Today, I was ironing 3of3's bedskirt and it struck me sort of funny that I was going through all that fuss to iron a bedskirt for a one year old who A) couldn't care less if it was wrinkled and B) went the better part of last year without a bed, let alone a fancy pants skirt for one, but there I stood, ironing away. Because, well, I suddenly have time to do things like, well, iron. I looked about me and noticed that my plant was dead. This is no surprise. As you can see, it has not moved from its spot on the railing for a long ass time:

And my herbs are just about dead, too:

The odd thing about the plant being dead is that, though it is beyond salvation, it has taken to growing a lovely little patch of grass, which is only odd because the pot has sat, quite unmoved, for a good 9 months some 25-30 feet above the ground. Those are some ambitious grass seeds.

Speaking of ambitious, freaking raccoons attacked last night and managed to turn over, unhinge and open the trash can and made off with a good bit of bread crusts and pasta. They kindly left behind the avocado peels and egg shells for the squirrels this morning. 3of3 thought that scraping this mess out of the carport was the single funnest activity she had ever engaged in. Because, well, I suddenly have time to do things like, well, scrape nasty old trash out of car-ports. I, however, disagreed. I would like to kill me some raccoons.

Speaking again of dead things, my television died while I was gone. I think it died, at least, because after a few days of hearing quiet, almost sub-conscious whisperings of "plasma", which I wrote of to my inner self mocking my outer self for my cult-member days, as my inner self and my friends are both wont to do, I investigated and found that what I thought was a perfectly reasonable, functional tv had been put out to pasture and replaced with something much thinner, much younger, and much more arrogant:

After a day or so of absolute seething about this, I accepted what we all must at some point; this freaking thing OWNS me. I have watched more television, and more movies, in one week than I did in the entire year before. Because, well, I suddenly have time to do things like, well, watch TV.

The fish is also dead:

And the other fish is almost dead, but feeling much better; he thinks he may go for a walk:

Though, as you can tell by the amount of food in his little home, 3of3 has discovered our dear Blue and loves him and wants to pet him and feed him and kiss him. Darla here should have no trouble killing him very soon.

As I continued ironing Our Bedskirt of Perpetual Wrinkles, I thought of my lost little fish, Red, and....hold on. I should clarify here that I have this habit of naming my pets very obvious, simple nouns. Like Red, the red beta fish (RIP) and Blue, the blue beta fish (RIP soon). I think this stems from my father, who had a cat he called Useless. It was the most fitting name, the only name, really. I should also clarify that there are exceptions to this rule, like Izzi the dog, named after the daughter of the one person I hate more than any other person alive, and my assorted collection of lizards and frogs I have kept over the years. The frogs are always called Jethro and the lizards are always called Yoda. Always.

And so, iron iron, think think. I thought of Red and how I hoped heaven was treating him well, and I hoped he was enjoying his 40 virgins. And then I thought of Jesus, and how though I think he's a swell guy, I sure do hope that when I die that I get the 40 virgins and not the eternity with Christ bit. Eternity? With JESUS? What would we talk about? I can program a VCR; he's omnipotent. I got caught with a fishing hook once, he got nailed to a freaking tree. He is all, and sees all. I've never ever been to Detroit. I'd totally have to bring my iPod with me to heaven. 40 virgins, though; THAT I could handle. I'd only have to bring one of these.

And then I was done ironing. Yes, this is how it goes in my head. All the time. You should try talking to me when I'm drunk .