This x-ray of Goblin Foo was taken while her back right leg was still functional.
I was talking to an ad rep for a local NPR station yesterday and mentioned that I don’t listen to music much anymore, which was why I gravitate more toward talk radio. “That’s what happens when you get old,” she said, a sentence that only confirmed my decision to pull my advertising. But I think it may be true. By the time my parents were my current age, they had five children; worse, I just realized that my husband is not much younger than my grandparents were when I was born. Granted, I am extensively younger than he is, but this is an ugly trend. I may not have many good years left, so if Matt Damon is going to come for me, it had better be soon.
Then again, he appears to be busy at the moment.
I like this chupacabra because it looks like is getting lassoed by Wonder Woman, but even this imminent threat is not enough to dissuade its saucy behavior.
This week, I went to the Frankenstein (I think this is what we are calling him; in any case he sort of looks like a Frankenstein). I told him about my generally good mood and all of the retail therapy I have been engaging in, and he was all, oh, it sounds like you’re manic now. I really cannot win for losing! Here I am emerging from a thirty-year bad mood and now there is something else to pathologize.
“What the fuck does manic even mean in this context?” I asked delicately. “How the hell should I know if I’m manic or not?” He said that people would start to mention that I seemed much more me than usual. I don’t like the sound of that because the normal amount of me usually doesn’t go over very well as it is. It’s bad enough I occasionally have to apologize for overmoisturizing but now I have to check to make sure that I’m just the right amount of me. I don’t know what’s wrong with retail therapy anyway; it is certainly a rather cheerful exercise and it does wonders to take one’s mind off the fact that he does not actually have any money.
In other news, this week I cast a proud vote for Mike Gravel in the Democratic primary. I was Sending A Message that I did not appreciate the media selecting my candidates, and I’m not so thrilled with Iowa doing so, either, so this year, I decided to offer my support to the person who could throw the biggest rock into a lake.
And lastly, we have a Goblin Song from my good friend Schaef. Inspired by our recent ode to Audrey Hepburn, he came up with the following, which I have copied from the comments:
Sung to the tune of “I Put a Spell on You.” Preferably the Nina Simone version. I picture Goblin singing this with spinny Sher Khan eyes. Insomnia is a terrible thing to waste.
I’m a spell named Foo,
And now you’re mine!
(doot-doot doo-doot doo-oo-ooo)
You gotta love the Goblin Foo,
I ain’t lyin’.
Lawd, I ain’t lyin’!
You know I can’t stand squirrels
All runnin’ around.
You know better, Daddy!
I can’t stand ‘em,
Gonna put ‘em down.
I’m a spell named Foo,
And they’ll be mine!
You gotta love me, love me, love me, love me anyhow!
Don’t you dare try to resist me,
‘Cause you’re mine right now.
You hear me?
I’m a spell named Foo!
And now (doo-bop-um-wop-um-ooo) YOU’RE MIIINE!!!!!
This is especially meaningful to us because Goblin has still not recovered from her botched December surgery, and I’m starting to get worried about her chances for walking on four legs again. And now to make matters worse, I have word from Jeffrey that his dog Porky is facing a health crisis, as well. Goblin and Porky (and Mike Gravel) need love and songs, people. And votes. And new campaign managers.