Tag: just goofing around

Jeezaloo

Somewhere out shopping this weekend, the expession “Jeezalou” struck.

I was probably looking at the price of something. Or maybe the sodium levels. You ever check out the sodium levels in processed foods? Some of them offer eighty percent of the recommended daily intake in one small serving. Jeezalou. Likewise some sugars levels. Holy Jeezalou.

Voices and personalities are stuck to the term. A previous boss and dear friend, Laura D, used it often. A co-worker, Paul, also used it. Both were from New Jersey, almost the same neighborhood. I wondered if it was a local thing.

I also wondered about its origins. Also, it’s correct spelling. After wondering these things, I know; I’ll do a search on the net.

Clever me, right? Sure.

Initial sources suggest it’s ‘loo’ and not ‘lou’. No sources told where it came from. Some people wonder if it’s Canadian, because they’ve heard Canadians use it. I do remember it being used on Canadian television shows, but also the show, Everybody Loves Raymond.

I speculate it’s related to people exclaiming, “Jesus.” That’s frowned upon for religious reasons in some places and times, so it was flavored to be non-religious by adding the ‘aloo’ part. Just speculation.

My wife agreed with that idea. She remembers using “I swear” and being chastised by religious relatives. She then switched to “I swain”, which also drew criticism.

Jeezaloo, those were gentler times, weren’t they?

0

The Swat

I’m on my knees, typing at my desk.

The cat is asleep on my chair.

It wasn’t so planned. I’d been typing when I raised my coffee cup to my lips and discovered it empty and dry.

No coffee.

But I had plans, and they included coffee.

Damnation.

I got up and went into the coffee to make more. When I returned, the cat had taken my chair. Curled up, he looked asleep.

Could that be right? I’d been gone two minutes. He’d taken over the chair and gone to sleep in two minutes? Yes, I was suspicious.

He’s done this before, so I know the routine. I moved the chair out of my way (the cat didn’t move anything during this — not a whisker, not an ear, not even a tail twitch), dropped to my knees, and resumed my activities.

When at last I was did, I stood and stretched. Now I needed water. Turning sideways, I slipped past the sleeping cat on the chair, my back to him.

That’s when I farted.

It wasn’t anything dramatic, just a loud burping noise.

That’s when the cat swatted me.

I stared down at him. “Did you just swat me?”

He was looking up at me. I swear that he looked defiant. I thought, he’s been planning this. He’s been thinking, I’ve had enough. The next time that he farts in front of me, I’m going to swat him.

I glared at him. “I don’t fart that often.”

Rearranging his paws, he lowered his head and closed his eyes.

I think he looked smug.

13

The Finds

The sight ahead drew Bruce out of his inner world and back to reality. It could be an ambush.

Damn it. It’d been a good day (part of a good week) till now. Decent weather (upper sixties, and the wind and rain had passed), and no smoke.

Copping a squat, he considered the pile ahead. It resembled a human in clothes. He’d been walking down here to avoid humans. Zombies and survivors…neither were usually good company. He wasn’t much as ambush prey. Did have a gun (two, actually), some rounds, food (mostly energy bars, nuts, and dried fruit), a little water. Not substantial quantities.

Ravine walls thick with grasses, bushes, and brambles rose on two sides. Yeah, perfect place to take the easily beguiled.

The pile wasn’t moving.

Sighing, he put away the trail mix he’d been munching to free his hands, pulled the handgun out, and cursed. He was off the roads and highways because he was non-confrontational, didn’t have many rounds, and wasn’t a great marksman. He also wasn’t a good Samaritan. Heaving heavy sighs, he shifted his backpack and crept forward.

The pile didn’t move. A wind decided to add mischief to the leaves and bushes. He hoped to hell it was the wind, and not someone getting ready to get him.

Yeah, the pile was a human, female in jeans with a torn light blue shirt and jacket, non-zombie, but probably not alive. Blonde. White. Brown eyes were staring, and all that blood. Maybe forty or fifty years old, or somewhere in that zone. Not dead long. No animals had visited. Only touching her could tell him more.

He gazed up. She’d probably fallen from above. Pushed? Why would anyone be up there? What was up there?

With slow awareness, he realized something was not far from him. Pulse shifting to a faster speed, he turned and stood.

Dog.

The animal (a lab? — he didn’t know these things) regarded him, tail down. It looked decently healthy and had a collar and tags. No pack was around, although that didn’t stop his guts from nervously squalling.

“Nice puppy.” His voice caught on a rasp. Been how long since he’d last spoken?

The dog flicked the tail once or twice and turned away, but kept looking back.

Follow? Really?

Bruce tapped his foot in his head, debating choices, uncomfortable with where the dog might lead him. The dog seemed patient, insistent, and intelligent.

“Okay, Lassie.” He walked after the dog. “Lead on.” He’d shoot the dog first if it led him to a trap. Well, that would depend, wouldn’t it?

The dog disappeared past some trees. Bruce took his time following. Rounding the trunks, he hunkered down and peeked around them like a child playing a game.

A man was on the ground. The dog was beside him, looking back at Bruce.

Man, woman, and dog, Bruce thought, putting things together. No ambush. He moved forward.

The man moved. A gun was in his hand but he didn’t raise it. A noise between sigh and grunt, word and pain, oozed free of him.

Bruce approached. “Hello.”

The man opened and closed his eyes, then opened and closed his mouth, adam’s apple jerking. A canteen was at hand. Bruce approached it, saw it open, and picked it up. It sloshed. Bending, he wet the man’s lips. “Hey. Hey.” He didn’t know what else to say.

From the pale, wan face, thin silver hair, and sunken cheeks, Bruce guessed him seventy something. The clothes told of some wealth (as did that watch).

The man responded to the water. Bruce trickled a little into the man’s mouth. “Thank you,” the man said. He closed his eyes. They snapped back open. “My wife. Carrie. She…”

“Blonde white woman, about forty to fifty, wearing jeans?” Like there could be anyone else. “I think I found her.”

The man’s expression shifted through hope to understanding. “Okay. Okay.” Tears threaded out of his eyes and down the sides of his face. “This is the way. I fell. Down the side. She was trying.” Eyes closing, he shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

Bruce wondered. Where could he take him? What could he do? “Where are you hurt?” Could he get help? “What…” He swallowed. “What can I do?”

“Nothing.” The man smiled. “No use. Back. Legs. Insides. I’m a mass of hurt. Oh, well, it was good until now. Can you…”

“What?”

The man marshalled himself. “Bring her here? That possible?”

Bruce shuddered inside. He should just walk the fuck away. He should have never come over. He breathed out. “Okay. Okay. Sure.”

Hating the decision and himself for what he was doing, he tucked his gun into his pants took off his backpack. Retracing the way, he found the woman again. First, well, check. Yes, dead.

Trembles rolled through him. He hated touching the dead. Yeah, it didn’t make sense, but that’s how he was.

Realizations caught. She was still a little warm and pliant. Jesus, she could not have been dead long. He wondered what’d killed her. There was a lot of blood.

Bile rose. He didn’t want to get blood on himself.

Really? How fucking pathetic was he? He didn’t want to just drag her, either. That seemed just…wrong.

After sucking in three breaths, he squared himself, bent, and picked her up. She was so light, he almost sagged in amazement. Poor person, to die out here like this. That was the world but it didn’t make things any better.

He carried her back with no problem. The dog greeted him.

“That’s Jasper,” the man said. “Thank you for doing this. Now. Put her. Here. Beside me. Please.” As Bruce did, the man smiled. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Tears were storming down his face. “Okay, two other things, but I’ll reward you,” the man said.

Bruce knew what was coming. “Wait. What’s your name? I’m Bruce.”

“Bruce, I am Jerome. Thank you again, for what you’ve done. Now, if you can do more…”

Bruce knew what was coming. “I don’t know.” He glanced at Jasper. “Won’t your dog object?”

“Oh, I talked to Jasper while you were away getting Carrie. He understands it, probably better than us. Just aim at the chest, you know? I don’t know if I can be saved or not, but I figure, a world without Carrie isn’t where I want to be, not the way it’s turned to shit.” His voice was thinning. Jerome coughed, then pursed his lips for several seconds. “You can have my air yacht in return.”

“Your what?”

“Up the top of the hill. It’s yours. Take it. Live, survive.”

“Okay.” What the the hell was an air yacht?

“And if you can, well, find my children. Son and daughter. They don’t speak with me. Didn’t care for Carrie. Were angry, which made me angry. In hindsight, which is all that’s left, it’s stupid of me and them. We all thought there was more time, but here we are.”

Jerome cleared his throat. “I’m asking a lot. The list just keeps growing. Kill me. Take care of Jasper. Find my son and daughter, Gerald and Jeanine. Their locations are in the yacht’s computer. That’ll give you guidance. It’s up to you, but I’d like it if you can find them, tell them what happened to me and Carrie, so they know.” He settled his gaze on Bruce. “I know I put a lot on you. You can promise anything, of course, and then do whatever you want. I understand that. The air yacht’s loaded with food and drink. It’s comfortable and secure.”

“I never heard of an air yacht. How will I fly it?”

“Oh, it flies itself. It’s at the top of this bluff. I think you can get up there. Fob is in my pocket. Opens all the doors, and turns everything on. It’s yours, Bruce. Just finish the job here, and take care of Jasper, please. He’s a good dog.”

Shadows were claiming the ravine by the time Bruce complied with Jerome’s request. Afterward, the dog went to the man, sniffing him and licking his face for a bit before turning away and joining Bruce. The dog’s humanity impressed Bruce.

He took the fob, along with Jerome’s watch and gun, all with regret. Then, speaking to himself as much as the dog, he squared himself and looked up. “How the hell are we supposed to get up there?”

Jasper responded like he knew. Heading for a path, he paused, looking back and waiting for Bruce to follow. Bruce tucked Jerome’s gun into his pack and swung it up onto his shoulders. Another long look was granted to the dead man and his spouse. He considered burying them.

He’d already buried so many, he was weary of it. Did that change anything? No, but he had nothing to dig with. “I’m sorry, Jerome. I really am.”

Life sucked enormously, yet it seemed like his was looking up. “Lead on, Jasper,” he said, then began following the dog up the side.

0

Neighbors

He was coming down the hill, and the other was going up. They were on the other side of the street from one another (social distancing, you know). As they came almost parallel, each slowed, nodded, and issued greetings.

The man going down said, “How do you like your new car?”

“My car?”

“Isn’t the white Tesla your car?”

“How’d you know?”

“I live across the street from you, down one.”

“Of course. I thought it was you. I like the car, thanks. It’s different, but we’re getting used to it. How’s your arm? Looked like you broke it?”

“I did. It’s healed, but I’m still recovering. Do you have a new cat? Gray, with mittens?”

“Yes. Her name is Nezza. She’s a rescue from the shelter.”

“She looks sweet.”

“She is. Well, have a nice walk.”

“You, too.”

As each went on their way, they thought, I should have asked him his name. They almost turned around to do so, but didn’t. Maybe on another day. After all, they’d been neighbors for a few years. What difference did a name really make?

5

The Despised Wind

The despised wind is here,

ruffling my ginger fur,

and cutting through my sunshine.

Teasing all my senses,

shaking all the fences,

and causing a great disruption.

It makes me quiver,

it makes me quake,

with the noises it does make.

Oh, the despised wind is here,

so I’m heading there,

into the house where it’s not.

1

In the Soup

The weather had pivoted. Clear skies scooted out of the way for rain clouds. Gone was the warm sun; a cooler, replacement sun arrived with November’s start. I don’t know who ordered it, but it was here and in place. (I actually thought it defective; it wasn’t very bright or warm.)

“I’m going to make a soup every Sunday,” my wife declared. “It’ll be Souper Sunday.”

She had me on her souper train. She makes excellent soups. First up was the roasted veggie offering. It’s one of my favorites. That doesn’t actually mean much; they’re all my favorites. Next up was another fave, the smoky chickpea offering.

For last weekend, she announced she’d be making her delicious black bean veggie chili. Then she called an audible on Saturday and made her spinach-mushroom-tortellini soup and served it up with a multi-grain ciabatta bread.

Sunday came and another audible: she was making her tortilla soup. Well…okay. It is one of my favorites. She’s a vegetarian, one of the differences between us. I’d grilled some chicken earlier in the week. Some was leftover. She divided the soup (giving me a much larger portion) and put the leftover chicken in for me. That was our Sunday dinner.

Guess what I had yesterday for lunch? And today? And I have enough left for lunch tomorrow, as well.

She hasn’t mentioned what soup she’ll make next. I’m hoping she’ll do either the black bean veggie chili or her other tortellini soup, or her broccoli cheddar. All I know is that’ll be a souper Sunday.

And probably a souper Monday, too.

0

The End

The world won’t end in a whimper,

and not with a bang,

and probably not with fire and ice.

It’ll end with them shouting, “You lie,”

and others shouting back,

oblivious to the death and dying,

that’s rendering life a wreck.

0

The Halloween Puzzle

We finally completed our Halloween puzzle. Yes, it’s late.

We started off strong, finding the edges and putting it together. Then, life intervened. We wanted to work on the puzzle, but we had so many other things drawing our attention. That probably sounds strange during the COVID-19 Lockdown and Social-distancing Era (henceforth called CLASE). I’m a writer, though, and focused on that. Then there was exercising, fall yardwork, and cleaning house. And the NFL football season began. My wife was busy with exercise and dance classes via zoom, reading, socializing, and making us wonderful soups. (She’s making two more this weekend. Can’t wait.)

So other things occupied our time. But I’d go by it and think, “I should be able to get that area done easily enough.” Sure. Right.

There are thirteen cats. I started by hunting for cat pieces. As the cats were by the pumpkin patch — and the pumpkins are bright orange and easily spotting — I started hunting for and selecting those pieces. I would notice house pieces, sky, etc., and set those aside in other piles, mostly so they were out of my way.

Then, you know how it is with a puzzle. One area gets almost finished, but where the heck is that last piece? Meanwhile, as you search for missing last pieces, other things seem to magically come together.

The next thing I knew, the puzzle had sucked me in.

It was a lot of fun, and a good diversion, if that’s what you want.

2

Key Crust

As a writer, I’m forced to work from home during the pandemic. It’s not my preferred place. For some reason, the rambunctious noisiness of coffee shops draw out my muse. I think it’s because I’m there for the purpose of writing.

Unlike home. At home, it’s me, my wife, the cats, the phone, and the world outside my house. As with any job, distractions arise at home that interrupt the work flow. For instance, this morning forced me to address a major distraction: what is that stuff between and around the keys on my keyboard, and how do I get rid of it?

I don’t know why. Maybe I’m embarrassed by the key jam (you know, like toe jam?). I don’t know why; nobody sees my laptop and its key jam (key crust?), so why should I be concerned?

But logic doesn’t always drive my thinking. Neither does emotion nor physical input. There seems to be other realms forcing behavior.

I’ve had this HP Envy for six years. I’ve noticed the key crust before. I’ve tried cleaning it off before. Today, as I finished a second page, sipped coffee and addressed what happens next, I stared down at the crust. Resolution filled me: the crust must be removed.

First, though, the HP Envy name amuses me. Nobody has ever expressed envy at my laptop. The name seems like wishful marketing.

I’ve attacked the crust before. Compressed air has been used on previous machines. (My god, I’ve been using and cleaning computer keyboards since 1981, part of me thinks with a little horror.) I also have a little whisk tool. I’ve used these on the Envy, but the crust is impervious. I next employed toothpicks, q-tips, and various other slender pieces of things. None worked.

But now…ho, ho. I purchased an eyeglass repair kit this week. It has a thousand screws. The screws were what I wanted. I already have two sets of eyeglass screwdrivers. Between my wife and I, we have five pairs of glasses that we use that have suffered detached lenses or stems. In each case, a screw had popped out. As the glasses were otherwise fine, we certainly weren’t going to dispose of them. No we needed to repair them.

We’ve both been wearing prescription glasses since our early teens, dutifully going to doctors, get new prescriptions, and then buying new glasses as regularly as full moons. (At least, it seems like that.) We have a basket full of glasses. We often give old prescription glasses to charity so others can use them, but we have sentimental favorites that we can’t abide to surrender. Naturally, these are the afflicted glasses.

Although I’ve had the tiny screwdrivers for two or three lifetimes, they’ve never been at hand when I stared down at the key crust. Since I’d repaired a pair of glasses last night, the screwdriver set was right there beside me.

And the crust was right before me, almost…mocking me.

This had to end.

Selecting the smallest screwdriver, I carefully worked it around and under the keys, appalled and fascinated by the stuff I was recovering. This, I figured, was an amalgam of cat fur, human hair, and dandruff from us both, along with what the hell else, you know?

I had to employ an exact, tender angle. Each key was individually addressed. Rushing was out of the question. After a relatively short time (yeah, I have no idea how long), the key crust was gone, and the keyboard presentable once again. It really looks so much better.

Then, because I’d been at it so long, my coffee was cold, and but a swallow remained, so fresh coffee was required. Also, since I’d been sitting an hour, some quick exercise. Also, since it was lunchtime and breakfast had been four hours ago, lunch. Also, since my wife made some energy balls yesterday, a couple of them wouldn’t be remiss. Also, I hadn’t checked Facebook or emails (there could be something important there, right?). Also, it looks miserable outside (whose truck is on the street? Why are they parked across from my house?), so what’s the temperature? It rained all night – how much rain did we get? (Less than an inch.) How many more days will it rain? Oh, there’s a winter advisory out for snow over four thousand feet. That’ll end tomorry. Well, we’re not going anywhere, anyway – COVID-10, you know.

Finally, though, it was all addressed and out of the way. Now I’ve got fresh coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

Now where the hell was I?

5

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑