Thankfully she's on the mend, no more fever, minimal scream-crying, unlike the early part of this week.
|I hope you don't get those really nasty ones in your feed, some are just GROSS.|
I'm falling out of love with Facebook, as a blogger. I spend less time there, as far as the blogging page is concerned, because it's a pain to take the time to type with my fat fingers on my phone's TINY keys, only to have 13 people see it. Not 13% of the people who clicked "Like" but 13 total people. Which sucks because I pink puffy heart LOVE my friends who have clicked "Like" there, but they don't see anything and it makes me want to cry.
Thankfully I am a member of several GROUPS on Facebook, and as a private citizen consumer I love it for those kinds of things, but as a Blogger it can kiss a very large portion of my pink hams.
However, I do love me some #ThrowbackThursday. My family brings up the best (and worst) pictures from the past and it's always fun. This is a picture of a restaurant from the Bridgeport neighborhood on the south side of Chicago. It burned down and sadly they never rebuilt.
|Amazing, right? It was.|
I haven't thought about this place in decades. My family shared memories of the place, and it was lovely. One of the characters I remember fondly was a man we affectionately called "Lester the Drunk." He would join us at our table, with his swollen, blood-red nose and accompanying gin blossoms, and never eat a single thing. My sisters told me Lester the Drunk used to come to our house when I was a baby, and pay them a quarter to bring him a shoot of liquor on Sunday, or early in the day before the city could legally sell liquor. ANY kind of liquor, Lester didn't care.
My cousin posted this beauty from the 70's that I didn't even know existed. Or maybe I did and I blocked it out.
As you can see, I was always super serious. Speaking of my Scott-like personality, I'm very super over-the-moon thankful to Clark for featuring me on his guest post this week at the Wakefield Doctrine! Click there to read an intro-flection, which I'm pretending is a thing, on my personality paradigm shift. It's hilarious to me to post anything about my personality type, since I always thought my type was: None. However, the Doctrine leaves no nerd un-turned. It seems I'm a Scott, with a Minor in Clark-ism.
Clark is one of the hosts of the party this post links up to: The Ten Things of Thankful. Click HERE to join in the fun.
The 2 yr old, she is better and she also learned to master the art of crawling out of her crib. She really seems to be a ninja. You don't even hear a PEEP while she's doing it, or any thud or crash when she hits the ground.
She also, awesomely, crawled INTO her crib Thursday morning w/her Beary (luvie bear) and put HERSELF down for a nap! I KNOW. She's making up for all the scream-crying and middle of the night episodes from earlier in the week.
This week has been a gift from the universe weather-wise. Three days of 70 degrees, my kind of weather. We've been outside all day, having the WINDOWS WIDE OPEN!
Well, except our bedroom window because it's right by the radon mitigation mechanism that emits a loud, annoying constant buzzing like a visitor being buzzed into a prison. But it never stops. The Screws never do go in or out, it's an All Day and Night sentence (which is life without parole, for those of the Pepsi Generation.)
It's maddening enough to require Bug Juice* or Chewie Bleweys*, or at least swig some Pruno. The noise never bothers my Cellie, who snores like a Bear, but it keeps me up and in the morning? I feel like I was Beat Up from the Feet Up.
There's not much we can do so I ain't fitting to Bust a Grape, it's No Smoke. I just need to Hold My Mud until we can afford to move and get out of this Jolt.
Don't mind my Wolf Tickets, I recently read a piece on prison slang.
Incidentally, if you're looking for a Pen Pal, here's a web site to help you write to a prisoner(s). Cleverly, the site is called www.writeaprisoner.com that's a link if you have extra time, or looking for material to write an article or post.
Okay, enough with the Monkey Mouth.
We also got to hear very loud construction, thanks to neighbors across the street. The kids got to watch Dump trucks leaving mounds of dirt, and whatever you call the trucks that move the dirt, and all of the trucks backing up at an ear-piercing decibel.
I imagine this is sewer-related, as we seem to have major sewer problems in this area of town. Constantly.
Hopefully they're building something amazing over there. Like a Fountain of Youth, or at least a water slide. They seem like nice people, and by that I mean they are some of the select, very few, ever-shrinking group of people in-my-neighborhood that I don't despise. Yet.
Here's a pay-off for enduring my Monkey Mouth.
*Prison Slang Translation, since as Clark pointed out, I often write with the AUDIENCE in mind, being a monkey-mouthed Scott.
Pepsi Generation: New prisoners
Bug Juice: Psych meds
Chewie Bleweys: Xanax
Pruno: Prison wine
Cellie: Cell Mate
No Smoke: Being agreeable
Bust a Grape: Make a big deal,
(literally burst a hemorrhoid. I may have to use this in my daily slang.)
Beat up from the Feet Up: Tore up from the floor up.
Hold My Mud: Not being a rat
Jolt: Long sentence
Wolf Tickets: Bluffing
Monkey Mouth: Unlike Urban Dictionary's definition of morning-after-drinking mouth, in prison slang a Monkey Mouth goes on and on and on and ON about nothing.
I wanted to do a whole post with this slang, but who knows if it will ever happen and in the meantime I found these interesting.
Good day. Good week, Sirs and Madames.