Scooter explosion?!

Yes, I have a scooter. Despite my need for such things to get around in larger spaces than our flat, I do feel a bit embarrassed about using it, due to certain cartoon series (SP, perhaps?) or other tv shows discussing how scooters are made only for the fat and lazy.


Last week, I mentioned to Per that the scooter front tire was looking a little flat, so he got out a tire pump and gave it what it needed, and he did the same for the two back tires while he was at it.

The next day, we went to the mall to go shopping for food and stuff, and I did a long round on Gossamer. Yes, my scooter has a name. Yes, I refer to it as 'she'. That's the same as boats, right?

When we came home, I parked Gossamer out on the landing strip or in the hangar or wherever ... oh, okay, I parked her outside our front door, near the stairs.

Last night, Per and I were in the living room when we heard something BOOM from the hallway outside our front door, so he went out to see what happened.

Bringing in shards of plastic, he said that one of the rear wheels exploded. Yow, really?!

He wheeled her in through our front door, where she sits still, her right rear tire flat and the inner half of its wheel/rim that was made of plastic is utterly in shards, while the outer half of the rim that was metal is still solid.

Someone will be coming by in a day or so to fix her up and hopefully to explain how this could have happened.

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MonSter with one back: mine

MS sucks. We all know it. Still and all, there are so many aspects to this f#€%ing disease that some might possibly sneak up on us when we're not looking.

I'm trying to look out for what could trip me up, even as I'm reallyREALLYreally trying not to look at other things that may well make me sit down in my closet, shut the door and be so quiet as to hope the monster won't know where I am. Okay, not literally. Yeah yeah. But reading bits on MS lists/whatever about someone who was once a vibrant girl, became a vibrant woman, but was crippled into what sounds like a bundle of sticks wrapped loosely with a piece of twine ... yeah, I'm referring to a Mouseketeer, and you can look it all up online, but I'm trying not to do that.

So, to wrap it all up for the day, I'm enclosing a bit from a blog written by someone else who's having a really rough time of it. So:

I’ve always vowed that if these things take me down they’ll take me down swinging, but with so many targets to swing at it’s hard to know precisely where to aim. Especially when taking a swing with a weakened, emaciated, and agonized arm doesn’t amount to all that formidable an attack.

I can still spit with the best of them, though, and if that’s going to be the only weapon left to me, then spit I will. Ha!

(Oh, the subject is meant to refer to the term 'making a beast with two backs', a rather ancient -- if you consider Shakespeare to be from ancient times, which some people might, but other people wouldn't -- term meaning sex. But my rephrase from beast to MonSter refers, of course, to the MS monster I deal with every day. If only I could figure out its tell, I might be able to beat it. Ah well, I'm about as good at card games as I am crap with much of anything else.)

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Not in here for a weak ... or a week

The computer room isn't terribly far from the rest of the flat, but it might as well be in a different state, country, or even planet for all the energy it takes out of me.

There being computer stuff in here ought to be enough for me to get roped into walking this far, and there's a seat in here that I can easily sit in, so how did I not come in here at all for more than a week?!

Really, I didn't venture this far because I just didn't have the energy to do so. The last day I was in here was the last day I was trying to write here, and I just found it, so here you go ...

Weaker than ... ?

I'm weaker than a cat.

No, not any of the Big Cat sort, although any one of those would be able to do what Moxie did last night, and probably with only one claw. No, Moxie didn't claw me at all, as I was holding her kitty Slim Jim or jerky for cats. What did she do? Little more than apply physics, really. Yeah, I was in bed, with Moxie on my chest, holding her jerky in my hand while my forearm was at an approximate angle of 45 degrees. No, she didn't attack me, really. What did she do? Leaned on my arm to attempt to get the jerky a little closer. I couldn't hold my arm at 45 degrees for long, and it went down to 40, 35, 30, and so on, until Moxie snatched the jerky to enjoy the kitty Slim Jim on her own.


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Alf, meet cat. Cat, me-- oh, never mind.

Yes, this is a really crap rip from VHS, but at least it's short!

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A new word: insistitude, meaning persistence of suggesting activities that verges on insisting, while not fully requisite. 

Yes, Per has to have some sort of gradient for how important something is that he wants me to attend, as in not that he wants me there, but how much I'd be pissed at myself for not having gone.

This word came about because this afternoon, Per said that the cherry trees were in full bloom and were unlikely to last until the weekend, so we drove down to the cherry trees, which had been planted in and around a cemetery. A firm wind blew petals off the trees and onto the heads of those people who were nearby. Every so often, somone would bend down and cup a handful of petals, forming a petalball that they then flung at a friend. Upon a strike with the friend's body or face, the petalball dissolved into so many pink petals and fluttered to the ground.

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Speaking Cat

There are times, many times, in which I've looked at Moxie and said, 'I wish I could understand you. I wish you could tell me what makes you go batshit crazy, so I could try to prevent you from going batshit crazy.'

Not that I think she resembles a bat at all. We really don't need another species of animal involved. I already believe that Moxie is a raccoon in a cat's body. Yeah, trans-species. ( which I am not saying anything about transgender folks, really! I hope you know me well enough to know that!) This comes mostly from the fact that she plays with us for a time, then takes the toy involved and dunks it into her water bowl. That's okay when it's the size of a hair band or somesuch, but not okay when it's something like her knitted catnip trilobite. 

Oh, right! The raccoon! Raccoons are known in Damnark as washing-bears, or whateverthefuck the Damnish word is. Raccoons wash their hands before and after everything. Moxie may not wash her paws as often as raccoons do, but ... yeah, Moxie is a raccoon. Stripey tail, obsession with water, fuzziness... Yeah.

By the way, understand is an odd word, I think. I know what it means, yes, but how did it come to mean what it does? Let's just say that there are some things I don't need or want to stand under so I can get what they're saying. 

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Monday the 13th?

Why not Monday the 13th?  I haven't yet looked to see whether there has ever been a Garfield strip about Monday the 13th, but that fat cat is known to not like Mondays, so perhaps there's some sort of superstition ... ?

On the subject of cats, my attention was grabbed this afternoon by the National Geographic Wild channel, about a man who was doing some of the most daring things I've ever seen with regard to lions. First, he climbed up a tree with a cameraman, rope and meat. He tied the rope around the chunk of meat, about a kilo of red meat, then lowered it down until it was about 9 feet from the ground, and he waited. A lion happened by, and its attention was grabbed by this chunk of meat, which it leapt up into the air to grab in its jaws. Straight up. 

What really grabbed me about this show wasn't so much the lion-fishing but the fact that this man was sitting on a branch of the tree that the lion could have, appetite primed after the appetizer, readily climbed for a main dish!

He didn't stop there. He climbed into a little, clear acrylic box for waiting for lions to show up for the antelope carcass on the roof?! A couple of meters square, with bars on two sides of the cube, and thick acrylic on the others. The box contains a cameraman, naturally, and the xth-generation expert on big cats. (I'm sitting here wondering about what other guys might be at hand, apart from the second cameraman.)
Hopefully, this guy won't get eaten on Monday the 13th! 
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Eggy day?

From An Open House for Butterflies, which I just now read about on Brain Pickings!


I like this, and I'm going to keep it close at heart!
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What if a cat won't eat a clam?

Okay, it wasn't a clam but a mussel, and a very smoked one at that.

Per brought some smoked mussels home from shopping last night, and Moxie was mewing right on his heels from the time he walked in the door.

Imagine this:

Really?! Yes, that is really what happened, until Per cut open the container, placed one on a plate, then cut it into small pieces, laying it down on the floor.

Moxie stopped mewing and sniffed at the bits of mussel, whereupon she looked up at Per then at me with her usual expression of, 'What? Do I have to chew it too?!', but she surrendered and nibbled at one and another and twother and throther, casting aside the black bits that probably fulfilled some disgusting biological function.

One for me, as I decided I really didn't want more than that, and Per had a couple more on his own.

Fast forward to later last night, as I lay in bed reading, suddenly hearing an impossibly loud 'ICK!!!', followed by a feline screech! Per walked into the bedroom, with little Miss Underfoot following and mewing loud and high enough to shatter glass.

Propping myself up a bit so as not to be trampled by Moxie, I looked at what Per was holding and what Moxie had decided was YES! GOTTA HAVE! NOW!

a teeny tiny crab

Apparently, the mussel was killed just after dinner. No, there weren't more than one crab, nor hush puppies or fries or anything else. (:-P) Bending to Moxie's desires, he put the crab on the floor to have it pounced on by little Miss Mew-Machine. She took it up with her front nibbling teeth, shaking it from side to side and then side to side again, to be sure it was dead. Her lips closed over the crab, only to spit it out again. She tried it again, dropping it back to the floor in the shortest instant possible, only to decide that it was something for her to bat around and chase.

Too crunchy, we've surmised. Too crunchy, but she will want to try another, if it comes to that!

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Rabbit stuff

Yesterday, Per and I went to a gardening shop to look for plants.

Okay, I was looking for plants, while Per picked up soil and pots and other such stuff.

Late in the visit, we were looking at wooden animals, such as sheep and bunnies. Milk and white chocolate wooden bunnies.

There was just one small problem: their ears were intact.

Yep, not a single bite had been taken from the bunnies' ears.

And, no, Per did not let me rectify that matter.

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