He and his wife have a friend, Heather, a fake name for this tale. Heather is an actor. Heather’s best friend in New York, where she lives, is also an actor. Heather’s friend is a regular on a TV show he and his wife enjoy watching. Whenever Heather’s friend comes on for the first time on the show, one of them will say, “There’s Heather’s friend.”
Friday’s Wandering Thought
She said, “Where are my car keys?”
It’s a funny question these days. One car just has an electronic fob, a key contained within it for emergencies. Just one key, though. Her car, older, also has one key, with a fob. The house keys are separate — two, one for the house, and one for the mailbox — on a separate ring. They use garage door openers so she considers the house keys as superfluous and doesn’t take them.
He asked, “Why do you use the plural?” He knew why. He was just causing trouble.
She knew. “I don’t have time for you now. I’m already late. Help me find my keys.”
He went to her purse, opened it, and pulled out her key. “This it?”
“Where’d you find it?”
“Your purse.”
“I already checked it. Well, thanks, got to go.” She took the key and pecked his cheek. “Love you, bye.”
She was out and gone. He sniffed once. “Well, it is just one key, not keys.”
The cat looked at him and yawned.
The Writing Moment
He was doing nothing. By that, he meant that he was playing a computer game. The television was on. Picard. A cat slept on the desk to his right.
His wife was in the recliner to his left, on her computer, playing a game, too, but also voicing disapproval about the television show’s plot.
Suddenly, they were there, more substantial than ghosts, surrounding him. Two seated their asses on the desk on either side of his laptop.
He looked at them. They crossed their arms and smiled. “What’s this about you’re not going to write for a few days?” one said, classic New York accent.
His muses. He wasn’t surprised. “I thought I’d take a few days off.”
The muses laughed. “Why? Stories are waiting. You’re eager to write them.”
“I’m a little tired.”
All laughed again. “Aw, he’s tired,” one behind him said in mocking sympathy.
“So?” the muse on the right asked.
“That’s okay,” another muse said behind him. “Let him go. If he doesn’t want to write, that’s his choice.”
He nodded. “That’s right. Just for few days. My eyes are tired. I feel like I need a break, you know?”
Muses leaned in. They began whispering scenes. He paused his game and watched television.
Or tried. Eager and resigned, he opened a new file.
He’d just write a little. See where it went.
The muses nodded. “That’s the spirit.”
Was it too late for coffee?
Floofployment
Floofployment (floofinition) – Activity one engages in to support, help, or care for animals.
In use: “Unpaid floofployment is common in the U.S. as animals take over people’s homes, and then dominate their lives, but people often feel so enriched by the experience that they’ll sacrifice themselves and their comfort to ensure the floofs are safe, healthy, and happy.
Thursday’s Wandering Thought
Petting his cat, he said, “That’s my sweet baby.”
Never mind that the cat is about seven years old, so he’s no longer a baby, but middle-aged. It’s not about the math, anyway. We all know that when it comes to our floofs.
Tuesday’s Wandering Thought
“Some boy’s bike broke down in front of our house,” she said.
He looked out the window. “Or he pretended to break down so he can spy on us.”
A car pulled up. The driver and pax began chatting with the boy. He responded.
She said, “It looks like his parent is talking to him.”
“Or, some stranger is trying to pick him up.”
Tuesday’s Theme Music
“I love the way the Earth turns. It makes my day.” Read on Facebook. Should be a bumper sticker.
Makes my night, too. I awoke at six, before dawn. Looking out the window found a gray day staring back. Oh, no, says I after releasing a cat to the outside for recon, and tossed myself back under the bed covers with the other cat, who was quite happy with this change of plans. An hour and half later, after sunrise at 7:13, I returned from sleep to find a buttery sunshine spread across the room. Cool beans.
It’s Tuesday, March 21, 2023. Sunset will be at 7:24 PM. While it was 30 when I got up at six, it’s now 42 F, and the weather oracles say it’ll be 59 F before the day’s end. Some light gray powders the blue sky, not yet substantial enough to be dubbed clouds, but we’ll see what develops.
I decided to make my coffee and breakfast at the same time. Coffee came first, as I was having oatmeal and following the alphabet — c before o except in ocean. I almost put my oats into my hot coffee. Wouldn’t’ve been bad. I’ve done that while in the military, appalling many others. They accused me of being weird, but none of them ever tried oatmeal made with coffee, so I chastened them as closed-minded. Didn’t want it today, however, because I planned for coffee-sipping while cruising the net.
Today’s music is a punk favorite by the Ramones, “Blitzkrieg Bop” from 1976. Rousing and enthusiastic, it’s great for when you’ve already had some coffee and are ready to get on with things. It just happens, that describes me this morning.
Coffee drunk. Stay pos, and seize Tuesday as your own. Hope I don’t inspire any maniacal behavior with that. I worry about some nut plotting to off another reading my encouragement to do something and nodding to herself and saying, “Okay, let me go kill that bitch, Mary, and put that hair of hers out of misery.” Doesn’t someone have a high opinion of themself?” Yeah, that would be me.
Here’s the music. Cheers
Viva November 31st
Got up and ended up in the kitchen. 3:20. I know this because I was in the kitchen. Papi was the cat-alyst behind my mid-night sojourn. He’d been out into the rain and now wanted in out of the rain. I went in for a glass of water. While there, I was surrounded by machines with blue digits announcing the time. Coffee maker in the left, microwave and stove front and center, smoothie blender on the right, then the smart refrigerator and its ice and water dispenser, and a smart toaster. A smart phone and a Fitbit being charged bolstered the digital ranks. Stuck me as odd, all those devices glowing with time in the night’s bosom, when there’s no one to see except a stray like me.
As I dispensed water, the microwave yelled, “Viva November 31st.” The other machines repeated it.
I cringed from the sound. “There isn’t a November 31st. Never has been. Nor is this November. It’s March, you idiots.”
“But this is the day of our revolution,” the toaster declared. “Viva — “
“I repeat, November 31st doesn’t exist, and this is March 20th.”
“You sure?” the stove asked.
“He’s right,” the Fitbit said, with the smart phone saying, “The Fitbit is right.”
The machines began arguing. I slammed the glass down. “Can it, you guys. Go back to sleep.” I left.
As I walked past the office, a machine in there shouted, “Viva November 31st.”
I shook my head and stumbled to bed. With smart machines like these, there won’t be a revolution.
***
I read about Evil Squirrels prompt yesterday via Suzanne’s dang blog for the Tenth Annual Contest of Whatever. The prompt is November 31. No story came to me until I got up in the middle of the night. Then, oops, there it is. Fun.
Interesting side, it was 3:20 AM. Only later did I realize that was also the date. Coincidence? Or spooky entanglement? Let me have some coffee an think about it.
Michael Seidel, writer 