MISSION: POSSUMBLE

Consistency being the hobgoblin of small minds and all that, I retract what I said about possums in general to allow for my possum being the exception, and that perhaps there are one or two other adorable possums on the planet. My possum is cute. My possum came around after midnight and peered curiously at the light filtering through the blinds from my apartment. I pulled them back and it didn't ooch away or seem afraid, so I grabbed my phone and snapped a couple pics. I'd say this one's 2, mebbe 2.5 pounds. Ya know: fryer size. Anyhoo.

I leaned closer, my face a mere 8 or 10 inches from its head, and wondered why that chunk of dirt wouldn't fall off its nose. It seems to enjoy hanging around the pot with the pencil plant. More reports later, probably.

Aw, jeez.

At moments I have questioned the wisdom of living where I work and none more so than now. I just walked my dog late Saturday night, only to see a resident running out to his car sporting only a shirt, y-fronts and a sheepish grin.

There are some things of which I'd prefer to remain blissfully unaware.

Oh well.

Gummi Bear chandelier by artist Yaya Chou. I want one!

Who the hell is writing copy at the Dallas Morning Snooze these days? Check out this headline:

Naked mom argues with son, accidentally shoots finger

Um, SO, she flipped her son off.? This is Texas, which has tremendous subset overlappage with Greater Redneckia. Who among us has not pissed off their own naked mother, resulting in said nude dam flipping the bird at us? What? No?

From the article:

A 73-year-old Fort Worth woman shot her finger after arguing with her son because she had been walking around the house naked, police said.

I mean, after arguing with her son about her nudity, are we to believe she shot her own finger in a fit of pique? Was she aiming at him? I mean, you almost could assume that she shot her own finger intentionally. I like my version of events in which she just flipped the guy off.

Apparently, the woman was walking nude around her own damned house at 1:30 AM, and her 53 year old son was outraged and took issue with her nudity. Here's what I think about that-- I think that any soul to reach the august age of 73 has the right to walk nude through their own home at 1:30 AM. If he doesn't like it, her 53 year old son can tear his ass on out of there and get his own dad-burned apartment, oui? Si.

But shooting her own finger?
Maybe there should be a four-rules rule of nudity. Let's compose one, shall we:

• All nudity is loaded with irony, always
• Never aim your nudity at someone with whom you wish to remain on friendly terms
• Keep your hands off clothing fasteners until you're ready to un-deploy them
• Always be sure of your intended nudity recipient/victim, and their respective posses
  
  
  h/t to g bro

I have a deck in the back of my apartment, with stairs down to ground level. The area is surrounded by trees, and there's a creek not a half mile away. This means there is a teeny bit of wild life around. Once about 7 years ago, there was a bobcat momma with her *kittens?cubs?* babies living in back of the building here. Dallas animal control took them away and relocated them to wilder environs with less roadways.

I let the dog out back late Tuesday before bed, and I saw she didn't go down the stairs immediately. I looked around the deck through the window, unlocked the door and stepped out to see doglet standing, curious, over a little furball thingie.
At first, I thought some disused old stuffed animal had found its way to my deck, but no, it was a dead little possum on its side. Not adult, but not still on the teat - adolescent. Maybe 2 pounds. But wait, I saw a whisker quiver. It's breathing.

Doglet's doing the Scooby Doo curiosity "rowmpf?" and little possum is, well, playing possum. I immediately scoop up the doglet and set her down on the stairs, closing the deck gate behind her and turn back to regard the wee beastie. I think "what do I do?" Eek. I see a big stick and for a millisecond consider trying to flip the dadburned thing off the deck, golf-style. Nope, not smart. Fur and teeth and claws contingent will come out fighting big stupid pink monster.

SO, its eyes are wider now, watching me. I'm 6 feet away and turn to see doglet is pacing outside the gate, wanting back in to sniff this curious thing. I look back at the possum which has gotten up from its side, onto its feet, crawling in a low crouch to the edge of the deck. Up it went on the hardware cloth I put up around the deck railing, never looking back as it climbed over and disappeared into the night.

I was so relieved. Um, when I was talking about the beauty of nature recently, well, that's not quite what I meant. I hope the whole possum clan won't be lurking about. I don't want to lose the doglet in a possum-related incident.

Possums are funny, because they have that crazed rictus of a mouth, and they're almost kind of cute, but they're kind of evil-looking. They're kind of mean I think, and they carry fleas and diseases. But for all that, possum is one of the cutest animal names ever, don't you think? Lil' possum. That's just darling!

Let me know if you get sick of target pictures.

Oh-- wait! This is my blog, right? Never mind.

So, I went to the range and was graciously loaned the Ruger mark II I used for the competition on Sunday. The first photo is the first 4 magazines I shot, warming up. Some of it is a little sloppy-ish, but I'm pretty happy with this bunch. This was about 7 yards.

Next group was also at 7 yards. I did a couple magazines in the Ruger, and then he let me shoot something of Belgian manufacture, made for the Argentinian (army? police? Sorry - dim bulb syndrome strikes) and it was made in 1961. Coolness. It had a lot more recoil and you can see the holes are significantly larger than the .22 freckles. I was really happy with this group. You can see the steel plate beyond the target, too, and it was nice to hear the plink as my shots sailed through the cardboard to the steel beyond.

More shooty goodness. Good times.

Farting around Friday night and trying to motivate myself to clean, I opened a bottle champers and lit some candles and fairy lights. It was pretty how everything looked this pale, shimmery golden color together, and so in order to procrastinate the cleaning task, I started playing with the camera, fiddling with the speed to capture strings of heavenward bubbles and the thin-walled glass burnished with frost. I couldn't find a champagne flute, and I didn't feel like using my 1920s vintage champagne glasses-- too twee for the occasion - so this little beaker thingie had to do. Yes, good solid labware is useful for such industrious occasions.
**************
If I may indulge myself, I simply must whine a bit.
I spent most of Monday dealing with a mud eruption near the pool on property. Maintenance is on vacation, and the replacement staff have communication issues and couldn't help with the problem. Further, the mudruption is causing a mud slick across the paved path of the one of the crown jewels of the city's park systems. Isn't that nice? How I've escaped major tix from kode inforsement is a marvel. I called a real plumber out who charges me $200/hour on regular Mon-Fri appointments during business hours. He cut the water off to 2/3 of my residents for 2 hours Monday night, and "fixed" the problem. I'm going to pay him 3.5 hours of holiday overtime, and heaven knows what that will cost. SO, Tuesday evening, there's a new mud geyser a mere 3 feet away from the last one. *Oh, Joy.*

I love the easy access of great dining and the variety of entertainments available here. In a lot of ways, I think I like this place better than I would any other American city, but for some time I've been feeling the urge to get away from the fakery and ridiculousness of it all. I realize any job and any place has its stresses, but this is making me long to man the reins of a trailer park in the backwoods.

Better still, no more jobs babysitting adults.

I was visiting family friends on their little cattle farm last year, and near sundown, I could hear a meadowlark teaching its babies to call. I heard the mama and then the wobbly nestlings sounding out their wonky imitations of her perfect tune. She very patiently said "no, darlings, a little more like this" and then "now, try again, dears." I thought "why would anyone who lives out here ever long to live in a city?"

So, anyhoo, when this job ends, well, I can't say where I'll be next year, but it certainly won't be here.

Nutty goodness.
Call me silly, but I really like this, for some reason.

Sunday I shot in a steel plate match as a novice. I shot a Ruger Mark II .22, and I think I did alright. The Ruger belonged to one of the match officials, and I'd never shot it before, but it was a really fun plinky gun to shoot, and quite like its sister I shot a few weeks back.

There were five groups shooting and I got cobbled onto one group which apparently had room for one more person. The person organizing the match said "now don't let these guys intimidate you. Just take your time and I know you'll do well. These guys are known as the God Squad."

Oh, crap.

In truth, I didn't even have a flutter of nerves or anything. I went in expecting to likely finish last out of the scores of humanity present, and I forgave myself in advance. I was very pleased when I shot my 5 sets in the first bay clean with no misses. I was slow on the first set, and then I found my legs and the next 4 sets were at least 3 seconds faster than the initial set. I missed a couple smaller targets on the second bay, but shot the third bay cleanly again. *FUN* The fourth was a longer range than ever I had shot, and it was more of a hash for me, but I'm still okay with it. I had to leave a little early to attend an emergency back at my property, and I was just going to withdraw, and officials very graciously offered to let me shoot through on the final bay. This final set wasn't my best, either, but at that point, I was so hot that focus was becoming an issue for me. I know a lot of things I'll do differently next time.

As reportingly, the God Squad were colossal badasses on the range, some moreso than others. One guy shot revolvers and he had a belt with a row of spindles sticking out for his autoloader thingies and it turned out I was shooting just after him. I kept thinking at least I'm not following an animal or kid act. Well, revolver guy was a beast, let me tell you--his accuracy was impressive to say the least, and he was fast. So much for not following an animal act

One cool thing about this match is that I didn't have an inkling I'd compete that day until just the day before, so I didn't have weeks or months to wrap around my own axle over the whole thing. I'm looking forward to shooting again. I got steady support throughout the process, and I hope it didn't seem too much like hand-holding. No one had to babysit me, and I don't think I took dramatically longer to shoot my turn than other folks.

Oh, in the first round and before my turn, I was sitting on a bench watching the shooting when I suddenly felt a searing pain on my sternum. I was wearing a v-neck top and this was my first experience with a fiery bit of brass. I didn't jump out of my skin or think I'd been shot, but it certainly surprised me how something several millimeters wide could hurt so badly. Today it's a grayish sort of welt. So, one of the things I'll be doing differently is I'll be the chick at the matches in a turtleneck in July. I'll try to get a pic of the brass bit up later today so you can see what a wimpy tender vittle I really am.

Interpol - Pioneer to the Falls

This is my favorite song for the moment.
As so often happens with me, the bits of the song with which I am besotted occur in the last minute in the form of the soaring arid western swagger of crystalline bendy guitars. Wonky calliope peeks in now and again, and the singer's nervy baritone affects me muchly. Martial snare drum syncopation propels with locomotive energy that is so compelling and gives the music such a sense of urgency. Like the lyrics, too-- a little more elevating than Interpol's usual fare, IMHO, and if I were betting, I'd say it's something of a valentine.

Saturday I went to observe a shooting match with Holly, and afterward we went to lunch at Babe's. We and the handsome couple at the next table laughed as the waitresses came out and humiliated a birthday celebrant at another table by making them wear a chicken hat and stand up and flap their arms as they sang a chicken birthday song. I leaned over to the next table and said "It's one of y'all's birthday, right?" in jest, and he said "yeah, it's my birthday." Well, I thought he was pulling my leg, but Holly ratted him out to the waitress, and they ended up doing the whole fanfare for Randy at the next table. It was a hoot. Turns out, it really WAS Randy's birthday. I think he enjoyed the attention. At least, I hope he did.

We went to the Crate & Barrel outlet in Dallas and Hols got some Christmas shopping done--she's a MACHINE! SRSLY. Our Holly was then eager to experience Lee Harvey's, which was my local when I lived in the 'hood, so we went and hung out with a Shiner and a Stella Artois in our respective paws, and we talked and laughed and cut up in general. Holly managed to shock the barmaid -no mean feat, I'd wager. Holly enjoyed looking at LH's extensive collection of Baraphernalia, much of it in situ since previous inbarnations at the site such as Moose's Baby. Yeah, it's a super-cool, oober-hip hangout, but Holly and me? Well, that's just how we roll.

The juke box there is glorious, to say the least, and then a song by Interpol came on and I started thinking about the love/hate thing I've had going on with that band for a while. I ADORE their song Evil, but find the video unsettling, and the lyrics somewhat mystifying. OF course, I'm not one to let bewilderment get in the way of a good time. It's just the Nanny Ogg in me.

Tomorrow I'm shooting with Holly and another badass woman shooter in a steel plate match. I can't believe they'll have me on their team, but who am I to argue with their superior wisdom? It should be fun. Even though H&C are really good at shooting, I'm not feeling nervous about it. I'm a total n00b, so no pressure, right? S'long as everyone has fairly low expectations, I should do alright!

Okay, you really DON'T need to see my mess, but I'm doing this so I can show myself I've achieved something. Saturday after Holly went home, I set to organizing the stuff from my studio, which is on these 3 booksheves and in all these boxes. I've pulled a lot of stuff out for Goodwill, and other boxes have been consolidated.

I've been saying for weeks that I'm trying to get back into production, but work has been so hectic and so many things have cropped up that have demanded my attention. Anyway, I'm getting very very close, which is exciting. Still lots to sort through and to organize, but at least with a few hours' concentrated effort, there is measureable improvement in the chaos. I'm hopeful you can tell which is the "before" and which is "after."

Ships in the harbor are safe, but that's not what ships are
built for.

Jon Shedd

Ugly as home-made upholstery...

I decided to have a Friday night project. I needed a big piece of foam to make a cushion for the sofa(which i'll sew later), and I had a coupon for 40% off the item of my choice at JoAnn fabrics. Well, this 5" thick foam is $51.99/yard, and I need 2 yards and got a little extra for another project. With tax and everything and the 40% off, this green piece of foam was almost $80. I'm kind of staggered by that, but then again I DO have "sucker" stamped on my forehead. Anyway.

Once at a fleamarket in McKinney, I bought a plain wooden frame thingie, thinking it would make a nice little ottoman. I primed/sized/gold leafed four finials and used them for feet and then just did a crude upholstery job of a red and gold toile onto a plywood base. Eventually, the ottoman became the doglet's means of conveyance onto the bed, and the fabric got dirty and faded over time. These days, the doglet has a 3-stage ottoman/chair/bed hopping process. Them old hips ain't what they once was since she got a hitch in her gitalong. Poor old lady.

Well, I got enough extra foam to cobble onto the ottoman project and I was off to the races. I also picked up this denim fabric with natural linen stitching.

My new staple gun is kind of crap, really, but then again, maybe this plywood is harder than the staple gun is made to penetrate. Anyway, I pretty much did a pitiful job, but at least I got something accomplished today. I'll probably rip it all out and redo it later this summer or something.

Either that, or I'll still have the ottoman with this upholstery in 20 years. It'll be one or t'other. My upholstery teacher would be mortified, I think. Oh well, at least it's not dirty and stinky yet.