Oh, What I Could Do

Oh, what I could do with four hours.

Life has gotten so very busy these days.  It seems from the moment I wake up until I go to sleep watching the evening news it is just run, run, run.  I am usually greeted every morning by my cat Jack playing ‘knead the fat man’ and head butting me until I slither out from under him.  Even my bladder tried to push me out of bed in the morning, but I fixed that problem with rubber sheets.  I barely have time for my pill breakfast before the dog pile drives me until I take her outside so she can sniff the entire neighborhood looking for just that right spot to squat, which is usually followed with a hasty retreat back inside before the neighbors discover the treat we left on their doorstep.  I don’t know how he does it, but the cat always seems to get his own leash on and is tapping his paw impatiently waiting for the dog and I to return.  Then Mr. Kitty takes no less than half an hour chasing every bird and squirrel in a three mile radius as I am being dragged behind.  I get my revenge with him, though.  Sometimes when he’s doing the stalking dance he forgets he’s dragging me behind him until I step on a twig, and then you should see him jump.  He looks like an umbrella on a windy day.

Usually I’m able to get half a cup of coffee in me before it’s off to the races.  On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays I drive over to my Papa’s place and hang out with him all day.  He’s 91 years old and more active than a pissed off volcano.  Listen, one thing you can say about an old person is that they are a survivor.  He was in the Philippines in World War Two and had to dodge Japanese machine gun rounds.  He told me one bullet pinged off his helmet.  I think that’s about the time I would have gotten to be best friends with the ground.  We spend the majority of the day working on his writing or grocery shopping or chasing skirts in the library (his libido is so large he has to carry it on his back) or what not.  By the time I get him settled in for the evening it’s around 5PM and I head back home.  The days I don’t spend with Papa are usually twice as busy with such things as you will soon read.

After being mobbed by the dog and cat, both of which wanting to smell every square inch of me to see what I had gotten into all day, I finally get to sit down and go on Facebook.

Let me tell you this right now.  I’ve battled alcoholism and severe drug addiction.  I’ve been hooked on everything from clackers and Monopoly to Tetris, crossword puzzles, Mountain Dew and woman.  Nothing, I repeat NOTHING can compare to my obsession with Facebook.  I could inject heroin, crack and meth straight into my brain and not even come close to Facebook.  Even now my entire body is shaking uncontrollably, wanting to

Four hours later: Ok, now where was I?  Oh, yeah, talking about how busy my days are and how I would love to have just four hours of uninterrupted time.  I have three hundred and sixty two books that I need to read and review.  If you are one of the writers I have promised this to, do not despair.  Instead of reading one book at a time, which would leave some books untouched for decades, I’ve decided to read one sentence from each book every day.  This way, I’m able to keep the ball rolling.  Well, that would be more like keeping three hundred and sixty two books rolling, but who’s counting?  It would be nice if I could just sit down and read, but I also have to play fetch with my puppy dog the whole time, too.  I regret the day I brought home a tennis ball, because it has been nothing but BALL BALL BALL since then.  You think I’m addicted to Facebook?  I can’t even hold a candle to my dog’s need to chase after and return the ball.  I swear to you, when she watches me pick the ball up and get ready to throw it, every molecule of her being is locked on.  I bet if I strapped the tennis ball to the overhead fan she would die of vertigo.  So here I am, laptop open and reading my allotted three hundred and sixty two sentences, all the while playing ball with my dog.  This is when my cat chooses to hide under chairs until the dog runs by and then jumps out and tags her with his claws.  Usually this sort of behavior is frowned upon by the dog (I’ve seen her chase the cat up the curtains, and I didn’t know dogs could do such a thing) but when she is in full ball mode she is impervious to any other stimulus.

There always comes a time when the dog just can’t run and fetch any more, and she just lays there, ball in her mouth and her tongue spread out all over the house.  That’s when I get to actually write some.  I always insist on writing two pages a day, come Hell or high water.  Well that’s not true.  If Hell or high water actually came, I’d probably go on Facebook and put it up on my wall.  But, once I get my two pages out of the way I sit down to watch the evening news and then the next thing I know the cat is playing ‘knead the fat man’ on my belly and the dog is doing the pee pee dance by the front door.

Oh, what I could do with four hours!Image

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About jaytharding
Christian Mystic-in-training, burgeoning Apologist, Writer, Poet, Philosopher, all-purpose curmudgeon I am part of the load not rightly balanced. I drop off in the grass, like the old Cave-sleepers, to browse wherever I fall. ~Rumi~

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