August 30, 2011

Yet another less than optimum day


. . . which began again last night when hellhounds, who have been manifesting extremes of insanity unusual even for them, suddenly decided that supper was the worst idea they’d ever heard in their lives.  Never mind that the night before when they’d finally decided to eat their final meal after all, you never saw two such transported-with-delight hellhounds in all your life.  Oooh!  Food!  Why, how lovely!  Hellgoddess, you spoil us!*  They went from sullen, slinking, slitty-eyed varmints to sparkly angelic** beings in about three seconds.  And once started, they didn’t want to stop eating.  Mmm!  Yes!  Mmm!  Yes!  Oh, but hellgoddess, just a little more—!

            They’re crazy. 

            Sooooo . . . last night they were back to the slinking, and the trying to look invisible in the back of the dog crate again.  After rather too many games of Montezuma*** during which I failed to go up any levels because I was too busy being hysterical, I gave up and went to bed, listening, as it were owlishly, to the dawn chorus tuning up outside.  But hellhounds were restless, which made me restless and when we all variously fell out of bed rather late in the morning there was positively four- or possibly eight-part harmony of rumbling (canine) guts†, whereupon I had a nervous breakdown.  Which they blithely ignored, since they’re accustomed to my blowing up/caving in about one damn thing or other, most often technological, but roses, dahlias, and the corner of the spice rack that likes to lean forward when I’m straightening up from crouching under the stairs to deal with the washing machine which lives there because there ISN’T anywhere else where, for example, someone could STAND UP STRAIGHT come into it as nervous-breakdown material too.  And the washing machine is pretty much across from the hellhound crate, so they are also used to the display being very close at hand.  I was careful not to aim this particular nervous breakdown at its furry fons et origo.   

            Clearly the only thing to do was go for a hurtle and plug in.††  It was a more ambly sort of hurtle than usual, however, since when hellhounds  don’t eat and their stomachs get upset, they aren’t very interested in hurtling either.  GAAAAAAH.  And since my skill with digital audiobooks is pretty much on a par with my skill with computer games††† the only thing I can do is Turn Current Book on or Turn Current Book Off‡, and what I’m listening to is and it’s really depressing‡‡.

            We got home and I decided to cheer myself up by cruising for ebooks.  AAAAAAUGH.  No, that’s a blog for another night.

            But hellhounds ate both lunch and dinner.  Unfortunately as soon as I close down here I’m going to have to try with supper again.   Whimper.  

* * *

* True.  I will indulge almost any radical behaviour that may give me some leverage.  Chaos was so filled with nutritional glee after dinner tonight that he came and scavenged while I was cutting up chicken liver for my own dinner.  So I arranged for some to fall on the floor to make it worth his while.               

** Although I don’t think I’ll ask them to fix my computer.  They’re probably only cherubim or seraphim level anyway. 

*** Vikkik has already broken it to me that yes, there is an Montezuma 2.  I think there may even be a Montezuma 3 which is almost too horrible to contemplate.   Meanwhile in answer to an ill considered question . . . 

Mrs Redboots wrote:

When you finish Montezuma, you do it again in difficult mode!^ That way you get – well, I won’t tell you what trophy you get, it would spoil it.^^ And then you do it again several times more (in easy or difficult mode, as you choose) until you have Gold in every single trophy.^^^ At which point you are probably bored with it for now, but if you aren’t, you start again as a different player, so that I, for instance, might play one game out as “Annabel”, but I’d play the next game out as “Mrs Redboots”, or something similar.^^^^   


^^ I have no clue about the trophies.  Every now and then game play stops apparently at whim, and you find yourself on some other screen with a large glowing object floating like something out of a Charles Williams novel across what looks like an underground chamber—this is an archaeological game, after all.  You admire it nonplussedly for a moment or two and then hit ‘close’ to get back to the blowing-things-up screen.  

^^^ Nooooooo 

^^^^ AAAAAAAUGH.  But . . . how do you know all this?  What buttons are you pressing that are invisible to me?  I’m still stuck not understanding what half the frelling totems do.  And one of my several fiendish enablers, in inquiring how I was coming along, mentioned her high score.  Score?  I’d just been crawling slowly up through the levels.  After much anxious button-pressing . . . I can still only sometimes find what my score is, when it deigns to appear . . . and I exist as player since I have no idea how to name myself!

            . . . Clearly I should stick to jigsaw puzzles.  The kind where the dog(s) make off with crucial pieces and later on you find little bits of mushy cardboard in the dog bed. 

† Diane in MN wrote:  There’s an acupressure point near the stifle that I use if anyone’s stomach strikes my neurotic brain as being a little tense.

            Excellent.  Where do I find an acupressure chart??   I have googled around about this, but mostly I get sent in circles, much enhanced by being offered mail-order brides all of whom seem to have salaries of at least £60,000, which is intimidating, and The One Funny Old Tip for a Small Belly which I swear if I see again I will throw something large and heavy across the room^, and a rich and migraine-inducing cordillera of flashing smileys.  This is my best attempt so far:

^ A chair, possibly.  I’d probably regret it later if it were either a computer or a hellhound.  Although the hellhound might enjoy it.  

†† This is somewhat aggrieved at the moment since my earphones are broken but if I hold the wire in my teeth to keep the broken ends mostly in contact with each other . . . today I received a repulsively chirpy Hi!  Your order is on its way! from the sellers of my new set of earphones . . . last Saturday there was a Royal Mail card through the door saying primly ‘collect your parcel at our office’ so I went in finally, breathing fire and smoke, today, it having been a three-day weekend, and said grimly to the woman who gave me my parcel, would you please remind the postperson to LEAVE parcels, please?  

            You could see her drawing herself up to her full height.^  Oh no, she said.  We can’t do that.  You—? I said.  But—you always do!  —Almost always.  Not this Saturday. 

            We’re not allowed, she said, straining for extra inches.  And besides, she added, it was raining.

            You’re going to damage your neck, I didn’t say.  I said:  There’s a little roof.  Round the side.  Where they usually leave parcels.  Including when it’s raining.  Because of the, you know, roof. 

            Round the side? she said as if I’d mentioned cocaine and orgies.  You can put a box with a lid and a lock next to your front door. . . .

            It’s a great pity the hellhounds had nothing to throw up on her floor with.

^ Don’t bother, honey.  I’m taller.  Also, I have hellhounds. 

††† See previous footnote. 

‡ abigailmm mentioned LibriVox which looks fine and admirable and, furthermore, interesting, but at the moment it is entirely defeating my attempts to use it.  I think this may have something to do with a Collision of Philosophy between it and Apple.  Apple really hates giving anything away for free, so downloading into your Apple device begins with the sorting out of the several million separate grains of this and that only without the ants that gave Psyche a boost.  Arrrgh.  I will pursue this further . . . but not tonight. 

‡‡ I’m sorry, but American history is not funny, I don’t care what the book reviewers say.  The jokes are all bleak and ironic.^  How about for example?  First American woman to have a statue erected to her?  For scalping the Indians who kidnapped her and killed her baby?  How edifying is that? 

^ In my limited exposure, pretty nearly all the jokes in all of history are bleak and ironic.  There’s a reason I took up fantasy and always write happy endings.+ 

+ Yes.  PEG too.  Mostly.^  Just not the first volume.  

^ There are still people who hate me for killing off mmmph in HERO.  Well, the same people are going to hate me for killing off mmmph in PEG.


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