Flooflamitous (floofinition) – A large mess involving animals that causes great distress.
In use: “When the Williams family returned home, a flooflamitious scene was fround, as the pets had wreaked havoc with toilet paper rolls, houseplants, garbage cans, and their food bowls. For a moment, they couldn’t find the culprits, then found the two cats and dog innocently sleeping on the guestroom bed together.”
Raining again, as the song goes. It’s Saturday, April 30, 2022. The rain is light, the air is chill, the neighborhood is quiet, the children are still. It’s 51 F now but feels lower, thanks to the moisture hanging in the air and permeating everything. Low mists hid the top of the northern ridges’ pine-loaded top, imbuing the scene with a gothic air. All we need is a black castle. The valley’s high will be 59 F, they say, and I believe ’em. The sunshine so far seems as listless as me without my morning coffee. Arriving with a yawn at 6:08 this morning, it’ll depart our area at 8:09 PM, giving us almost fourteen hours of the sun’s presence today. Huzzah!
But wait! Sunshine has punched through! The temperature is now…51 F.
Oh, wait. The sunshine is blocked again.
Rain is falling again.
The neurons have Bonnie Raitt singing and playing in the morning mental music stream, “Nick of Time” from 1989. This song is from an album by the same name. The album was part of my wife’s album rotation back in the 1990s and became ingrained into the neurons. I believe they brought it up today because of the weather. On rainy days like this, she’d declare, “Let’s put on some music and clean, and then we’ll just sit around and read books.” It worked.
Here’s the music. Now the neurons are singing the praises of coffee and suggesting that I go indulge in a cup. Have a better one. Cheers
Okay, another dream that placed me in the military, but I think other aspects have more meaning.
Young, about thirty-eight, the age I was when I retired, I was in a conference room with the commander and several other people. I was wearing my light blue uniform shirt with dark blue pants, standard for the Air Force and office work in those days.
The conference was very nice and modern but for some reason, the commander was upset about three lights in the ceiling. These were back in the middle, by the rear wall. The lights were small, recessed task lights, adjacent to one another, silver. The commander, a colonel, was going on about the lights being useless. “I’m going to prove it,” he shouted, “and get them removed.”
I was listening to this screed with some disdain. I thought the lights could have a use not immediately apparent — otherwise, why install them? — and it wasn’t like it made the room unusable. But I wasn’t interested in arguing with him.
The commander and a group of people left. I stayed, as did a few others, waiting for something else. Bored, I was balancing a hollow cylindrical rod on my palm. This was about three feet long, but six inches in diameter. I decided to push it against the acoustic ceiling tile. To my surprise, it cut out a perfect round hole in the tile.
The others immediately gathered, aghast, asking, “Oh my God, what did you do? Why did you do that?”
I felt more amused than upset with it, but I did immediately start trying to think of a way of covering it up. Several ideas were considered and rejected. I shrugged; the commander would come in and find it, and I’d deal with the fallout. I was almost done here, anyway, due to retire or leave within a few weeks.
Then I noticed that my uniform was screwed up. It wasn’t buttoned right, the right chest pocket was torn and hanging off, and I hadn’t attached my name tag and insignia. I also realized that I needed a haircut; I’d meant to do that and forget.
I told the rest that I need to go. “Why?” they asked. “I need to change my uniform.” I pointed out the problems with it.
The commander returned as I was doing that. He saw the mistakes and shrugged. “Go get it taken care of,” he said.