… of, what? I give less than a shit about mice, and less even than that about most men.
The best laid plans of penguins, then.
Last week, the GolfBrother came to visit.
My plan was to hold off my update till Thursday night of last week, to give me a chance to hear whatever news he had, which could only bulk up the incredible lack of substance (not to be confused with it being gossamer or ethereal or whatever; it ain’t that interesting) that is my blog.
However, the boy (and I shouldn’t say “boy” when he’ll be forty next month) handed me an entirely too-cute gift bag (selected by That Woman of His, and I really need to stop with the parentheses, except that they’re punctuation custom-made for an all-over-the-damned-place mind like my own).
Inside said gift bag was a piece of holy-crap-awesome electronicness that has not yet changed my life, but is working on it.
What I’ve got is a Nexus 7 Android. A tiny, portable computer, bigger than a phone, no keys. You have to tap on the screen.
Which is clever and cool, and ensures I will never, as I do with most other keyboards, get the letters stuck because of eating everything-bagels whilst typing.
On the other hand are shaky arthritis-y fingers, and whilst I was typing away at a blog last week, telling you all of this, I tapped the wrong part of my tiny little screen, and that post disappeared from the living faster than Dermot Mulroney slamming into the tree and crashing down all the branches to the ground in The Grey.
I am sorry; I know you don’t want to hear One More Fucking Word about my Pretend-Irish-Boyfriend™ Liam Neeson, but, really, everyone in the world needs to see The Grey, excepting, probably, The Mom, for whom it would be too bloody and violent.
The rest of you, though. Hop to it. It’s on Netflix now.
As to what else is going on, JK Rowling’s new book for grown-ups gets released today, unless you want the electronic version for the e-reader in your Android, or your Kindle app (also on your Android), in which case, you’ve got to wait till tomorrow.
Well, shit. I waited longer than that for HP 6, didn’t I?
My pain doctor took me off the Neurontin; the reason being that she knows I’m a writer (or try to be) and that I would really like to hang on my remaining brain cells for as long as I can manage.
The good news is that she’s finally trying me on Lyrica; the bad news is HOLY SHIT THAT IS SOME EXPENSIVE DRUGOSITY RIGHT THERE.
And no generic, of course.
I may wind up trading the brain cells for restarting the Neurontin. It fits my budget, or lack thereof, better.
My mind was ever so full of funny last week, before being distracted by the Gift of the GolfBrother:
Dear Dr. Phil —
Dina Lohan is not a fraud. Her assholery is absolutely genuine.
Golf “And What is Your Doctoral Degree In, Again?” Widow
Dear Creepy Guy in the Break Room —
Totally understood that commercial, even before you explained it to me.
Golf “How Did You Notice That the Dog Ate the Car Remote and Not Notice My Wedding Rings?” Widow
PS Not on your best day.
PPS Seriously, no.
PPPS No. Ew. Hell no.
Dear Debby Boone —
So, Lifestyle Lift “turns back the clock,” eh?
Can it bring us back to a time when you were relevant?
Golf “Sell That Shit to Your Dad; He Looks Like Beef-Freaking-Jerky” Widow
Actually, that was not so much “full of funny” as it was “three bits of inanity too long to Tweet.”
Oh, just deal with it.
drinking: ice water
listening to: Death Note soundtrack, Light’s Theme
gordon gee’s neckwear budget: nope — i’ve checked; still don’t give a fuck