I always have a lot of little notes in my journal that don't turn out to be big enough thoughts to make a blog post. So I thought I'd just give you a random sampling of the things that run through my head. If it turns out to be entertaining, I'll do it again next Friday.
Acorns. The giant oak tree outside is dropping acorns. They started falling slowly, and now it sounds as if someone is throwing handsful of gravel on the roof. We're having a big rain storm now, so that may take care of the rest of them. These are the tiniest little acorns I've ever seen. Even the squirrels don't seem interested.
Name calling. I love it when Keith Olbermann calls Karl Rove "turd blossom." Turd is such a derisive thing to call a man.
Customer service. Why is it so out of fashion to treat customers properly? I don't have to have my ass kissed at a store in order to feel satisfied with my shopping experience, but there is a woman at my Kroger store who practically throws the grocery items across the scanner and down the ramp to the bagger, accompanied by huffing and eye-rolling. (This isn't an isolated incident; it's her ordinary behavior.) I go to WalMart, a harrowing experience at best, and I have to wait for the checkers to stop bitching about their manager long enough to check me out. Attention retailers: If you need someone to give your employees a workshop in common courtesy, I'd be happy to do so.
Ouch. Last week my body decided that it could do without my right arm. I was carrying several big tote bags out the door, and I hit my funny bone so hard on the door knob that I dropped the bags and began to dance around in a circle saying, "Ouch, ouch, ouch, oh, oh, oh." The dogs thought it was a new game. Whoever made up the term "funny bone" was a sadist. The next day I parked the car under a tree and tried to duck out of the door without closing a tree branch in it. I raised up and slammed my shoulder into the side mirror. "Ouch, ouch, ouch, oh, oh, oh." My shoulder looks like an eggplant now. I think I'm leaning to the right. What do I need this shoulder for if it can't hold a tote bag?
Nancy Grace. She's a mean little woman with a blonde helmet of hair who gave birth to twins at the age of 49. She is a former prosecutor from the South, Atlanta I think, who comments on HLN about crime and punishment. She says some of the most outrageous things. Last week she said, "I just had to bless out a guy who was in front of our building smoking." I'll bet that guy quit smoking cold turkey; when Nancy doesn't like something, her face looks like she's holding a tiny piece of shit on the tip of her tongue. It scares me, and I'm just sitting out here in TV land. Yesterday she called the people at Michael Jackson's funeral "star suckers." She talks a little like powdergirl, only she's not funny and powdergirl is.
Glass globes. We found the glass globes that belong on our dining room chandelier in the garage wrapped in newspaper from 1984. That was when the old guy who built this house for his family was still living in it. I wonder what made him take those globes and store them in the garage, so that the dining room light fixture looked bare and the light bulbs showed. I just can't think of a plausible story to cover it.
Cheryl. I went to high school with a girl who wanted to be a vampire. That attitude wasn't as common as it is today, with all the vampire literature available. Back then we had Dark Shadows and Nosferatu and some Christopher Lee movies. (I loved Dark Shadows because one of the characters was a beautiful witch named Angelique.) Cheryl wore black and was as pale as a ghost. She may have invented the goth look. One day when we were out on the street after dark, Cheryl started screaming and crying because the bats came out of Virgil Roberts' chimney (as they did every night), and she thought one of them was going to get tangled in her long dank hair. Now, what kind of vampire would be anything but loving toward those little creatures? I lost track of her, but I often wonder if Cheryl ever got her wish.
Peanut allergy. I have an allergy to packing peanuts. I hate them. Those little things are so charged with static electricity that you open the box and - boof - they're all over you. You can't even shake them off your fingers without throwing a fit. Don't ever send me a box full of those things. I don't care what else is in the box. Just. Don't.
Market research. I didn't do enough research before I settled on the name "Sugarcain." I chose it because (1) my last name is Cain, and (2) I was half-way raised in Honolulu (where they have a lot of sugarcane). Make a google search and you'll find several other people already using the name. (Yes, I like to google myself and everyone else I know.) There is an entertainment company, whatever that is, with a blog design by Sebastian Schmeig, which I find to be a comical name. Then there is Sugar Cain, "actress, model, and spokeswoman," who directed and acted in a movie called "Rama." They probably don't have it at Netflix. Then there is Merrit Patrick "Sugar" Cain, a pitcher in the major leagues during the 1930s. Then a guy calling himself Sugar Cain who has two pictures on Flickr. Then, finally, me, my Etsy store, my blog, and an old stale entry for me in some business directory that clearly hasn't been updated since 2004. If I blog hard, I ought to be able to get to the top of the google page, because none of these other sugars are anything to tweet about. It's only a small dream.
Pixie. Little Pixie wanted her own Twitter account. She will be tweeting about life on the street and how she found her forever home, and she'll be looking for ways to help other shelter dogs. She's @PixiePuppy on Twitter. I'll put up a link when I remember how to do it.
Well, reading over this post, I am not sure that casual Friday has been a big success. But what else am I going to do with all my little thoughts if I don't tell them to you? What do you think?