It is sad how few Americans take voting as seriously as they should.  I completely believe that it is a personal responsibility, but I have some sympathy (about 3 1/2 minutes worth) for the ill or un-informed because the media is so ridiculous.  People are scared into voting for a candidate, or not voting for a candidate.  The automatic “Democrat = savior, Republican = cacao demon” mentality (or vice versa for the GOP) is patently absurd and unbelievably counter-productive.  Sound bytes, partial reporting and incomplete references do not a policy piece make.  

So G-Funk and I spent a lovely evening with Team Decker Friday night … Round 1 involved a post-work visit to Phipps for the Chocolate Exhibition.  Always a quality experience at Phipps, and this trip was no exception.  I will say, however, that the good people there didn’t successfully tip-toe down the kitsch line throughout the entire exhibition.  A-hem.   One word for ya:  Pink friggin’ flamingos.  Yes Dave, I know that was actually three (3) words.  But SERIOUSLY???  Pink Flamingos??  Upside: the Pinkies as visitors to the pseudo chocolate day spa = WIN. On the other hand: Pinkies with their respective heads painted in all the colors of the M&M rainbow with an “M” on their respective bodies does not a “chocolate exhibition” make.  The line between kitsch/clever and cheap/uninspired apparently ain’t that clear.  [Can you something is apparently unclear?  It's got to be apparent to SOMEBODY or it would be confusing as hell to EVERYBODY ... ahh there it goes - I blew a capillary.]  Still, on the whole it was another positive voyage to Phipps. We then traveled to Seventh St. for Nicki’s Thai and some games.  Being that our fare consisted of Thai, one guess at the type of game would’ve rightly been, “Name that gastro-intestinal musical instrument.”  But all things being equal, we opted for Settlers of (Chris) Catan.  After Dave promptly kicked me in the figurative gitch 3 or 4 times, Bridgey came back strong for the win.  And there was much rejoicing, which coincided with the rejoicing from eating Robin’s minstrels.   As G-Funk and I made our way out of Oakie-mont and into fair Verona, we stopped at the GetGo for petrol.  There are 8 operating gas pumps, all occupied.  And there we are the fourth car in line waiting for petrol.  Mind you this is all taking place at midnight.  The kids just go batty for their petrol in Verona at 12:00 a.m. on a Saturday … I spot an opening at the pump station near the “convenience” store.  It’s on the ARB side of that pump, and at the pump on the store side is a Verona Police Officer.  Oddly enough, there is another officer at the pump behind Officer #1.  And beside Officer #2, there is an ambulance.  ”Curious,” says I.   To Descartes delight, I deduce that all three (3) of these public service vehicles are running.  None are occupied.  There is no officer pumping gas at either of the vehicles.  The driver side door of Officer #1’s cruiser is ajar (when is a door not a door?  when it is A_JAR.  try the veal - it’s delicious.) … Both officers and the two (2) EMS crew members are all standing around / sitting on the hood of cruiser #2.  SERIOUSLY?????  While the line of cars awaiting access to ANY refueling station at this GetGo is four (count ‘em 4) deep, these asshats are: (i) occupying two pumps; (ii) chatting like a goddamned sewing circle; (iii)  burning gasoline by keeping their vehicles running: (iv) blocking any potential traffic from circling through (remember Officer #1’s door is AJAR and the Ambulance is parked beside Officer #2 -diagonally, I might add); and (v) ignoring the SIX empty PARKING SPACES along the outer rim of this GetGo property.  I use the phrase ‘outer rim’ because it puts me in mind of Star Wars or some notion of intergalactic travel, and I am still hoping against hope that this was some type of alternate, parallel dimension occupied in large order by idiot mouth breathers (no, I am not referring to the GOP, I really, really mean outer space.  Aliens and shit - ala Men In Black (quoth G-Funk)).  Apparently the reaction time for these peacekeepers is 3.4 minutes, because that’s precisely how long I glowered disapprovingly in their direction before any one of them ever noticed.  Christ, in that time I could’ve Axel Foley’d their tailpipe, run some license plates on their dashboard computers and robbed the goddamned GetGo.  Once (finally) noticed, however, I shook my head thoroughly in contempt and disapproval.  ”Good thing the taxpayers are paying for the gas you’re burning off while their waiting to refill their own tanks.  This really makes me want to consider moving to Verona.”  There is no response, and we can all speculate as to why that might be … But SERIOUSLY??  SERIOUSLY.   

We have cats. I married a great lady with two cats. Being a dog guy from wayyyy back, I was initially tepid at best about the prospect of having TWO cats. Over the 5 1/2 years that Gretchen and I have been together, I have actually grown quite fond of Idgie (hereinafter, “The Girl”) and Aslan (hereinafter, “The Buddy”). There are, of course, times in one’s life when people or, in this case, animals, for whom you care do things that make you want to drop kick them in their respective throats.

Today was one such day. A Friday. Gretchen and I get home from work … it’s worth noting at this point that Gretchen is on crutches from a recent bunionectomy. She’s pretty worn out from a full week of hobbling about the office, and is swinging her way over to the basement steps for one final climb. Before completing the homestrech, however, we encounter the floormat at the base of the stairs. I spot an accumulation of cat vomit.

This is not the grotesque “I have a pea-sized brain and couldn’t process that I overate and so I continued eating until I threw it all up” kind of spew; instead, we encountered the “Hey, I’m gonna gnaw on this plant ’cause it’s green, never minding the fact that every single time I’ve EVER done this, it has resulted in me tossing cookies” brand of upchuck. Culprit = The Girl.

Fine. This is a minor hurdle that can be avoided and dealt with at a later, more convenient time (like, say, when my wife isn’t on crutches and I’m not bearing the weight of each of our bags from work, two bags of groceries, the mail - including a package that came today and sat in the goddamned rain all afternoon - two nalgene bottles and a lunch bag. Editor’s Note - this is not the time for wise-asses to suggest I should’ve made multiple trips with these items. I have a Y chromosome and, if the preceding thought crossed your mind, I bet you don’t.). Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only impediment in our path.

The Buddy has an occasional tendency to piss willy-nilly on the basement floor. It’s particularly annoying because the appropriate receptacle for this cat piss is, in fact, in this very basement. Well, it just so happens that The Buddy thought it prudent to urinate on the same floormat also soiled by The Girl. I sigh the appropriate defeatist sigh and step over the floormat that, for reasons passing understanding, became the dumping ground of choice today. Or so I thought …

Gretchen makes it up the stairs, rightfully exhausted from a long week, and makes her way to the family room. I drop my musk ox load of goods and head in that direction. I cross the threshold and detect a hint of crap. Slight odor at this point, but it’s there and I’m on the case. Gretchen doesn’t smell anything, so I chalk it up to a temporary case of psychosematic glass-half-empty (or half-full of crap, if you are optimistic about the fact that bad things will surely happen to you).

Then Gretchen makes her way to the bathroom, and the smell hits her. Well, if that kinda smell is gonna hitchya, it should be in the bathroom, right? Maaybe, but not if it’s more specifically emanating from the goddamned (formerly) all-white bathmat. Apparently, The Buddy decided to drop ~ 1/4 of his body weight in dooker right then and there.

I just got done washing said bathmat.