The Amazon, Craig Ferguson and Watching the Leaves

It's 53 degrees in Frog Pond Holler this morning. It's a little gray out, leaves blowing around. It makes you want to snuggle up in bed beside a warm body and go back to sleep.

The Amazon is snoozing on the couch with assorted furry critters piled around her. She does have a bed, honest. I didn't turn her room into an adult themed rumpus room or anything when she went off to college. It's just that we have so little room to put anything and she's got all of her stuff in those plastic tubs. When she comes home for the summer or Christmas break we have to move all those tubs, find them a temporary home, them move them all back when she goes back to school. She's determined that it's just easier to sleep on the couch when she's only home for a few days.

The trip to G'boro and back was an easy one. I worked until noon yesterday then hopped in the hippy van and set out. I think it was around nine when we got home. I didn't hit much traffic and it only rained a little in a few spots. I get to turn around and do it again on Tuesday, but that's okay. I can breathe a little eaiser when she's home, even for a few days. It dawned on her on the way home last night that she had to sign up for classes for next semester this week. Her last semester. Then, she says, she's coming home.

She's worked at the campus library since her freshman year and loves it. She's talked about working at one of the libraries here when she graduates. It's sort of funny when you think about it. The child of the headbanging, badass wanna-be, unwed mother at 19 growing up to accomplish a degree in English, having studied Russian and Japanese and going to work at a library.

To all those relatives with their wagging fingers, judgmental comments and rolling eyes that made me feel like the ground-dragging underbelly of the lowest of society twentyone years ago:

Pick a cheek and pucker up.

Last night as she sat in the recliner, pecking away on her laptop (the Splode a' Dell) and hogging the remote, I was sitting on the couch, sprawled out in a very unlady like manner, alternately dozing off and opening my eyes to peek at the clock. At 12:35 I pointed at her, still not quite awake but conscious enough to realize it was time for The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson, muttering, "CBS.. remote.. CBS.. change it.." It took a minute for her to figure out what I was talking about, we were both a little out of it. I know from experience that I need to record it, even when I'm up to watch on Friday nights because, well, I'm not as young as I used to be and at that time of night I can doze off without much warning. I might miss some pole dancing, butt wiggling or blogger bashing.

And last night, there was pole dancing. Oh yeah, if Ferguson ever loses his late night spot, he can get a job at a strip club shaking his moneymaker. He made the comment, "There's nothing sadder than a middle aged man alone in a room with a stipper pole."

Oh but there is....

A middle aged woman, in a trailer back up in the mountains, sprawled out on the couch in an ugly housecoat, with a death grip on the t.v. remote, Boston Baked Beagle snoring at her side, watching a late night talk show host demonstrate his stipper pole abilities.

Makes me giggle every time.

I wonder if Barney Slash can work a pole like that. Maybe I should give up my adoration of Craig Ferguson for Barney. He's obviously got much lower standards, I might actually stand a chance with him.

Maybe.

If I wore a bag on my head. And left the lights off or got him really drunk first.

*snort*

Ya'll enjoy your weekend. I'm going to go pounce on the Amazon, or at least get the dogs all wound up so they'll do it for me.

Later Taters.