wretch/ retch to use correctly. No less than three times this week have I read the sentence (roughly) "I thought I was gonna wretch." No you didn’t. You can’t use wretch as a verb. Wretch, as defined by merriam-webster, means 1 : a miserable person : one who is profoundly unhappy or in great misfortune 2 : a base, despicable, or vile person. You cannot come into my house, look at the litter box and wretch. You can look at it and become a wretch if you so desire, but that’s your prerogative. No, when you see something gag-worthy, you retch. Retch, people. Definition?: to make an effort to vomit; also : VOMIT. Ah, now, that makes sense, doesn’t it? You would certainly retch if you were faced with the nasty, germ-ridden box of litter located next to the washer in my house. And I’m the wretch who has to clean the damn thing. Everyone clear, now? Good. Don’t let me see you using the wrong word again.
Have you ever noticed that if you read or say the same word over and over, it ceases to make any kind of sense? I’m looking up there where it says retch and thinking, "That doesn’t look like a real word. It looks like a made-up word." Does, doesn’t it? Say it to yourself ten times. Retchretchretch.
Anyway.
Here’s a cute picture of the kitten, because I know you simply don’t get enough of those.
If you look closely, you’ll see that her right pupil is noticeably bigger than her left. I’m not sure what’s up with that, but it makes her look a tad brain-damaged. Which would explain a lot.
And here’s a picture of Spanky, sitting on top of my monitor, next to my Coke reindeer. He’s such a sweetie. Every night he jumps on my desk looking for love, and every night I pet him half-heartedly and turn my attention back to my beloved computer. And he sits and stares at me with love in his eyes.
Well, that’s not really love in his eyes in this picture. That’s more of a feed me, bitch look. But he loves me! Really, he does.
So, the weekend is upon us, and the spud is spending the night at her friend Maria’s house. Maria is from Guatemala, and I just can’t understand a word the child says. I’ve mentioned before my difficulty understanding those with accents, and Maria is no exception. The spud’s social life is picking up this year. I’m not sure whether it’s the new school (Madison rezoned last year, and she’s going to a different school from the one she attended for the previous two years) or the fact that she’s in fifth grade and girls get more social at that age, or what, but last year she only had one friend whom she saw outside of school with any regularity, and this year there are three or more who call all the time.
Heh. "All the time." The phone rings for her about three times a week, and I consider that "all the time."
With the spud gone for the evening, you might wonder what Fred and I are doing. Chasing each other naked through the house with whipped cream and ice cubes? Watching porn and doing it (you know, IT) on the floor of the living room? Taking this opportunity to do it (IT) in every room of the house? Well, no. Sorry to disappoint you, but I have two words for you: period, and yeast infection. Okay, that’s three words, but you get my point. This fine evening, we ate McDonald’s in front of the boob tube (yes, I know, we eat too much fast food. I’ll take that under advisement, alrighty?) and watched Stir of Echoes. It’s pretty damn good – I found at several points during the movie that I’d been grinding my teeth out of nervousness. I recommend it. (The movie, not grinding your teeth)
After the movie, we – can you stand the excitement?! – made the grocery list for tomorrow, and here we are, each in front of our own computer. At least Fred’s getting something productive done – I’ve been sitting here and typing, then surfing for a bit, then typing a little more. It ain’t exciting, but I like it fine, thankyou.
I may or may not update tomorrow and Sunday. I haven’t decided yet, and I intend to just go where the day takes me this weekend. Y’all have a good weekend, now.
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02/11/2000