Pink eye and deadlines and insomnia (oh my!) and a drunk neighbor playing ZZ Top's "Legs" over and over again at the 1 a.m. hour is no way to go through life, son. The neighbor and the itchy eye didn't let me sleep until about 3 a.m. Again. Same as the night before. Ugh!
But up I'm now, and I understand that the weather is going to be as miserable today as last Thursday, when we were crushed with a 104-degree heat index. (Yes, my European friends, that's 104F - as close to the surface of the sun as I care to get, thanks.) So, it's a fine day to do some writing and then curl up with a book and a glass of wine in the safety and comfort of the air conditioning here at Chez Merde.
Hope your Sunday is sunny, friends! (But less skin-sizzling and eye-frying than here.)
I'm off to write about a dead pony. This dead pony, as a matter of fact:
Intrigued? Horrified? Hopefully both. And, when I'm done and you hear the story, I'll hope you'll be intriguingly, horrifically amused. I'll leave you with that for now. :) Now, where is my corkscrew? It's 5 o'clock somewhere, right?
The weather sounds unbearable but your blog is a breath of fresh air! Peace Stev
For the Bay Area it is a roasting 80 plus degrees outside. I decided it was no weather to go walk and stand for 3 or 4 hours at the Pride Parade in SF. Watched in from the comfort of my A/C frontroom. Looking forward to any story that has a stuffed pony in it!
The weather in D.C. is unholy right now...and it's only June. For some reason, after our blizzardy winter, I thought our early summer (at least) would be more temperate.
Stuffed horses remind me of Roy Rogers and his horse, Trigger. I find anyone who stuffs an animal they love somewhat perverse. "I could never bury Bootsy!"
You want obnoxious neighbors? Mine have an in ground pool and entertain...quite frequently...unlike the previous Brit owner who lived a quiet, sedate life. Now I get constant parties (and my bedroom window hits that side of the house) and somehow their poorly sealed garbage cans leave spent corn cobs all over my yard. I was putting them in my own practical cans, with locks, until I got sick of it. Now I just throw them high back over the fence.
The best part, and this is pure Merujo...the man loves to grill. His trophy wife fires it up every night before her husband walks through the door. "Honey. I'm home." These people reek normality so much, Merj, you would think "Stepford." And then the meat hits. And if I'm in my bedroom after my hard day, trying to regroup? Or a Sunday afternoon nap? It smells like my bedroom is on fire. Did I fail to mention he always uses charcoal and woods, never propane? So I never smell the food...I usually awake in a panic thinking my house is consumed in flames.
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