As I handed an octogenarian her newspaper this morning, before I went to her bathroom to make preparations for the shower I was to shortly assist her with, she asked was there anything interesting on the front page. I said, 'Just the Rhinehart family and their trust.' She nodded dismissively, and I said the old cliché, 'It just goes to prove money doesn't buy happiness, does it?' She agreed And for the most part, I too agree money does not ensure happiness. However, having been mired steadfast in the other end of the spectrum, I can say with qualification and conviction that being broke is really not a knee-slapper, either. And this weekend, I am utterly broke. I have been broke in the past, and come through, and will come through this little bout of coin-deficiency, too. I am expecting some money into my bank account on Monday, and have enough - barely! - for food this weekend until then, so we will be fine. However, given the choice between being miserable and broke, and miserable and having a lazy $60,000.00 stuffed down the back of the lounge in loose change, I know what I'd pick.
My current impecuniosity is thanks largely to a small little dog. My tyrannical fox terrier had a bout of puking and diarrhoea, so I took him to the vet. He was tested for parvo, and I sweated it out, worrying about the diagnosis. It was negative, but because he was dehydrated, and vomiting, it was recommended he be hospitalised. And hospitalised he was. For a few days. When I went to collect him, and was told the amount I would be paying, I almost required hospitalisation with sedation. But when my puppy dog was brought out to me, his tail wagging hard enough to sustain him on a flight path, it was worth it.
So it will be a very bland weekend for us. I will have to convince the kids there is fun and joy to be had in sweeping in front and back porch for me, rather than go somewhere that requires to spending of money. Actually, we're having some teenagers over for pizza and gaming on Sunday; my oldest hit the fourteen yesterday. My oldest never bloody stops eating, either. To stop me peddling my wares on the street corner (as I think our former prime minister might have made mature rangas unfavourable), could everybody please buy my books as I need to keep the kid fed. Eating and teasing his younger brother appear to be his great talents of late. To find out more about the books, just click on the links on my home page here.
You know what? I got a rather bizarre message in my 'others' message box on Facebook, following my comment on a thread in favour of same-sex marriage. Some brain-dead knob end told me I was 'dumb' for supporting this, and that God rained fire and brimstone on Sodom and Gomorrah (only he spelled 'Gomorrah' incorrectly), and he would do so again, and get rid of the filthy fags and those who support them. Now, whether this oxygen thieving deadshit is reading this, I don't know. But if you are, can I just say this: you are a tit. You are also a cowardly tit for orchestrating your dingbatted comment in such away that I was prohibited any right of reply. I must point out that I am not a meteorologist, but I didn't do too badly in natural geography at school, and I'm pretty sure precipitous matter does not include fire and brimstone. Sleet, yes. Rain, oh most definitely. Snow, absolutely. Hail, you betcha. But fire and brimstone? Seriously? You, as I said before, are a tit.
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