Molly Goatwax

cheese fish

Science Boy left a large carton of snax unopened, colored fish crackers. Not wanting to let cheesy crunchiness go untended, I poured them into small bowls for the enjoyment of my patrons. Except, with the darkening and warming effect of bar light, the blues, the reds, the greens, the purples...all looked, with the shape of fish, subdued into resembling a mixed flavor variety dry cat food. No one was dipping in to the bowls for a nosh. I made a point of picking out a handfull of green ones and told Miss Smiles Like Sunshine that they ALL taste the same and that she shouldn't judge a fish by its color, to no avail. Such a large box of cheddar fish!

a fresh whiff of turpentine

I can't tell you how happy it made me to put the roof down on the car, load it up with my tools and easel, then drive up the winds in the Falls Road to unload at my new studio. It was like driving my first car at the cusp of forty years old: why did I wait so long?

A new beginning

A few weeks ago I floated the idea of renting a studio past one of my barkeeps and she gave me a number to call, at which I left a message. When the guy called me back Wednesday with apologies, we made an appointment for a viewing today. I had been driving past this old mill perched on the side of the river for years, slowing down to take pictures of the brickwork and when the guy let me in this morning, I simply asked; "To whom do I make out the check? Do you have a key? May I move in today?" And so I did, with Viggo's help, move in the first load today. So there. I haven't rented anything since I was on the lam from my family and took a 50 dollar a month room at a hippie house missing a wall so that I could curl up and die after I escaped from the hospital. But that's a novel I haven't written yet. This one's almost as cheap in inflationary dollars and should be a much happier space. Thank you, Viggo! (And, no..I'm not dumping my family!)

Ecru and celery

With the nip in the air and most of my cold weather clothes in boxes, I set out yesterday to buy cotton waffle-weave long johns. I prefer the unbleached type, as they come pre-skunge colored and one does not have to wait a year or for a mismatched load of laundry to soften the glare. I got to the Lot Store, where I've always bought them, only to find their absence from the bins. The closest they had were thick leggings, which I bought despite their lack of gussets, certain they'd split the first time I wear them. On to the dollar store and the sporting clothes store, only to come up empty handed. Giving up rather than subject myself to a suburban big box shopping experience, (which disorients me to the point of easily sprung tears) I headed to the thrift store. There I found a 100% cashmere pullover in excellent condition for 2 dollars. Ah! Only slightly too big and of an indiscernible grayish greenish light hue, I showed it to Hubby when I got home and declared success in my search for skunge colored softness.

A Man walks into a Bar

Aleks is a middle aged man from the Ukraine who, as far as I can make out, is employed as a decorative painter. He wants to talk to me about great literature, but between his heavy accent and the amount of beer in which he imbibes, it is most times hard to communicate. Yesterday he came in to the Public House looking like ten miles of bad road. He had a black eye, contusions about the cheek and forehead and his face was puffy. He asked me if he was still welcome in my bar, as he does every time he comes in. I assured him he could take a seat and told him he looked really rough. I asked him what happened. "Eh.", he shrugged. "I got in fight with Green Beret." He spread his hands to show that it was no big deal. I told him he got the raw end of the stick and asked what on earth provoked such a brutal trouncing. He waved an arm over the bar and replied; "Eh! She tried to sell me cookies."

Rub-a-dub

It was Friday, and the phone service for which we had waited so long to have hooked up at the house conked out after a week. No dial tone. The repair line I reaached on my cell phone kept throwing me into endless loops of self-tests and options that didn't apply. The voice recognition system did not understand my Baltimore accent and would ask the same questions over and over. After an hour and a half, betting that emotionally intelligent software was incorporated in this "customer service" line from hell, I began screaming profanities at it. Finally, a human answered and gave me more information and a different explanation of the problem. By this time my blood sugar had bottomed out, I had a whanging headache and my self esteem was down around my ankles like a pair of underpants whose elastic had given up. I couldn't stop sniffling and crying all day even after devouring a giant serving of tandoori pasta. Even chocolate and fourteen hours of sleep did little to repair my delicate sensibilities by the next day, yesterday. Last night after working a shift at Molly's in place of the AWOL barkeep, Hubby took me out to a place called Rub. And lo! I was made whole again.

Girding up

Last night I fired up the new fog making machine. The vapors filled the front yard and even with a large fan blowing the exudate out the front door, the front part of the house. The volume of mist was so impressive, I ran next door and told the neighbors that my house was not on fire and not to panic. They stood up, peered out and wondered where they could get their own fog making machine. Then the wind shifted and blew the "fog" down the street. I decided to retire the blower for then, I didn't want to bang on everyone's door and announce that I was manufacturing mayhem if they hadn't already noticed. I mean, this is a respectable zip code and all, and I didn't want to be branded a weirdo...before I roll out the heavy artillery. Where do I get a rubber chicken catapult? And do I stuff them with tortollonis before firing?

None of Me

HowManyOfMe.com

There are: 0 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

Of course, no one is really named Molly Goatwax, not even me. There are only 18 people in this country who share the name on my driver's license. That surprised me. I thought it sounded common enough. I swiped this diversion from Miss Beancounter. Thanks!

Another Frak

Last Friday the geeks came out in force to convene at the Frak Party at Molly's and celebrate the new production of Battlestar Galactica. So, Science Boy is optimizing the configuration of the television sets so that the Frakkers won't miss a bit of dialogue in the crowd! This Friday will be even better. So sign up here, or just drop by...we'll see what happens. I might put out some snax...

On this Day

In the midst of all this disarray-auctioneer workers hauling, catalogueing what remains of the library, my younger sister pulling up her sleeves and packing up some porcelains-interesting tidbits still surface. A map my great grandmother drew as a child in 1886, the newspaper account of the accident that decapitated her and also killed great grandfather instantly when a train struck their car in 1917, another great grandmother's engraved, gold thimble-I have been so involved with this for so long, I didn't give myself enough time to plan good things for the birthdays of Hubby and the younger daughter. I did pop a cartoon he wanted into a frame supplied by Miss Janet, (thank you!) and hope that he understands that I adore him and am trying my very best. Happy Birthday, sweetheart!