Broken Synapse

Winter looms and so do the long, gruesome days of cold and snow and ice and darkness.

Snowmen will be hastily constructed and posed on the front lawn in macabre poses and it will be called "Art"

 

 

 

We like that we don't know our neighbors and hope to keep it that way.

We're attempting to raise a colony of skunks and let them loose upon the street.  After we have an horrific ice storm that will knock out power and leave us shivering in the dark, Chad will come fix our downed phone lines and have flashbacks from the war and watch the transformers blow up. 

First, we have to get through Thanksgiving.

I was thinking of making hot-dogs and baked beans.

 

 

 

 

 

Hey,  I'm drunk now.  Drunk on life, good red wine, and a breeze that relieves the torrid air at just the right time.  Like a breath from heaven. 

 

The heat is heavy, the air thick, just perfect to hide away and make coconut chicken with mango salsa.  If interested, I'll gladly post the recipe. 

 

It's been a long haul and the summer calendar begins.  God, I wish I were British!  I would have an extraordinary vocabulary whereby even simple thoughts would be profound, meaningful, intense.  Alas, a lowly American can only resort to the synapses of the American brain.  Sad.  So much to offer yet no way to express.

 

Miss you all and so glad you check in.

 

Pool open soon so you're all invited. 

 

I understand there could be a married Aussie and a Brit with new trousers. 

So, there's nothing to say. 

I'll be back.