want them; something else usually sounds better, and for sure, healthier. And yet, if I yield to the temptation of well, I have to have something (which I really don't), and put a handful in bowl, I can't stop eating them. Crunch, crunch, crunch - they're addicting for a short space of time. A craving for salt and grease I didn't know I had. Then they go back in the cupboard, and don't think about them again until the next attack of munchies. Who buys these things anyway? I never used to.
dailyparagraph for few days:My Saturday morning dozing is broken by a pop, follow by a tinkle, and then little-boy giggling. My sleep-fogged brain is trying to decipher the noises and decide what they mean, when another two pops occur in quick succession. It finally registers what I'm hearing, and I bound from my comfy quilt and dash to the patio, clad only in my t-shirt and underwear. And of course, they haven't even got their shoes on. I roar at them to get the heck inside, you two! and what the hell do you think you're doing?!, close the sliding door behind their now guilty looking faces, and trudge to find my slippers and the broom. Dammit. Weren't the raw eggs bad enough? And who left the damn package out on the counter?
It's alway touted as a place to haggle, a place for bargains, but I am a poor negotiator. Any time I've tried it, the sales people laugh in my face. It seems to be a joy in life for some people I know, but I've always been content to just pay the price marked. If it's more than I have, then I don't really need it. I don't enjoy arguing enough to want to engage in it for entertainment purposes. And in any case, for all I feel the pinch here at home at the end of the month, I'm comparatively privileged; and I don't begrudge the pesos that I didn't save if it means a little extra on table of that street vendor's family.
It's possible I wouldn't have married my husband without them. A friend arranged a trip to a diatomite mine where he knew one of the staff members. A large area of white mineral that is used for swimming pool filters and diatomaceous earth to keep slugs out of your tender bulbs in the garden, also contains the remains of millions of sardine ancestors and other members of that defunct pelagic community. We carpooled on the six-hour round trip drive, and I discovered, he wasn't just on the make for every female that came into his lunch counter, he really was just earnestly friendly and he was actually capable of carrying on an intelligent conversation. A day of digging for long-dead fish skeletons was probably the beginning of "us."
I had two rats for several years before I went to college. An old high school acquaintance had given them to me, from a litter her rat had. They were hooded rats, one with a light brown head and shoulders, and the other the same pattern in black; the rest of their bodies were white. I named them Millicent and Minerva, and for four years they shared my bedroom. I found them to be much smarter than hamsters we'd owned previously. I could leave the cage door open and they would explore the room but always came back to their cage to sleep or get a snack. If something scared them, they'd run to me and hide in my lap. When I transferred to university at the other end of the state, my brother said he would take care of them for me, as warm blooded animals weren't allowed in the dorms (my snake was ok). They were getting rather elderly, and Millicent passed away before I left. When I phoned my brother later to see how Minerva was doing, he told me he couldn't take care of her any more, and had let her go in a vacant lot at the end of our street. I was angry and heartbroken; how long do you think an elderly rat who's lived in a cage all her life, and half glaring white besides, survived? I wish I could've provided a better end for her. I'm close to my brother, but it's one thing I've never quite forgiven him for.
John has a peculiar bedtime ritual. After we've finished watching the tube for the day, and as I'm snuggling down to sleep, he grabs the remote. He has to cycle through all the cable channels, not to see what's on, but to see how many of them have switched over to infomercials. He'll even check the guide to see if it's for the rest of the night, and which infomercials are following the one that's on. Occasionally, he'll even determine a percentage, although it seldom varies from night to night. His version of turning around three times before lying, I suppose.
It's funny how they're the last thing I want when looking for a snack. I just don't feel like I want them; something else usually sounds better, and for sure, healthier. And yet, if I yield to the temptation of well, I have to have something (which I really don't), and put a handful in bowl, I can't stop eating them. Crunch, crunch, crunch - they're addicting for a short space of time. A craving for salt and grease I didn't know I had. Then they go back in the cupboard, and don't think about them again until the next attack of munchies. Who buys these things anyway? I never used to.
