That horrible Mormon

   I read in the news this morning that Mitt Romney had called his main competitor in the Republican primary race, Rick Santorum,   "A sneaking cheater" for soliciting votes from the democratic voters of Michigan state yesterday.

   Well, all I can say is that it takes one to know one.

    I was already on edge when I read this, as the Future Missus Mosieur has been on edge lately.  It turns out, she is PMS-y,  which in a moment of insensitivity (I was actually trying to cheer her up with a dose of snarky humor) I remarked that PMS-y-ness was immediately followed by a period of MS-y-ness (Which I found quite clever, actually) which not only did the FMM not find amusing, not only denied, but also became quite upset and THEN became silent after hurling a few choice insults .

    You see, accusing a woman of being pre-menstrual has the exact same effect as if someone were to accuse a man of becoming drunk.  The sure-fired way to determine that the accused is in fact in that state would be their spirited denial of it.    The last thing a man who has just consumed seven beers in 45 minutes would ever do would be to admit he was becoming buzzed.     Much the same, the last thing a woman who is about to have her period in a few days would ever do would be to admit she was experiencing the symptoms of PMS.

   So, I was already in a foul mood when I read this headline story about the pot calling the kettle black.

Jump-starting The Machine

   I woke up this morning in the 'Old House' for the last time.    I slept on the couch, as Sultan Faggers had already been folded up, and in the back of the Saab, was ferried to it's new home at the shop some days ago.   The usual complaints issued from my ankle, knee, spine as I began to stir and rise from my nest.

    I was surprised by the sentimental feelings that crept into my consciousness as I swept two dead plants into a brown paper trash bag and pressed the plunger on my coffee maker and poured a cup of 'morning juice' into my beloved mug.   I made a little tour of the place, aware that I would not be living there any longer, and in fact would not be living alone any longer, ever again.

   I looked at disgust at myself in a mirror for a moment, at the puffy face and silly mustache, grown in an attempt at humor, as is the fashion here in the Northwest amongst white men who consider themselves clever.   The extra 30 pounds jostling around the place where my waist once existed was acknowledged briefly before a switch in my cloudy mind flipped and demanded I look elsewhere before I became too upset.

   An aborted 'TO-DO / GOALS' whiteboard stuck to the refrigerator had no entries after the beginning of last month.    It is true, there was much chaos and turmoil swirling about these rooms and this life, and the promise of a new beginning Tomorrow usually trumps immediate action.     I have to feed  a new thought into the gray folded machine.   I have to jump-start this new life, and it's flashpoint will be this single thought:   I can not be predictable.   I can not become a cliche.

    In short, I need to work.  There is a trajectory that seems to have settled in around me, and I have to break out of it.   As we all remember from our science and physics classes, bodies in motion tend to remain in motion,  and bodies at rest will remain at rest until some action zaps them to life.   You may also remember, it is much easier to keep a body in motion, exploiting it's momentum than it is to get a body at rest to start doing something different.   In fact, it can be very difficult indeed to get this fucking body to do anything you want it to do, if you let the thing rest too long, or wander off on some irrelevant vector.    One has to muster their energies and will to make even tiny adjustments, not to mention major change altogether.    This is the crossroads I recognize I have come to today:   It is time to muster, and I have enough motivations and encouragement to begin right now.   It is Tomorrow!  Clear a path!    From the artificial significance of a new page on the calendar to the very real significance of moving into a new house with another person, I have many motivations to make changes.    This is a distilling of purpose,  this is a new opportunity to pin great colored pieces of paper to the walls and scribble my new strategies and goals upon them,  a new opportunity to mark off days with big black 'X's and tally accomplishments in the appropriate columns.

      There are many new beginnings afoot here now, it is springtime and the plants and animals are making their transitions without even knowing why.   In fact, even my editor is channeling similar vibrations: He stopped by yesterday  and shared with me his resolution to lose 100 pounds - by Memorial Day - drinking nothing but a new herbal potion he discovered on the internet and immediately purchased, mail-order from Quebec, consisting of  powdered shark placenta suspended in a matrix of distilled water, grapefruit juice, and sea algae.    If the science of the drink doesn't do it by itself,  the $1100 price tag is enough to get you to follow the directions included with each bottle:

   "Drink one full 8oz drink of  HearbalBlast every morning, followed by 2 hours of rigorous exercise.   Be sure to eat nothing else for the rest of the day.  You may drink as much pure, clear water as you like.  Do not forget to clench the balls of your feet everywhere you go, and whenever possible squeeze your hands into fists as tight as you can for fifteen minute stretches at a time.  Enjoy one more 8oz vessel of HerbalBlast before bedtime.   Repeat for 45 days..."

    These are magical times friends!     Sometimes I am amazed to discover that even I can believe that anything is possible.

New BeginningZ

   I walked across the bridge again today for the first time in several months.  Certain tinglings surfaced, and the mind began to pulse in anticipation. Anticipation of what?  The future is right out there, dangling and waiting to be owned, like a swollen fruit.

   Speaking of 'Swollen Fruit', I was visited today by my editor.   I had a couple of carburetors out on my workbench, and I was making progress in their disassembly.   Aramotized chemicals were adrift in my section of the building, and I was a little on edge when the garage door rolled up to reveal his corpus magnum there, smiling for some reason unknown to me.    I felt annoyed and tried to pretend this insult was not happening.   It was no use.   There he remained standing beside my workbench, with that ridiculous toothy smile still, fidgeting.    He dug about in the armpit of his nylon parka.   He scratched his bald head, and then began to pick at something on the front of his pants.   His smile persisted.   It reminded me of a great ape at the zoo, or a minstrel show participant sans blackface.     How was I supposed to dislodge a broken main jet carrier bolt from the carb body under these conditions?

    "What is it!"   I finally demanded to know.    "I told you already I would have your money after I was paid this week!  How am I supposed to get anything done with you calling me and stopping by every ten minutes!!?!"

   He glanced down at his shoes, in shame I guessed, and fiddled with his laces for a moment.   This obvious admission of unsavory behavior emboldened my sense of outrage.

   "Speak up man!"   I threw a wrench to the floor to punctuate, "What is it?  Use your words!"