Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Monthly Archives: October 2006
Cobwebs in the attic
My mom wouldn’t take my dad’s word for it.
“Lift Dougie up,” she said. “Let him take a look around.”
Okay, fine. I was game for it. I’d had dreams of a sunlit attic, plush carpet wall-to-wall, toy firetrucks and stuffed bears and a ten-inch-tall girl who had led me up there by playing on her tiny piano. Also, my grandfather claimed he kept a monkey in his attic; maybe we had one, too.
My dad lifted me up on his shoulders so I could look around. No toys, no monkeys, nothing but rafters and cobwebs.
“Look for wires,” said my mother.
No wires.
I told my first grade teacher all about it. My mom thinks there’s wires in the attic. She thinks people are listening to us and watching us.
She asked my parents about it at open house and they denied everything. Just Dougie making up stories. God knows I made up a lot of stories back then, so my teacher never doubted my parent’s version.
Back home, my dad said, “You don’t tell anyone what happens in this house. No one. Do you understand?”
You’re probably wondering why my mom thought people were listening to us and watching us. Sorry. I’m not supposed to tell.
D.
Doing my bit
It’s a google bomb extravaganza. This explains it (kinda sorta).
Review of Helix SF, Issue #2
Here’s my review. If you’re feeling particularly lazy, my favorites were the stories by Jay Lake, Vera Nazarian, and Jennifer Pelland. Enjoy.
D.
The Five Truths Meme
This meme comes from Pat, to whom I say: five truths? Only five? Hey, this is like a Thirteen, only 62% easier. Or something like that.
Before I give ya five, don’t forget: the Blogwhorgy is still going hot and heavy, and the sperm-swallowing contest is open, too. Just scroll down the page.
List five truths. Five things that are on your mind. Good, bad, it matters not. Lift some weight off.
1. In one form or another, love is the most important thing in my life.
2. To all those geezes who complain to me, “The Golden Years? Meh. They’re not so golden,” I say this: being alive to bitch about it sure beats the alternative.
(I think I’ve blogged this conversation before, but it’s worth repeating.
Me: So, how are you doing today?
My 80-something-year-old patient: I woke up on this side of the dirt, so I’d say I’m doing pretty damned good.)3. There’s only one form of afterlife that’s guaranteed: the bits of ourselves we leave behind in others. And no, I’m not talking about STDs or unwanted pregnancies.
4. You know that injunction, primum non nocere? I realize that no matter how hard I try, I’m going to hurt a few people in my life — strangers, patients, loved ones. I might know this but I still try my damnedest to avoid it.
I’ve built it up into a neurosis, I think.
5. Here’s what blogging means to me: some of my best friends are people whom I’ve never met in person.
Damn, that was tougher than it looked. If I had to do thirteen, I’d plotz.
Then pick five people to do the same.
Aw. You would have to make me tag people.
How about Michelle, Dean (or SxKitten, I’ll let you two fight about it), Corn Dog, noxcat, and Kate.
D.
Blogwhorgy. Right here, right now.
Karen thinks I should try not be so heavy for a change. This is a humor blog, after all. Kind of. Sort of. Mostly.
“So, I shouldn’t edit that long piece I wrote last week on my patient who died when I was a resident?”
“No.”
And I suppose those ruminations over the Jewish concept of an afterlife should stay ruminations. And Karen’s thoughts about getting through chemotherapy, well, maybe turning that into a Thursday Thirteen wouldn’t be such a hot idea.
Stop. Just stop. Or as we say in (now, what country is this?), DUR.
(Thought I’d sneak some Random Flickr Blogging in on y’all. This comes from eclipse watch.)
Instead, how about this idea: in the comments, please hype a post of yours you have written recently (I’ll let you define ‘recently’), one you’re proud of, one you would like to see read far and wide. Blogwhore away, my friends! I’ll also put up links below this paragraph, just like I do for the Thirteen. And, of course, I’ll be sure to read your posts and comment, too, if I can manage to say anything that isn’t, well, DUR.
Have at it! Hope you brought your own condoms.
I’m going to kick things off with a shout for Shelbi’s surefire orgasm machine. It doesn’t get much more blogwhorgicological than that.
The ever-fascinating Suisan gives us Tiger Lily! Poignancy! And demanding moms!
Pat gives us five truths (and one great viddy link).
If you haven’t seen Renee’s stuff yet, go see, and make her shiver with XXXXXO while you’re at it. And her friend Carla? Just gimme some hot chocolate and maraschino cherries. I’ll bring my own whipcream.
(Um, was that too gross?)
Dean’s post about the pleasures of older women. I’ve hyped it before, and I’ll hype it again.
Here’s Generik on Staying the Course.
D.
Okay, who got sperm on the ferret cage?
I couldn’t help it. Sometimes, it . . . you know. It gets away from me.
Overheard at Chez Walnut
The TV sound is muted. Zombies stream across the screen, arms extended, running after a car.
Doug: What’s that?
Karen: Some new remake of Dawn of the Dead.
Doug: Have we seen it?
Karen: No. But I find it deeply offensive. Offensive to the core of my being.
Doug: Really? How come?
Karen: Those zombies. They were running.
That’s my wife. A zombie purist.
I think I’ll keep her.
D.
Rat tale, part deux
When last we spoke, the rat had taken refuge beneath our baby blue bidet.
A word of explanation: why do we even have a bidet? It’s not really our bidet; for the love of God, no. Sure, we own it, inasmuch as we own our house (or the bank does), but — like the baby blue tile, baby blue carpeting, baby blue jacuzzi (which we use only to bathe our ferret), and gaudy gold bathroom fixtures — we would really rather not claim ownership of these things. No, they belong to the previous owner of our house, The Imelda Marcos of Brookings.
She married into the local royalty (a family wealthy from dairy ranches and lumber), breaking up a marriage in the process, and thus earning considerable animosity from the masses. All of the more heinous style choices in our house were hers, like the Brady Bunch kitchen, the magenta shag carpet in her shoe room, and the baby blue tilework around the fireplace. And have I mentioned her paranoia? The master bedroom has an escape hatch. The stairs in back have a built-in drawbridge.
No, no, no. The bidet is hers.
Back to the rat hiding under the bidet . . .