definition: that lost art of senseless writing about hats.  
example:  I am a three-hatted woman.  I own a felt  with a felt bow on it for when I want to feel like my head is in an oven.  I own a floppy orange hat for when I want to feel like I am underdressed at a horse race and the odds are 8 to 1.   I own a baseball cap for when I want my neck to get sunburned but my face to stay shaded and cool, and for when I want to look like Buster Posey.  This triangulation of hats of mine…etc. etc. 

Oh, what tosh, what drivel, what moonshiney nonsense, what applesauce! Really, I just heard someone use the word Balderdash in an intriguingly wrong context and pronunciation today, and wanted to try it out for myself.  Balderdashery isn’t really a word, folks. 

In other news,
-Tomorrow at high noon, I am journeying down from the mountains for a long overdue visit to my beloved family.  I’m banking on the tried and true Shock and Awe tactic, since I can only tear myself away from the mountains for a few brief days.   Of course, instead of implementing overwhelming power and rapid military dominance as the good old boys did, I hope to just have barrels of fun in a short period of time.  

 -When I said mountains, I unfortunately didn’t mean those alluring elevations in the earth’s surface that beautifully rise to a summit. I meant mountains of glistening, oil-laden, tuberous nightshades, often served at popular breakfast restaurants nationwide, delicious with ketchup.  Yes, I, the woman who swore that she would never again ask another man if he wanted “a warm-up”, the woman who vowed never again to apologize for not taking American Express, I am again waiting tables.  But I have been out of work for 4 months, ever since The Incident, my funds are not quite exhausted but pretty damn fatigued, and some, but not all, of my cumulonimbus dreams for the future require green that doesn’t have much to do with gardening.  So, I’m working part-time, and planning full time, and still writing so much my pointer finger has a bump on it.  Besides, slinging hashbrowns at corporate travelers and landlocked Midwesterners reminds me of what I don’t really want out of life, and we all know that process of elimination is a heavenly thing. 

-speaking of heavenly things, my cherubic coppery dog got sprayed by three skunks this weekend.  I can only assume that they each annointed him with their fetid odors at least once, since he brought up the rear (quite literally) of their procession the entire length of the driveway.  It was reminiscent of the deluxe “Typhoon” wash at the local Scrubby’s carwash…only $12, and you get a full undercarriage wash, side blasters, and underbody rust inhibitor.  Two days, a box of baking soda, and 3 bottles of peroxide later, Copper is still wafting, and the idea of having him in the car with me for 6 hours on aforementioned pilgrimage is ever more daunting.  

After immersing myself again in Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, Skinny Legs and All, and Still Life with Woodpecker, I thought my crush on Tom Robbins might have rebudded, but then I google image searched him and realized the feelings welling deep in my soul were definitely based in the intellectual realm.  O Tom Robbins, god of the metaphor, you Odin of similes, I am happily drowning in your syntax.  As always after going on a Robbins binge, I am hesitant to pick up another book until his magical sentences have faded from my memory.


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