Weaned?

Usually, Chet the E-Mail Boy is very conscientious about not prying into the messages that come clicking across his telegraph set, but yesterday, he seemed nearly beside himself. He shuffled in and with his withered and liver-spotted hand passed across the desk to me a message from the Sweetheart of Vidalia, Janis Gore. “Chet, old boy, what seems to be the trouble?” He would not answer, but only stood there as a crimson glow grew from his wattled neck to his hollow cheeks. I read the short, somewhat cryptic text--

Hon,

I've felt, for the past few weeks, like we're being weaned.

Janis

Weaned? Weaned?!

Ahhh—obviously, Lucy’s mom had taken note of the recent gigantic downturn in my production of mindless drivel, ill-advised commentary, silly crap, and outrages against the Laws of Grammar that visitors have come to expect when they cross the threshold here into the odd little corner of the ‘net called Possumblog. I chuckled and winked at Chet, who by now was rather shaky, and I quickly dashed off a response to the effect that I knew my normal idiocy level had been running low lately, and explained that between my real life job duties as a civil servant constantly at the beck and call of 265,000 citizens (and several unsympathetic supervisors), and my non-paying jobs as a daddy, and a husband, and a chauffeur, and a mechanic, and a groundskeeper, and a security guard, and a letter-in of refrigerator repairmen had occasioned a temporary slackening of productive bloginess. I assured her that while the quantity had indeed been poor (for once matching the quality), that I had no intention of weaning any of those who drop by looking for fresh Possum milk. I flipped the Western-Union pad at Chet, whose addled-pated cheerfulness quickly returned as he turned and nearly skipped out the door to his keyset.

As I then sat there in my dark, fur-lined lair, absent-mindedly stroking my marble bust of Milton (Berle), a horrifying thought suddenly occurred to me…what if Janis is thinking what others have been?! What if my entire, hard-won, regular readership (burgeoned as it has to the point that within at least the next year I shall be required to remove one of my shoes to allow me a sufficient number of digits to count them all) has decided that I no longer have the will, the desire, the fire in the belly, to shovel the copious loads of stable leavings Possumblog is famous for?!

I collapsed onto my genuine Herculon sofabed, my mind reeling. And then, it came to me—in the spirit of “A Very Special Blossom”, I would create a special episode, and thus was born this—A SATURDAY POSSUMBLOG POST!!

It is filled to the overflow with the rich meaty goodness that is Possumblog, with the added benefit of being composed entirely on my HOME computer! While I simultaneously swab children in the tub! And dig earwax from their crusty headholes! And while smelling like a ripe, deceased goat from having slaved away in the yard for five hours and not having given myself a brisk hosing down! And while folding clothes! Fascinating, hard-hitting, and a pitiful reminder of the effects of blogsessive-compulsive disorder! I now give you...

HEARTWARMING SCENES OF DOMESTIC TRANQUILITY!!

SO THEN, as you all remember, yesterday I was waiting for Mr. Appliance to call. And I waited. And waited. Forever. I did get most of my minute-transcribing done from our meeting Wednesday (which was good, in that it means I’ll have more time to play on Monday). Finally, at 4 o’clock I got a call from the dispatcher saying their man could be at the house in ten minutes. “Ahhhh—look, I work downtown and it’s going to take me at least thirty minutes to get home!” “Twenty minutes?” “No! At LEAST thirty minutes, maybe a bit more.” “Well, I’ll have them there in about 35 minutes.”

Crap. Started crashing the computer to get out of there, told our receptionist I was taking my lunch hour and headed out. Up on the interstate, then grind to a halt halfway home. Every lane, as far as I could see. Dead. I took the next convenient exit to get on Highway 11, which is the same thing as First Avenue, and Roebuck Parkway, and Parkway East, and Gadsden Highway, which is a lot of differently-named-but-still-the-same four-laned surface streets that magically had become as densely packed as the interstate. Seems a few thousand of my good friends had decided to take the same detour I did. So I creeped along for another 35 minutes. Finally managed to get around whatever wreck or disaster had clogged up the interstate and beat it for the house. Only to get off at the Trussville exit and sit in traffic some more. ::sigh::

Finally got home an HOUR after I started out, certain that the guy had long left. Much to my relief, he was still there, so after profuse apologies to him for being so late, I let us in and he went to work. Thirty minutes later, a nice new heater element in place (one of the fusible links had blown), and there was cold air once again. Hooray. Paid him his money, which I had just gotten paid myself that very morning. Our bank account is less like a reservoir and much more like a high pressure fire hose. Oh well.

Reba came blazing in just a bit later, dumped the three little ones, took Big One to band practice, went to the store and came back with some vittles. Ate a bite, then it was time for me to run back and get Ashley from practice. And got the store for paper towels. And get gas in my van. Store, towels, line. Again a traffic jam! The mop-headed kid was over at the service desk—I caught his eye and he tilted his head back to motion me over. Thank goodness, and I vow never to call him a mop-headed kid again. Out, and I saw I didn’t have time to get gas, so it was on over to the high school on about a thimbleful of fuel. Shades of the Soccer Park Gas Fiasco danced in my mind, but I managed to make it there and to the gas station without a flame-out. Back home, fed Oldest, shooed the others to bed, and collapsed into a fitful night of sleep.

I opened the package—inside was a note, and attached to it was a bra. Something about “I was reading your blog and did this to my bra! Hah hah!” It had something like ink spots all over it—hey cool, FAN MAIL! I unfolded it and looked it over, then folded it back and put it on a very high shelf that was in our old house along about 1970 or so. Then I turned back and went into the den where there was a glass-walled room and a meeting with a very serious group of men in ties, clustered around a conference table. Oooh—man, heavy hitters—they were from the NSA and were discussing something with Colin Powell. I walked in and sat down and saw the bra lying on the floor by the door. Of course, I was both infuriated and mystified, so I nonchalantly got up and put it in my pants pocket. I turned and went on into the dining room next door, which was being set for a big banquet. Sometime later, I woke up on our back porch, terrified that Reba was going to find this ink-speckled bra and start asking questions. But wait, that was a dream, right? No, here’s the manila envelope it came in. Hmm. I reached into the bookcase and there it was! But, still probably not a good idea to have it out—I unfolded it again and looked at the size—38 DD. Whooo-whee! That’s a whole lotta fan mail! I took it and went into the backyard, where there was a group of folks from down the street, or at least that’s who they were supposed to be, because I didn’t know who any of them were. Which meant that this IS a dream, so as I crawled back in through the window, I decided that even though no one would care that I was walking in with a bra, I probably needed to put it in the cabinet by the plates, so I did.

You know, it’s probably not a good idea to eat a couple of hot wings before you go to bed, even if you are a bit hungry. And please, if you soil your 38-DD bra while reading Possumblog, I apologize in advance and ask that you please not send it to me. At least by regular mail.

Anyway, between my fits of foundational phantasms and Reba having leg cramps, I finally managed to go to actual sleep along about dawn. Exactly thirty minutes later, some small boy and his oldest sister decided they had slept long enough without turning up the volume of their Gameboy to its maximum level, nor without promptly starting an armed conflict between each other, so they thus began doing both of those things. Which woke me up. “SHAAAUHH!” That’s right. I told them to shut up. The horror! But I had only imagined it, because they kept right on, top of their lungs. “Kids, you told me you weren’t going to make noise on Saturday!” They heard that. I drifted back off, then was whumped by the sheets being flung over me and bounced around as Reba got up. ::sigh:: Some alarm clock.

I drifted off for a minute until someone else got into the wakeup act by turning on the television, so I dragged myself out of bed and got ready for the day.

Breakfast, then outside to bring the house back into the proper Stepford look. It’s been past time to trim the edges of the sidewalk and driveway to get rid of those horrifying strands of grass that dare grow over the concrete, so I did that then got on to the big job. Two and a half weeks, tons of rain, and no mowing made for a very lush jungle. I occasionally exaggerate how high the weeds get, but in all honesty, the spindly ones in the back had gotten up knee high. But before that, I did my normal mimosa duty.

How I hate mimosa. As you recall, last year my idea was to build a nice robot to pull them up. For the sheer entertainment value of it, I figured I would make it look like fresh-faced NBC News correspondent Norah O’Donnell, but I actually found something better! For some reason, Reba had come out while I was getting the stuff out of the shed and sat down on the sidewalk and started pulling up the little shoots along the flower bed. IN HER LONG COTTON NIGHTSHIRT!! RRRrrrOWWWWLLL!

“You go cut grass.”

“You know you have on your nightshirt, right?”

“I’m fixing to go inside and change. Go on.”

Heh, “But, you know, we don’t HAVE to do yardwork…”

“Kids are awake.”

Indeed. And she was actually pulling up the mimosa, so I took my mental cold shower (Janet Reno in a Speedo) and got to work. Took forever. Had to stop and talk to my neighbor widow lady about cutting down our jointly owned dead hickory tree, had to stop and help the young guy next door cut a piece of wood, had to stop and run Catherine back in the house, had to stop and down a couple of gallons of water. Must have been about 175 degrees today. Got finished, refilled the bird feeders, made old man noises, drank more water, went out in the front and watched Rebecca and Catherine ride their bicycles for a bit, got them to come back in before they got heat stroke, had supper, started the chore of cleaning the children, including Little Boy, who decided sometime today that he could start walking on his hurt ankle again. He’s very brave, you know.

And then I started writing this mess!

The mess which, as you all know, usually includes…

WITLESS NEWS COMMENTARY!!

Missing Python Slithers Out of Dutch Toilet Bowl

Cleese, Palin Cheer Recovery of Mate Chapman—
Chapman: “Not missing, only on holiday”

Britain Stands Behind Iraq Uranium Charge

Congressional Democrats Place Fingers in Ears, Chant “BLAHBLAHBLAHI’M NOT LISTENING!!”

I’m Ready For My Closeup, Mr. DeMille.

The Washington Post notes the sudden demise of blogging: 'AOL Journals' To Bring Blogs To Millions

Enough of that, time now for some…

THOUGHTFUL INSIGHT!!

I received a very, very nice e-mail yesterday from John Reeves, a member of the Alabama diaspora living in Greenville, South Carolina, by way of Pittsburgh, by way of Gurley, Alabama. Steve popped in via a link from Miss Meryl’s place, and we talked a bit about our respective family histories and, of course, I had to throw out my bona fides and brag about gggg-whatever Grandpa Sabert who came to Alabama after fighting the Lobsterbacks in South Carolina during the Revolution and the War of 1812, and settled down in Green Pond while this was all still part of the Mississippi Territory. 191 years, and we’ve haven’t moved more than 50 miles from where we started. (That might explain a few things. Or not.) Anyway, Steve went on to pay me some awfully nice compliments (which I steadfastly refuse to repeat lest I appear to be patting myself on the back while blowing my own horn) and asked how it was that I got started doing this.

Good question.

I took a couple of undergrad creative writing classes at UAB back about 1981 or so, taught by the rather somewhat famous Dennis Covington, both of whose classes I passed with low Cs. I wrote just about like I do now, which probably explains the grades. But you know, at the time all that post-modern crap was doing well, and the kids who got better grades were much better at describing the odor of pee and what their various naughty parts felt like. I didn’t really care so much, because there was a girl in both classes who looked exactly like Jan Smithers of WKRP in Cincinnati.

Anyway, that was about the extent of my formal training.

This state of affairs remained intact until 1995, when I left my former employer. Not long after, scads of my friends there also recognized the distinct signature of being stuck in a handbasket hurtling headlong into Hell, so they skipped out, and as a way to keep in touch with folks, I knocked together a silly newsletter composed on my very own office computer. (A 386 with WordPerfect!) As I mentioned earlier in the week, I found a couple of these when cleaning out the bedroom last weekend, and hey! Possumblog prototypes! Seems the low-C-grade hardwiring had not been thrown out, and I went on to produce 12 or 14 editions of wildly moronic claptrap and hateful, vicious, invective directed toward my former employers and their pinheaded middle managers. Hee! Fun—and I even did a couple of issues with color photos! After getting all that bile out of my system, I was further sidetracked when an evil of enormous proportions was visited upon me.

That’s right, they installed an Internet connection on my computer at work. Suddenly, there was an entire technological marvel devoted entirely to wasting time!!

I surfed around a bit and found some sites I liked—ZUG in particular was an early favorite (and Bob, The Anal Fissure remains a classic in Internet literature). Later, I found about something called message boards, and hung out on several, including Tuco’s Collector Firearm Forum and The Straight Dope Message Board. These, among several others, introduced me to stuff like flame wars, and trolls, and a variety of other examples of mouth-breather behavior. I mostly lurked, although I finally got confident enough to chime in on a variety of topics of which I had absolutely no knowledge. Sometime in there, I found a link to some guy named James Lileks, who subsequently became an inspiration for me to do a bit more in the way of storytelling and such. I got my first real taste of having an open mike and no audience when I first set up a website for my former Revolutionary War reenacting group, the Georgia Refugees. If you go there and look through enough of the site, you'll see a lot of the same demi-brained bilge you see here. (Go figure.) Anyway, between that site and continued inspiration from Lileks, I started writing a few little short stories and stuff, but resisted starting a real blog because all I knew about them seemed to point to a way for mouth-breathers to relax after disrupting message boards, or as a place for earnest teens to wax poetic about their angst and that slut Jenna, who was like, all up in my face, and I like, told her to like, leave, and she was all "FINE!"

Then, there was September 11. I wrote a pretty long series of thoughts about what had gone on, more or less so I could have a way of recording what would hopefully be a singular event in my life. Not long after, Lileks wrote a Bleat in which he pointed the way to some incredible sites that I had never heard of before, written by people who could actually use English and the rules of logic to bring some sense to all that was going on--folks like Dr. Reynolds, and Steve Den Beste, and the folks at Little Green Footballs. A revelation to be sure, and after reading and following links from these guys, I decided I wanted to play, too.

So, I did. And I write what I write--when I'm particularly irked by the political situation, I comment about that. If I see something odd or humorous in the news, I comment on that. I talk about home, and my town, and my state, and my wife and my kids and my yard and birds and buildings and cars and culture and guns and girls and movies and cardboard and history and junk like that. Sometimes I get serious, most times not. I leave private folks alone, but if they decide they like being in the newpaper, they're fair game. Some things I won't talk about, because I just don't feel this is an appropriate forum for them. Some things I feel like I have to talk about, simply because I have soapbox handy. If you like what you read, you have made my day. If you don't like it, there's the back button. In either case, thanks for dropping by.

But rest assured, you aren't being weaned!
posted by Terry at 11:19:00 PM