I Ain't Afraid of No Daleks

So, laundry's done--just in time for me to relax about 20 minutes. I had to spend my cabfare home from work tonight, on a slice of pizza and a soda, because I knew if I didn't there'd be no way I'd be eating until 10pm tonight--I'm just too exhausted right now to even write anything sensible or even terribly interesting. I am positively knackered--and my foot is killing me...but hey, I have clean laundry!--well, about one tenth of it is, anyway...still have a rather full closet to deal with, soon.

But my legs are actually trembling with the unaccustomed exertion. I couldn't take my crutch with me, so that added a bit to the strain, I reckon...and getting everything up 2 flights of stairs...loads of fun, there. I used to be quite fit, for my size ( heavy weight), last autumn--after spending much of the summer walking 3 miles to work, carting groceries nearly a mile uphill from town--got to be very fit, indeed. But, a winter of ice-covered sidewalks, sub-zero wind chills and injuries has messed up a little with my fitness...okay, a lot.

Have plunge into work again this evening, five o'clock sharp. More rednecks--oh what a wonderful joy my job is--sometimes, though the pay was lousy and the benefits nil--well, no benefits on my present job, either--I sort of sometimes miss working at the Travelodge laundry--the peace and quiet, I mean. Working for God (my very white, often thick, KGB-like nosy, ultra-conservative, rude, bad kind of born-again Christian, Texan lady boss at the motel), I could do without, tho'.

Oh, rednecks can be nice--but it's really like talking to an alien species, sometimes--and I've had REAL in-bred hillbilly's for neighbours--no really, I'm 110% serious about that--, here in the Adirondacks--but southern rednecks are a breed all to themselves, let me tell you. Now I know why the Tardis never lands in Georgia or Alabama.

Anyway, I know I'm calling a redneck when they believe...

The Nutcracker is a pro-wrestling move

Iraq is a part of Dolly Parton's anatomy

food stamps are something you use to mail someone a packet of venison jerky

a goat makes a great lawn mower

a non-working lawn mower makes a great lawn ornament

that George W. Bush is real smart because he can shoot quail and spit at the same time

that a pick up truck's security system should consist of 3 things: a hound dog, a Smith & Wesson and a steel chain and padlock.

So, in a little while, I'll be off out in the nice spring weather--to the post office and the laundromat on Broad Street--if I can scape up the cab fare for all of this, that is. Meanwhile, I'm having a late breakfast of honey-nut cream cheese on a cinnamon bagel, and, between bites, humming along with the Dr Who soundtrack CD--which was well worth the three month wait to get, let me tell you. It's brilliant!

So, I won't be online much today. Here's more "filler," chapter two of that horribly naff story I wrote last year. Really sorry--I'm just not a fiction writer, I'm afraid.

CHAPTER 2: Don't Look Up

Martha grabbed the Doctor’s arm. “Doctor, I don’t want you to think I’m scared of a cemetery, but to be quite honest, this place really does give me the creeps.” Doctor looked at her skeptically. “Oh, come on! You’ve been watching too many Vincent Price and Hammer horror movies. It’s just a nice place that happens to be home to a lot of dead people.” He looked at her and made a scary face, and said in a mocking voice “Beware of the walking dead…oooahh-ha-ha-ha! Now come on, let’s find a dry spot and eat. I’m a bit hungry myself.”

The Doctor didn’t have a clue what she was driving at. “People will think what?” “That I’ve had an…accident.” The Doctor had to think about that one. “Oh. I see. I think. Well, I can remedy that.” With that, he took off his coat with a flourish and laid it on the bench. “Little trick Sir Walter Raleigh taught me.” He said with a smile. She shook her head and laughed. Martha was about to sit down, when she saw the strange man again. He stared at her--through her. Then he raised his finger and pointed upwards. Mesmerized, unable to stop herself, Martha looked up into the tree branches.

SPRING FIELD, BETHEL, VERMONT (Town named after one of my former professor's great-grandfather.)

Well, it was quite lovely out, last night, I must say. It was a balmy 47 degrees F, which is the warmest it's been at night, round these parts, in months. Today, is equally as lovely, with a near-cobalt blue sky, and above freezing temps. And, thankfully, yours truly is feeling much better. My temperature is nearly back to normal, I got a (mostly) good night's sleep for a change, no weird or bad dreams, marginal stomach stress...and the cat's were actually quiet, for a change.

At work, spent Monday working on a new calling programme, doing college surveys. Tuesday the programme hit a glitch, so we did some training on different script programme, and were sent home early. So, last night, a brand new (sort of) script and yet another new (sort of) programme--collections, but with a twist...before, we were collecting back payments for items ordered, this time we're collecting overdue payments for an automatic book club--they get sent the stuff, whether they want it or not. Yeah, that's fun. Not.

I STILL hate calling Kentucky! Here's an example of a Kentucky call, last night. "What do ya'll want? Oh, he's not here. Yer from the _______? Oh, wait a minute, I'll go get him."

And don't get me started on southern women. Way I figure it, southern women go through three or four different stages in life:

STAGE ONE--childhood to age 35: The namby-pamby, fluffly-frilly "Barbie" doll stage.

STAGE TWO--age 35 to age 65: The pitbull/barracuda stage. I mean these gals are mean. They make their men-folk seem positively (forgive me, gents of that persuasion) gay. Southern women have PMS (or, I think PMT in the UK) 24/7/365. They're like a human Dalek--"EXTERMINATE--YA'LL!"

STAGE THREE A---age 66 and up: Feisty is the word for some southern oldster's. The meanness has mellowed, but they still aren't taking nonsense from ANYONE.

STAGE THREE B--age 66 and up: The meanness has vanished, replaced by the charm and grace that supposedly most southern women should have had, all along. (RARE TYPE)