A Byproduct of The First Coat

I started the day out by painting one of our bedrooms. That, I am convinced, was what started this whole mess.

It's cold outside, so I couldn't open the windows and ventilate the room I was painting. Sure, it smelled a bit, but I was jammin' to some Jonathan Coulton so I didn't mind. After a while, I didn't even notice the scent. It didn't even seem like a problem at all until I looked over at Paddy O'Wife and she look distorted somehow. It took me a few minutes to realize what it was that just wasn't quite right: she didn't look Irish at all! This is not my beautiful o'wife!

My cat and office-mate Pancho then walked in and said, "Hello. Would you mind filling the kibble dish? It's running a little low and I do not care for the last few bits because they are a few days old and not as crunchy as fresh kibble." His request seemed perfectly reasonable so I complied. It wasn't until after I finished and he said "Thank you very much!" that I realized that something else was amiss. It wasn't that he had spoken, but that he had spoken in English. Pancho was born in Miami and only speaks Spanish. Everybody knows that!

That was only the second strange thing to happen this morning, which is par for the course, so I let it go. We finished the first coat and my distinctly non-Irish-looking wife (notice the absence of the o') and my English-speaking cat went for a car ride out to the mall. At least, I thought I had brought the cat but it turned out to have been a paperback I have been reading. At least, I thought it had been the paperback I have been reading but it turned out to be half of a turkey sandwich. The third chapter, Slice of Provolone Cheese, was filling.

The mall turned out to be a mall parking lot, which was fortunate because I might be typing this blog entry from jail if I had driven into the mall. Come to think of it, I probably wouldn't be typing this blog entry from jail because they only allow that one phone call/blog entry and I'll be damned if I'm wasting my phone call/blog entry on telling you this story. That jailhouse blog entry would read something like -- no, exactly like this:

HELP! I'M IN JAIL! GET ME OUT OF HERE!

That's right, no "Today is" or even a picture! Just the plea for freedom, that's it.

Don't worry, though, this isn't my way of cleverly disguising a jailhouse blog entry to get past the censors. You'd be surprised how easy it is to get a plea for freedom to the outside world from jail. It's like the guards don't even try to stop you from pleaing. I think it's because they know it gives the inmates false hope. That's not very nice, but I guess you can't be very nice and work in a jailhouse. But you can work in a jailhouse and rock n' roll. Elvis taught us that, among many other things the world seems to have forgotten. Seriously, where the hell can I buy a pair of blue suede shoes!?

Did I mention that the room I was painting was poorly ventilated because it was cold outside? Did I also mention that that was the same reason I couldn't lower the car windows to vent the paint fumes coming off of my pants, shirt, and left eyeball? In hindsight, the car ride did nothing to help the situation. But in hindsight, it apparently didn't do anything to hinder the situation, either, since I'm not in jail. I know I've already said that, but I'm afraid my mom will read this and think that I am in jail and that I'm just trying to sugarcoat the news. I'm really not. And to prove it, here's a picture and a "Today is."

You like my ride? It's phat!

Today is "Placebo" Day! Feelin' better? Good!