What a week. I’m tired and discouraged. I’m no longer able to enjoy the simple pleasures of life, like roofing or unclogging drains.
BUT…Find an Outlet scores a double! The two dogs my friend Janice rescued from a foreclosed house (see Collateral Damage) got adopted! A lovely woman from Tucson saw the pictures on my blog and drove up here three times. She was only going to take the hound, but when she brought her 11-year-old overweight dog and watched the three dogs romp in the yard that did it. She adopted both dogs and they are living happily ever after in Tucson. I couldn’t be there to see them off so I begged Janice to take a few pictures of the dogs getting in the car and leaving. She promised she would. This is what I got:
Thank you Janice for all you do. She did all the work, all I did was photograph the dogs. Thank you to Border Animal Rescue for funding the spays.
ARIZONA IS so weird. Every liquor store has a drive-thru window, but I have to park my car and walk to the bank and have meaningful interaction with the tellers to cash a check.
I’M TAKING A BREAK from fiction because the sheer amount of it on the blogosphere is overwhelming me, but here’s an idea for a story:
A Pile for Charlie: About a man who develops an itch in an unmentionable region but becomes intolerable to his family because he refuses to purchase the ointment.
I have a fish story…
It was just a fluke that I met Marlin at the sand bar. He wore his hair in a mullet, but it smelt like scrod. He claimed to be a sturgeon but I never saw him operate on anything but a blowfish. He was such an angler—he reeled me in when he said I was as cute as a sea urchin. He tried to get me to perch on top of him but I told him I had a haddock and he accused me of playing koi. We smoked a salmon and floundered around for a while but he insisted on showing me his pike. I started laughing, you mean your minnow? Good thing he was hard of herring—but he tackled me, got a little roughy and wouldn’t leave my dorsal fin alone. “Don’t clam up on me baby!” he snappered, then told me I was a crappie date. What a crab. What did I expect from bottom fishing? I’m not going to be a grouper to some backwater slippery eel with no sole. Basshole. Give me a tuna-casserole type guy who knows the meaning of the word chum.