Signs, signs, everywhere there's signs...

My cousin Brian once yelled at me in a bar for using his change to play the Tesla version of this song.  I don't blame him especially because the original released in 1971 was significantly better, not necessarily good, just better.  No matter.  I have had some signs of late and am unsure how to interpret them.  

While not the first time that I've been attacked by wildlife (see 2003 OWL Attack - where a TRAINED owl flew into my head at the Denver Zoo), I was recently attacked, that's right attacked, by chipmunks in Steamboat Springs, Colorado.  One would think that having a snack of water and cashews would be a un-punishable offense in the great state of Colorado, but one would be dead wrong.  Think for a moment what you know about chipmunks, go ahead, I'll give you a minute.

I want you to erase what you know about cute, little, innocuous chipmunks because them sonsabitches will attack you for the mere mention of a nut.  They will climb uponst your person, chew through your backpack and chase you into hot spring waters for relief.  I've said too much already.

Then, there was the running out of gas in between two towns that were 60 miles apart.  If not for the kindness of strangers - we'd still be out there, and I would have finished the whole miserable book I was reading about Frank Lloyd Wright.  I played lotto after that save.  As it is, I just finished the book and still haven't won the lotto.

And then, I made a huge pot of sauce with sausage and meatballs for my children when they returned home from a ten day stint in Tennessee. This is not really worrisome, nor really worthy of mention, but I didn't have three things that were noteworthy and considered signs- try as I might.  Actually I did, but due to a combo of atavan and wine, I can't recall what they were.  I did have a few weird dreams, one involving a Brita filter that housed goldfish. But I don't think I should say more about that as it probably says more about my subconcious and less about the world of absurdity that I live in.  Or does it?

Update: I remembered what the other signs were!!  After our narrow escape from bold chipmunks, my husband and I went to a small Italian restaurant that was crowded and forced us to sit at the bar while we waited for a table.  While there we met a guy from Ohio ~ my husband is from there and we always meet a guy from Ohio, which says something about Ohio if you ask me.  Also, the bartender was able to dig up a bottle of our favorite wine to enjoy - literally dig up, as there didn't seem to be any around and it was a mini bottle.  Also, also, we watched a giant of a man crush another man on UFC fighting, which incidentally the guy from Ohio had a brother who was a UFC fighter.  I understand that it's all too much to take in, but something is afoot I tell ya.

Food: Hummus, olives, eggs, cheese - this is pretty much all I eat since I've given up meat and cleaned out the fridge.  I feel good, but not as good as when I snagged a few bites of waffle off of toddler's plate that was loaded with butter, syrup and confectioners sugar.
Movement: I CANNOT be stopped.

This Santa Claus is like an albatross...

I know, I know, dear three readers.  It's been a long ass time since I've written anything, but in my defense it is summer and I am spending vast quantities of time hauling three insatiable howler monkeys around  entertaining the lovelies three.  We've had an amazing summer so far, swimming, movie going, bowling, librarying, and what not.  Summertime and the living is indeed easy.

I've also been a busy little beaver, and yes the word beaver makes me giggle like the 12 year old boy that I am.  A big chunk of my time has been spent throwing things away and clearing out my garage.  The garbage men love me this summer.  I am quite proud to say that I've unloaded (either via the trash man or through Goodwill/ARC donations) the equivalent of the worldly goods of at least three small, underprivileged nations with poor taste.

Most recently I was shuffling around in the garage ~ literally as the lights in there have gone out and I'm too lazy to climb a ladder to replace them so I shuffle around to make the motion light turn on.  I must do all my work at night as I don't want to constantly chase the toddler lovely away from boxes of potentially dangerous items like broken picture frames or soggy porn magazines.  Anyway, I came across The Santa.  Many moons ago my mother gave me Santa and Frosty as a matched set for my Christmas decor.  They were approximately 500 years old when she gave them to me and I considered them kitschy enough to add holiday cheer wherever they were placed.  They stood about three and a half feet tall, were made of very hard plastic (or bulletproof glass material), and had cords sticking out of a hole in their backs that were connected to a large light bulb that would presumably light up their demonic cherubic faces when plugged in.

Needless to say the lights no longer worked, but I put them on the fireplace hearth for laughs and went about my business.  My husband pointed out that maybe we should get rid of the cords as surely there was some hazard in faulty lights being thrown into the mix of holiday cheer. He's all full of sense and logic especially in arenas where no sense and logic enters into the equation in my doings - like bringing home toddler sized, ancient decorations to begin with.  As time has passed I've gotten rid of Frosty, and have attempted to get rid of Santa as well.  This is no easy feat. Each time I've placed Santa in the trash or recycling (because I honestly don't know if he's garbage or recyclable and it all depends on my mood) over the past five years at least one of the lovelies has rescued him, dragged him lovingly through the house, and in some cases even slept with him.  I won't going into the psychological ramifications of this here, but I believe we are saving for therapy instead of college anyway.

Last week I thought I was in the clear.  The oldest lovelies were off visiting their grandparents and I had managed to keep Santa on the side of the house by the trash for days without interruption or mealy mouthed pleas for his rescue.  The night before the trash men were due, he was discovered by the toddler who proceeded to drag him through the front and back yard, the house and into the tub.  When telling my mom about it later she informed me that the Santa (and Frosty) were my grandmother's and the kids knew he was special.  Really?  Now I'll never be able to get rid of the damn thing out of sheer guilt for throwing away a piece of my family heritage.  My current thinking is that  I should create a shrine for The Santa complete with oranges, candles, incense and a picture of the Virgin de Guadalupe.

Santa Pause Stats:
I have been subsisting solely on iced coffee and leftovers off the kids' plates.  I haven't eaten meat since the summer began as there was an unfortunate ground beef incident in my refrigerator.
My movements are repetitive enough to make me wonder if I will wind up with carpal back syndrome from constantly hefting the toddler off of some precarious thing he has climbed.