The story of my uncooperative body parts (violent boobs excluded)

As I sit here at the kitchen counter waiting for my brain to do that thing during which all of a sudden somewhere from the confines of my at times grand and other times embarrassingly small mind a worthwhile topic emerges, several random thoughts come to me.

None of which I should probably be blogging about, but all of which beat my initial idea: diarrhea.

Don't ask. Let's not go there. You might say that this post by this funny guy has inspired the shit out of me, but let's not. Let's try to be ladylike. Just this once. Let's just move on.

First, I contemplate writing, yet again, about dangerously teetering on the very uncomfortable barstools (Hihihi. Yes I have an inner 6 year old. Don't pretend like you didn't know that.) by the kitchen counter. About me absolutely having to own them, because they were green, Italian design, and very much said "look at me, I look like I cost a pretty penny, but still give the impression of functionality, quiet beauty, and suggest that my owners are not into decorating, but just succeed in this genre of style everyone who likes them calls 'eclectic', and everyone who doesn't, calls it 'that time when Hugh Hefner, the early 90s, and a Mexican crafts market met for a garage sale and made a killing on these two schmucks'." But then I realize that instead of moaning about the surprisingly uncomfortable (Really? They're made out of green plastic. What is it exactly that spells comfort for you?) chairs at my makeshift workstation in the kitchen overlooking the coffee maker and the washing machine, I should just go work in the study. With the nice chair and table, and good light, and the neighbors pug to stare at.

And then I realize you don't care. And my mind wanders.  

I look around and feast my eyes on this beauty:

Which might now forever grace my living room floor. "Why?" you ask, "Why not fold it up and put it away in the closet?"

Well, my dear reader, it is at this point that my intermittent incapability to perform the most simplest of tasks surfaces, and makes me believe that thing they say about alcohol killing off brain cells at an alarming rate. Momentarily I contemplate taking up smoking pot instead since the negative effects of marijuana pale in comparison with the effects of alcohol - to one's noggin and one's insides that is - but quickly remember who reads this blog and say that I would never do anything illegal, Mother. I will sign as many petitions to legalize marijuana as I can get my hands on though. One needs to do everything one can in order to stop the trafficking of women, children, weapons, hard drugs, and all that horrifying stuff, after all.

Then I look around again, and remember the soft box that I've purchased for detail photography, but am now unable to put away.

The truth is I have absolutely no idea how to fold it back up. No idea. And I've spent approximately two hours trying to do just that. The Hubs is too nervous to even try, and my barking at him "to fokken just fold the fokken thing up. Fok!" has already rattled his nerves to a point of no return as far as this specific task goes. I'm the last obstacle barring the soft box from becoming a very wobbly side table. And frankly, it doesn't match the green barstools (Hihihi).

Yet, in all its blinding whiteness, the soft box defies me and my intellect.

Someone help me, please. My next course of action involves a pair of scissors and will possibly incur the wrath of the Viking, since I'm the one who desperately needed to own this piece of...er... white fabric strung on circular wires.

I cry a little and shake my fist at the soft box that just gazes at me nonchalantly and doesn't bat an eye at my despair, and wait for my brain to come up with something actually worth blogging about, but something keeps distracting me.

What is that fokken noise?

Of course, it is the neighbor's chihuahua. Not the neighbor's pug, nor the neighbor's dachshund, but the forever-yapping when left outside, chihuahua.

I'm constantly amazed (not positively though) by our neighbors and the way that they view their 'pets'. Everyone seems to have a dog or two, perhaps even a cat, and at least one bird somewhere in the corner. At first glance, most or our neighbors seem like your quintessential animal lovers.

Until you look again.

Yes, everyone seems to own an animal or two, but most of those animals never make it into the house. Even the tiniest of dogs, like the little yapper next door, are left outside at least for the entire day, and possibly let into the kitchen/ washing room area during the night, if the owner hasn't purchased a little shed-like creation for his furry companions.

I rarely see much affection towards these pets. Yes, they're fed and look healthy, but really, they seem to have been bought as the cheapest of burglar alarms.

No wonder the pooches do nothing but yap all day long. I would too, if I was only there to do the job of some barbed wire and a little blinking box by the front door one should never forget the combination to, because if one does, one is in deep shit with the security company because they have to come all the way out in the middle of the night to quiet the horrifying wail emerging from that selfsame box.

In deep shit.

Thus the circle of my meandering thoughts comes to a close. Ingloriously with shit.

And once again, as my brain obstinately refuses to cooperate, I'm left with nothing more to show for my thinking efforts than a blank screen with the cursor mockingly blinking at the beginning of the first line that never began. I'm left with absolutely nothing to blog about. With nothing to say.

Damn you brain.