Labored Prose

Happy Labor Day.

Shouldn’t that be No Labor Day?  Sloth Day?  I Feel Like Eating Burnt Meat In The Back Yard With Your Deadbeat Relatives And Their Shrieking Brats, Don’t You, Honey? Day?

We’re going to have The Princess and her mum over for grilled hamburgers and hot dogs (and brats, as in bratwurst; my tolerance for the other variety is limited to one).  The missus will preside at the grill because as I’ve stated elsewhere, I don’t have the knack.

This is also the first day of Isabella’s incarceration (that would be her word for it, if she even knew it existed) with us, because her MiMi (Isabella’s name for her mum) is leaving for Phoenix tomorrow morning.  She’s taking classes for something-or-other there and will be gone all week.  I think school starts this week too, so today’s festivities might just as well be The Last Meal Of The Condemned for our dear young lady.

One thing I have to do today is clean my bike (it seems I mention cleaning my bike a lot on here, more than I actually, y’know, clean it, so I may just start putting a line of asterisks before and after any sentences that pertain to torturously mundane crap I’ve written again and again so that you may be forewarned and allowed the opportunity to skip over or bail out).  Anyway.  I actually do need to ************clean my bike************today because I entered into the Bicycle Transportation Alliance’s Bike To Work Challenge and I need to know that the squeak-tink I keep hearing from somewhere near my drive-train isn’t the harbinger of some catastrophic failure the godz will use to punish me for actually setting a worthy goal for myself.  It would figure that, just when I seek to re-invigorate my interest in cycling to work — I’ve been lazy the last few weeks, only managing twice a week on average — my machine would choose to fly apart with me astride it.  So I’m giving the machine a good twice-over today, maybe let the bomb-sniffing cat have a look (that, I hope you understand, is a joke; the only way a cat would find a bomb, or in any way have the inclination to search for one, is if the bomber had been kind enough to smear tuna on it).

On the subject of bombs and cats:

The missus and I have pretty much decided that there is an end in sight to our residence in this area of the country.  Within two years we hope to pull up stakes and move on down to the southwest.  At this point the plan (nebulous as it is) is to move to Albuquerque, New Mexico.  The wife’s illness might be somewhat alleviated by more arid environs, and I’ve always loved the desert.  We’re excited by the prospect but I’m daunted by the details.  I’ll be walking away from a job I’ve held for fifteen years (by then), and so will have to begin casting about for new sources of revenue soon — as in NOW — because those younger people who drove from Texas to Portland hauling an 8’X10′ trailer full of everything they owned, and with no predetermined employment awaiting them at the end of their journey to a strange city?  My hat’s off to those hardy souls, but they just didn’t think things through, honestly.  You see, you must PLAN, and you must plan to have a plan.  That’s the only way to be assured of success.  The apple must fall halfway to the ground before it falls all the way, and it must fall a quarter of the way first…

Yeah, see, I always drive myself crazy with that kind of thinking.  I’m that way simply moving from one apartment to another in the same complex.  I’m task-oriented rather than goal-oriented, as in “I’m really busy tending to this little thing, dear, so can you go chase that big thing that’s scrabbling at the front door away?”.  The fact of the matter is that it was the missus who got us here, she’s the one with the devil-may-care and the guts.  If it were up to me I’d still be debating the pros and cons of leaving the womb (which might explain why I would catch my mother looking at me sometimes with pursed lips and a slight shake of the head).  I wallow in minutiae, the wife is already hanging draperies.  I envy that.  It’s funny to me — in the way that kitchen fires are funny, I mean — that rash decisions we make together always seem to work out well whereas the ones I’ve made alone have almost always ended with bruised flesh and/or annoyed authority figures.  As a team member I do ehhh okay.  As a solo act I’m The Destroyer of Dreams.

She stirs.  I must tend her whims.  We’ll speakest anon.

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