Under Pressure

I want to be like this bumblebee I found bopping around one of my butterfly bushes yesterday: amiably going about its business in a calm, unstressed manner. Unlike the honeybee, bumblebees do not live in large hives, nor do they lose their stinger and die when they sting something. Which they rarely do, because they are exceptionally good-natured. Their nests are small, their family units intimate, so they are not under obligation to produce honey for commercial use. Their value simply lies in their ability to fly from blossom to blossom, pollinating this and that for the betterment of mankind as a whole. They're also really cute and make a soothing buzzing sound as they go about their business.

However, for the next 4-6 weeks, I will be more like the honeybee – work, work, work, work, working. Because I have stupidly over committed herself with both work and family obligations. The sound I am making is: ARGHHHHHHHHHHHH! The feeling I am feeling is : Oh, shit. It all starts by leaving my happy hive tomorrow at the butt crack of dawn for four days in Detroit and it won't end until sometime around August 31st.

Okay, universe: lesson learned. Before the fact, even. But I still have to get through the fact.

I'll check in periodically this week. In the meantime, enjoy, Party People, and be like the bumblebee, won't you?

In the Time of Chimpanzees I Was a Monkey

Tip-toeing back into a blob post . . . 'cause, shhhhhh, who on earth knows what's going to set y'all off next. Given what's happened here this week, I have decided to put on the back burner a number of posts, including my rant against Dish Network's dumb ass decision to cancel its contract with Zoom Network, which means no beloved Fashion Television por Moi. Cough. Sputter. Light. Fading. Must. Hold. On.

Instead, I will share something that makes my heart so happy I'm almost embarrassed for myself. Beck is coming to Albuquerque's Kiva Auditorium on Tuesday, September 23rd of this year. Yeah, yeah, I know he's a Scientologist and for that I have yet to figure out how to forgive him. But I think Odelay and Midnight Vultures just might take care of that for me.

If, like Moi, you adore Beck so much you have a lyric memorized for every one of your life's experiences (you've only got one finger left, and it's pointing at the door) please feel free to share your favorite song and/or lyric. If you don't know who Beck is, goodness gracious, what rock have you been hiding under these past fifteen years – go find out now! And if you don't like Beck, then, WTF? Non. You are beyond zee help.

As for Moi, trying to pick a favorite Beck song is like trying to choose between Louboutins. But this one is up there for sure. One of the cheeriest pop songs ever written about a serial killer:

Today is a Good Day to Die

If you are a squirrel.

Thanks to the diligent work of the Big Shamu, I have in my possession incontrovertible proof of a heinous act of terror perpetuated upon one of our most sacred members of human society. Thankfully, said member possesses quick reflexes and a wealth of resources when dealing with such threats.

Acting alone, but with instructions from the top brass operating out of the dreaded Topeka Terrorist Cell, this deluded kamakazi critter launches an attack from above:

But with her reflexes tuned to eleven,
Martha the Undaunted snags the lil' forker.

And makes a lovely neck scarf.

Tremble, Lieutenant Maximum Damage, before the fate that awaits you as soon as dawn breaks and I've finished my coffee and found my shoes. You and your kind, you're headed to Bergdorf's. And the Pirate's BBQ.

Mute Monday: Science

We interrupt your regularly scheduled Squirrel Wars for Mute Monday, theme Science. One of my favorite topics. Which means, can I remain Mute about it? Not so much.

I got a late start on the topic and am afraid I will be copying most of what everyone else has set up, so I will stick once again with only one image. Of one of the greatest minds ever. Who came to us out of the dark ages of mysticism, fascism, fear, and conformity and believed that just about everything was possible. How cool is that?

Who do we have today who compares? Silent voices. Unseen faces. Toiling away while the rest of us line up like lemmings to pull the blanket right back over our heads. I hear there's property you can buy on the moon. In the meantime, question everything, 'kay?

To the Victor Goes the Slimy Spoils

See this famblee of squirrels?

After we finished the pool two summers ago, they moved themselves in to a tony little spot under our decking. Mom, dad, a passel o' chillruns. Dad's in insurance and travels. Mom drinks and wanders the pool deck in inappropriately sized bikinis. The children are lil' punks to the core.

Of course, Snow White's Freakin' Wilderness Camp has not been the same since.

The squirrels, they completely took over the neighborhood. They knock over the bird baths. They steal my fifty million dollar a pound sunflower chips directly from the feeder. They chase the bluebirds. They titter and chitter from the tree tops, making me think I'm hearing voices. And they drive Ivan nuts.

Ivan, he'll chase or tree anything that moves: cats, squirrels, chipmunks, horny toads, rabbits, crows. Once, at our old house, he treed a bobcat. So intent was he on killing that thing, S.B. and I had to drag him off the hilltop back to the house and lock him inside for eight full hours so he could get his mind off the kitty. Fuggedaboutit. Later that day when we finally let him out, he bee-lined himself for that tree and sat sentry for another hour, whining the whole time for the bobcat.

I've written before about Ivan' love of killing all manner of creatures. All that's changed since is that he's a little bit slower.




Still, if he's patient enough and works the program, he can still get his man:

VICTORY!

Blobus Interruptus, Or: Why, Oh Why, Didn't I Go to Law School?

My Fantasy:

My Reality:

I crawled out from my cave and went to see Sex in the City this weekend. I know, I know. I must be the last known female in the universe to have done so. Well, all I have to say (other than ohmyfreakingodiwantthoseshoesbeltbagdressapartmentvacation!) is: okay, where do I sign up for the life in which I spend an hour or so tapping out a sassy lil' column on sex and candy and then get to take the rest of the day to shop for Manolos and lunch for sushi?

Huh? Tell Moi. Where?

Mute Monday: Energy