brain-sucked screaming ninny

\another LOLcat from Cheezburger.com

i discovered, at four in the morning, that baking wildly while screaming beat the heck out of staying in bed with screaming as the sole activity.  and in the event of baking-inflicted suicide, at least there's something ready to serve at the consultation with the funeral director.

but what to do while screaming during the actual in-the-oven-and-cooking period of time?  ah, that's where friendly felines and various miniature animals and sports teams (badmintoners, in particular... and i think we all learned a thing or two about badmintoners during the london olympics, eh wot?) come in to play.

marmy and buddy had a fur-flying, grand-yowling fight over i-don't-know-what, which necessitated both a good wet mopping of the mosaic floor dug up in old pompeii and unjumbled by me and the Fredster. followed by a quick vacuum job.  i wish to heaven that our cats would allow themselves to be vacuumed.  what a timesaver that'd be.

and before i knew it, midscream, there rang the oven timer, and i could go back to screaming in the aromatic kitchen.

true story. the other day, i brushed too close to the oven as i passed by and the oven timer, which was set (we are gourmands, we cook, we are dedicated foodies, except for frozen fish stick night) transferred itself to the back of my metal power chair arm.  oh -- the timer is a round gadget with a hefty magnet.  why the ticking didn't clue me in, i dunno.  but it sure as hell got my attention when it went off...  another instance of profderien ramming her chair into the wall, this time with sound effects.

anyway, now a good section of The Manor is clean, so those Genetically Indentured Domestic Staffers who inherited those quadrants -- mostly the Smythe clan, I think -- can attend the religious service of their choice, or take the tunnels to Tête de Hergé's best West Lone Alp pub.  no, i am not going to name it, not until they fork over some advertising dollars.

and in further selfless service to the sunday worshipping communities, i am sending most of the baked goods along with Fred to the Existentialist Congregation, as those militant lesbian feminist angsters managed to choose 11 am on sunday as their gathering time.  what a coincidence.  of course, it is now 10:25 and he is still huddled over his coffee mug, unshowered, gnawing on one of the more challenging muffins.  he often times it so that he arrives precisely at the end of the service, so as to mingle with his friends, and maybe put together a lunch crowd, or a foursome for golf.

fred is chair of the membership committee.

i find that hilarious.

ah, wait!  now he is playing the ukulele.  maybe the band is having a rehearsal after the existential non-religious service.

it's unfortunate, but due to the return of the screaming ninnies, the CRPS dystonia spaz attacks, sleep is again a major issue.  my hips are screaming, too, now, along with the left shoulder, making everyone with medical degrees say stuff like "oh god, no... please, jesus, intercede... mary? mary?" and stuff like that.  i've been off of antibiotics for over 16 days now, so the verity of things are showing up, hence the twitching, the screaming, the suicidal ideation, and the baking.  also the pompeii mosaic *may* look a little different now.  i made some judicious drug-addled improvements.

Trompe l'oeil Pompeii Floor Mosaic

anyway, as the kids say, meh, and i am climbing back into bed to watch the sunday political bullshit fly on the television, which hopefully will rock me into a snooze.

i can't believe it.  it's 10:35 and he is just now jumping (there has to be a more realistic verb, and something better than "getting") into the shower.  i won't be able to fall asleep until after he brushes his teeth, because he makes this ungodly sound with the last rinse that wakes, i am sure, even the cistercian brotherhood.

though what they'd be doing asleep right now, i cannot say.  this is the most exciting time of their week, the guitar mass.

brain-sucked, screaming ninny profderien, signing off.