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On one of the "cold" days that we spent at the beach (<90 degrees), we ended up at a jetty, which is a rather romantic and technical-sounding nautical word for "Pile of rocks that's long and narrow." We did not, on this one occasion, have the dogs with us, which was good. People go out to the jetty to fish and to choose a nice pinky piece of granite for their countertops, as the jetty isn't a naturally occurring phenomenon, but is made up of ginormous cubes of raw granite, all of it pinky/black variegated. I did my usual vacation deal of leaving something important behind, in this case, shoes. All I had were the shoes on my feet, and those weren't appropriate for jetty-strolling. They have a slightly platform sole, nothing Gene Simmons would covet, but since I can trip over carpet lint, they are a bit challenging for wear on a piece of real estate made up of huge chunks of rock with vast gaps between them. Therefore, I missed dolphins frolicking and the appearance of some sort of mer-unicorn because I had to stare at my feet while walking in order to survive a stroll on the death-trap known as the jetty. So we went part of the way out then turned around, and just about the time we reached the part that was actually paved, some fisher-dude who was walking out with his fisher-buddies was walking along talking about lures and bobbers and test line and holymotherfucker he was down with an odd snapping sound that seemed to come from his wrist. I'm always tempted to jump on in and help in these situations, but my severe lack of medical knowledge and skills usually gets the best of me. So eventually I saw frolicking dolphins and a fat guy with a busted wrist.
(I bought a pair of flip flops to supplement my collection and ended up needing a lot of band-aids, which for some reason is also a vacation staple for me.)
Next topic: My little Buggy is doing pretty well, although he's constantly high on pain killers and consequently hopping into walls. His leg was cut off in an oddly square way, with just a tiny bit of femur left on. It's a lot easier to leave a bit of femur than it is to deal directly with the hip joint, so he's got quite a stubby little stump. Being stoned, he's still trying to get the hang of being a tripod, and he tries to use his stump for balance, so he's always waving around his little stumpy bit. Also due to stonage, he keeps trying to go outside (frequently successfully) and goes under the deck, causing all kinds of panic in my heart. How is it that I'm retarded enough to allow my thousand-dollar cat outside? Dog door, dude. And thank you from the bottom of my heart to those of you who sent good thoughts and kind wishes for my boy.
I just finished a fabutastic book: Dry, by Augusten Burroughs. It's a follow-up to Running with Scissors, his memoir of his early life wherein his alcoholic father abandoned him with his psychotic mother, who in turn sent him to live with her truly, madly, deeply insane psychiatrist. Oddly enough he became an alcoholic himself, and Dry is his tale of achieving sobriety. It's not preachy, it's just poignant and well-written and READ IT NOW, even if you're drunk.
I then turned to Stiff, written by someone else, which is all about cadavers and it. is. so. fucking. funny. I can't even describe it. Read that, too.
So I was supposed to get an office and it was all set, and then some VP of Being an Asshole said I couldn't have an office, but I wasn't taking space from anyone else -- I was going to move into a workroom that's rarely ever used (never). So today Captain Wacky told me to just go ahead and move in -- she'd deal with the fallout if it ever came. She's so much better to me than my own family has ever been.
Tommorow: It's Friday.