Seemed Like Old Times

The last week-and-a-half has been a whirlwind - the kind that messes with your head.  And in that time, several of my friends/readers have expressed impatience that I've not updated the blog - particularly since there's so much local material to catch up with.

Have no fear, my little flying monkeys.  The witch will be back.

As I ease back in to regular posting, I'd like to share a story. 

As is his habit when I am home, my ex called last Sunday morning, and invited himself over for coffee.  This time, the conversation quickly became animated - as I related arriving home very late on Friday evening - exhausted and kind-of-numb after the aforementioned week-and-a-half-from-hell . . .  settling down for a nice spring-time's nap in my own bed bathed in almost super-natural moonlight . . . turning on the TV in the bedroom to see the latest news before I surrendered to the sheep . . . and seeing his President (as he voted for him and I did not) addressing the nation . . .

. . .  not about the state of the union . . . or the crumbled Eastern shore of Japan glowing in the dark . . . or even the bombs bursting in air over yet another Middle-Eastern despot's head . . .

. . . but about March madness. 

The President of this once-great-nation was standing in front of a chart - preparing to discuss his picks to win the NCAA tournament. 

After that, he was literally hopping a plane to Rio.

Words are inadequate.  They really are just inadequate.  So I'm not even going to try here.  Needless to say, unprintables were muttered and the TV went OFF.

But on Sunday morning, I was able to find at least some of the words . . . going on a prolonged/animated rant brought on by my ex sharing the profound thoughts of some of Asheboro's most prominent Democrats (with whom he occasionally hob-nobs).

At one point, my ex, laughing uproariously, egged me on . . . "Preach it, sister!".

(He really is a closet Republican.)

Damned right I can preach it.  How in God's name did we wind up with this BUFFOON in the White House!?! 

You might as well stash that Nobel Prize in the closet with the blue dress and the Edwardian sex tape.  You really wanna bash George Bush-the-Second in my presence now?  Or McCain?  Even Palin?

It was reminiscent of the days when my Father was alive and sitting at the table and marvelling at/commenting on some of the deeper-blue political notions of my deeply-misguided ex.

Even more so, because TJ-the-cat, who we've theorized just might be the reincarnation of Dear-Old-Dad (as Pops always said that if he came back, he'd come back as one of my cats - because they had it made) . . . TJ-the-cat who was adopted as a feral kitten and is normally a tad bipolar and decidedly antisocial (except with the ex). . . hopped up on the kitchen table and sat there entranced by the conversation . . . at one point, his little fuzzy head looking back and forth like he was watching a tennis match . . .

. . . in this case, a match that his mistress won.

Tom Johnson was with us on Sunday morning.  And it was nice.