Free Association 152

Trigger words provided, weekly, by LunaNina.

I haven't played for ages, so here goes:

I say ... and you think ... ?

1. Celebrate:: Life
   
2. Resolve:: Issues
   
3. I need to:: Breathe
   
4. Call:: Collect
   
5. Token:: Trifle (as in small thing, not sponge & custard)
   
6. Brand:: Sear
   
7. Comparison:: Chart
   
8. Far away:: Daydreams
   
9. Artful:: Dodger
   
10. Fantastic:: Day (No I am not nauseatingly chipper, it was a song title.....)
    

Let me know if you play too, I want to see your answers!

Poetry Challenge Day

Its been a while!

Commenters please leave three words that you think would be really hard to combine into a poem. If someone else has left three words already and you fancy playing along - please do! I will pull the best out into another post alongside my own efforts.

To quote Blue Peter (and yes skill-wise its on a par, if you remember the yoghourt pot bucket chairs for Barbie and all the other dangly, wobbly things with bits stuck on,) 'heres one I prepared earlier'.

I faced my deepest darkest fear.
I tore at it with angry rage
And gifted him the awful truth
with venom dripping from the page.

I swore him then to secrecy,
To keep the horror firmly hid,
And waited for the sky to fall;
Was startled when it never did.

How much I wish that only I
could stand or fall if all were known,
For freedom's thrill, it beckons me
(to stand in light for all to see
and shout the truth to set me free)
But still this is not mine alone.

I want to tell the world, I do,
I want the chapter dead and gone,
But some I love seek shadows, still,
And so the waiting must go on.

Uhoh - rough, huh? Now lets see how much worse I can get or if I'm just rusty.........

No three words there, just in honour of Bulb's challenge and all the people who have taken it up.

Right, I'm ready to play - please?

Uhoh

In the year 2006 I resolve to: Stop wearing pants again. Get your resolution here

Now that is soooooo embarrassing! I mean; how did it know?

Yes folks, the game's up, I am a bottle brunette

Sodom, Gomorrah, Zoar And The Schmuck

Once upon a time my husband was a single man, living in what the estate agents termed a bijou penthouse flat in trendy Hammersmith. OK there was an entry system and a concierge, but his 'flat' was more of a bedsit come broom cupboard.

Still, being a softie, he had what pets were allowed - two goldfish named Sodom and Gomorrah.

By the time we moved in together, Gomorrah had shuffled off this mortal coil and Sodom was left alone. It is to my eternal annoyance that when we bought him a new companion, Husband refused to allow me to name it Stuffit.

I thought Sodom and Stuffit went well, but no, we took on Gomorrah #2.

When, in a flat ourselves, we upgraded to a six foot tank, even with a new all-singin'-and-a-dancin' filtration system, we discovered it was too large to face very regular cleaning. Theoretically you only ever change two thirds of the water, to allow the natural bacteria to re-grow and stop the fish going into tap-water shock, but every so often the base goes green and yicky, at which point the water you have to save is the top or middle third - the whole tank needs emptying and washing out, even the gravel needs a wash or to be replaced.

The problem was exacerbated when we bought a third fish - we fell in love with him - a Black Moor whom we called Zoar. It's another Old Testament city, and it rhymed. Good enough. From the top he looked like a cross between a fantail and a hammerhead shark, but from the front he looked like Biggles, or Marty Feldman.

Anyway, shopping for supplies in a new aquatics shop in Greenford we saw a tank full of tiny catfish. These were the type, the owner said, that only grew to about six inches in the confines of a tank. Completely safe with other fish and bottom feeders, bought by many just to keep the algae down.

We bought one and named him Schmuck (hey it's still Jewish) because he sucked muck.

The pet shop owner was misled, that or an evil liar out for a fast buck - someone in the chain certainly was.

Schmuck got to be about 3 inches long in no time. No problem, Zoar and the others varied from 4 to 6 inches long, given the spaciousness of the tank. However we woke up one morning and found poor darling Zoar fumbling his way in his usual circles round the tank, with one fin patting its way blindly across the glass. He didn't actually seem remotely phased by his new disability - no signs of blood or a struggle, but he was now a one-eyed Moor.

A few phone calls and a check inside the filter (just in case he'd been vacuum attacked by the mechanism) pointed us to the possibility that Schmuck was not all that he seemed. Apparently, if a catfish has longer barbs on the bottom lip than the top, then it is an East European catfish - designed to grow to six feet irrespective of the tank, carnivorous and territorial. He had to be removed from the tank, and that instant.

Neither of us wanted to see him euthenased for being of a predatory breed, which was hardly his fault, and we began a frantic search for someone, anyone who might want him, but we soon found we couldn't offload him for two more days.

Temporarily short of a bucket for some forgotten reason, I sacrificed a large, heavy enamelled casserole / crockpot, deep and about 18" by 6". I say sacrificed, because there was no way I was going to reclaim it once the water was all fish widdle. We settled Schmuck in on the windowledge, but he was none too happy and we soon decided to keep the lid on the pot to stop him attacking nosy passing children. Apparently his kind quite like the dark, so that was something. For a while at least, he settled down.

WriterMom inspired this story with her post about evil, murderous catfish, and now that I've given all the background, I have to say that she's got them pretty well bang to rights. This thing was three inches long. In the dark. On its own. Yet it would attack loud noises, not run from them - the killer instinct had awoken and was running on overdrive.

How do I know? It was Christmas. Roger Rabbit was on the TV. Every time there was a loud bang, crash or whizz in the movie, the whole ton-weight casserole dish shunted along the windowledge, towards the noise. The nearer it got, presumably the louder the noises sounded (from both under a lid and under water....) because the shunting became more enthusiastic. I know catfish aren't Jewish, but I wonder if there's a little known clan of Scots in whichever part of Eastern Europe the East European variety come from. I swear to God I heard the little 3" shit mumbling things like "Stitch that Jimmae" and "I'll effin kill ya!"

I know he must have headbutted the pot along the ledge but I imagine him having shoulders, like a heavy sent to break doors down.

We did eventually re-home him, but it took six extra strong freezer bags to make his transport airtight, because of his barbs. Like hell were we starting again when the first one sprung a leak, neither of us was willing to touch the aggressive, spiky little beastie, we just kept dropping bag into bag into bag. But that's another story.

Feline Felony

My thirteen year old tom cat is my other baby.

When he gets into our bedroom he sleeps on my pillow, with his paws in my hair. If I push him off he settles at my feet instead.

He will aim for a two inch gap on my lap even if I am cross legged and working at the keyboard.

For the rest of the family, he will sit on their lap with his back to them, looking out over their knees like the sphinx. For me, however, he turns round and settles almost upright, tail on my lap, paws around my neck. Otherwise, still facing me, he nestles into one arm like a baby and extends one paw to stroke my hair or collarbone.

He likes to purr in my face. He likes it best if I was busy doing something else at the time.

He has a cat flap built into the kitchen door, but will test loyalties by demanding to be let in at the front door instead, or the patio doors, or the living room window.

I always know when the weather is going to change because he starts to get frisky - chasing his own tail around chair legs or 'killing' bits of lego or tinfoil.

He has always been demanding but faithful, until today. Today he was so disgusted with me that he resorted to blackmail.

The problem? A month or so before Christmas, the ultra luxury version of his food pouches were on sale, or mispriced, and cost the same as the regular ones. We stocked up. For a while then, he dined on lamb with carrots, rabbit with something else, two sorts of fish at once - you get the picture. His appetite went up accordingly and he snubbed his biscuits altogether; mewing and begging and pleading instead for more pouches of meat. Husband, the evil swine, made the most of it. The cat knows darn well what the word 'dinner' means and Husband would demand a kiss, insist that the cat bring the begging from the floor to his lap.

Anyway, the correction of prices plus the usual January budget & bills, means that cat, like us, is on rations. Specifically we downgraded not just to regular pouches of cat food, but to good old fashioned tins.

This, to cat's mind, would be insult enough, but husband also went and bought a tin of beef in jelly. Cat hates beef.

This morning then, he mewed piteously until I fed him.

He toyed with it.

He came and tried some more mewing.

He went back and ate a few biscuits instead, with a real dirty look on his face.

He mewed some more, and when that didn't work, he went out.

He was back inside five minutes, carrying a panicking songthrush by the throat, which he dropped unceremoniously on its back in the middle of the kitchen. His whole stance said 'Look what you've forced me to.'

He hasn't gone hunting for years, not since we had another cat who produced a litter. He set himself up as Uncle then and taught all the kittens to hunt. He did this by bringing in half dead field mice etc and presenting the prey to them, for the little ones to have a go at finishing off. All over the living room carpet. At all times of day and night. He gave up when I kept rescuing things and telling him he was bad.

This poor bird was a threat directed at me, make no mistake. It was deposited still alive, not a drop of blood drawn. He stood there staring at it for maximum effect. He then allowed himself to be lifted up and removed without any complaint, while I wrapped the bird in toilet tissue and carried it gently back outdoors. It was limping and dazed in the kitchen, but when we got halfway down the side alley and it saw a chance of escape, it fought free of me well enough, careering into the glass of next door's greenhouse before adjusting its aim and making good its escape.

Cat? Well cat hasn't touched that food, all day.

He's just been very quiet and given me an awful lot of disdainful looks.

Cork and Cupboards (the kinds with skeletons in)

Firstly a quick thankyou to Gareth Wyn who says on his blog profile that he works in Information Management for the Government, but then says he is (quote) "aka a Librarian".

Definitely gay, (which is annoying because he's very good looking in a Rock Hudson rugged and square jawed sort of a way.) The sweetest, funniest thing about straight men is the way they will big-up their job titles and would die sooner than run them down. Heterosexual man can't seem to grasp the concepts of humour or self deprecation in relation to work. It takes a sister.

Anyway, Gareth ever so tactfully pointed out a huge flaw in my understanding about cork. I researched better. I came up with THIS. I am still confused.

Still, when I am better off and able to be selective about wines (instead of downright grateful) then I shall probably only buy something with a traditional cork in the bottle. Stripping cork apparently doesn't harm the trees or the wildlife, but using plastic does, in a roundabout way, because the forest owners give up and chop all their ancient cork trees down to plant something more lucrative.

Apparently there are only 150 Iberian lynx left and they live in...... (tanaaa!)....... the cork forests.

Buy a bottle with a cork in it - do your bit to save the lynx (and yes for someone who is still researching this, I do sound like a total convert.)

Secondly - Bulb has tagged me with a challenge which I am sorry to say, I refuse.

The first three rules are:
1. The story has got to be about your family, (In-laws count,) or your closest friends. (You gotta have slept with at least two of them.)
2. The story has got to be real and unembellished. (We have our ways of checking it.)
3. The story has got to give a "Oh my God no wonder you're so fucked up!" effect.

Bulb, I could do one or two really evil, fictional posts, it would be fun. The trouble with doing a whole month's worth is it would be not so much emotionally, but physically taxing. I also refuse to join in with the reality of it. There are things I would say to someone face to face that I would not leave on the internet to be found by those who would be hurt by them, or worse, those that would use them. I guess my problem is that I don't need to dig very deep.

So, I am a big wuss who's not playing. If, however, this sounds more like fun to you, and you feel like playing, then run over to Bulb's and tell him!

Pass The Muscle Rub

Apparently 78% of people opt to stay indoors to see in the New Year, and those that go out are predominantly in their twenties.

For us, with kids, its not so much a matter of opting, however we did reach a sort of watershed. This year, instead of rushing off to bed early to be able to wake again at 11pm, the kids elected to stay awake all night. They managed; admirably.

Our pre-midnight entertainment, then, was Herbie Goes Bananas on one of the children's channels. The film ended in time for us to turn over to BBC1 just three minutes before Big Ben chimed, by which time a clock was already running down on screen, so we had three choruses of 59,58,57 etc.

We saw in the chimes with a bottle of fizzy Liebfraumilch, (yuck), horrible stuff, but mild enough to let the sprogs have a glass each and feel very grown up, what with the (plastic) cork making a very impressive pop and bouncing off the walls. No breakages this time.

Like Zilla I shy away from wines with screw tops or plastic corks, but am told that the world's supply of bottling quality cork, thick and unflawed, is dwindling at an alarming rate, so more and more decent makes are turning to other ways of stopping the bottle for ecological reasons.

In this case, however, that little tidbit of info is entirely academic although the kids thought they had been given the best stuff ever and made a lot of jokes about being naughty, and tipsy. Considering the amount of sugar they'd consumed, I doubt the meagre alcohol content of their 'grown up' glasses managed to touch a single human cell on its way through. It didn't matter to them, the stage had been set for pretending they were very, very grown up, like 16, or something.

Husband and I had already quietly worked through a decent bottle of red ( a saved Christmas present) and discovered how much this helped us to smile and swig the dreaded but traditional sparkling concoction. It didn't turn out to be such a clever mixture, after the fact. We were therefore soon feeling quite queasy and the worse for wear, compared to the children, who, after 20 minutes or so of absolute hyperactivity, settled down to another movie which slid onto the screen of its own accord - Spy Hard.

Appalling, horrible, terrible movie with the most childish and unsophisticated slapstick humour, which suited our 9 and 11 year olds down to the ground and had them steadfastly propping their eyelids open and refusing to leave the sofa. It was worth it to hear them laughing.

Normally I end up shedding a tear for the end of the year. I did get my sudden irresistible urge to be outdoors in sub zero temperatures to appreciate the sky; something that winds husband up to the Nth degree. His small chorus using words like bloody, effing and freezing is another happy family tradition.

This time, however, I couldn't find a single drop of remorse about the passing of 2005. It felt like the year of nothing. Plenty happened, a lot of it awful, but it seemed, at the last analysis, to have been a period of shakeup, of change, of chores, of tidying up lives and purposes. Lots and lots and lots of action, just none of it moving forward. The best thing I can compare it to is a year in the sports changing rooms, getting out of one outfit and into another, getting small ailments noticed and seen to, fitting new pads and wrist supports and all that; getting ready for a new game.

A year of preparation.

Goodbye, 2005, and thank you, I guess we're going to find out just how much we needed you, now.
Hello 2006! The excitement is building, I can nearly hear the crowd, and I just know, whatever happens, it's going to be a good game. Dear God may we come out of it with honour intact, and in one piece.

Oi, you; fasten your helmet....................

Happy New Year!!!!!