The Cutlery Wars

I really need your help.

Seriously.

I trust you.

I am married to the Contrarian, and that places a special burden upon me as a woman, nay, as a human. I am stressed daily, nay, minute by minute with entanglement in a world that is simply not normal.

This is a world where up can sometimes be sideways, and out is almost always inside out. I have adapted over the years, and can carry off this feat quite well now, few strangers would ever guess that my mind is so twisted with incongruity.

So, why I need you?

Well how do you deal with the cutlery wars in your house? I’m utterly stymied by this family dilemma and look as I may, have been unable to find a good self-help book on the subject. I can but assume that there is some childhood training that I totally missed. I’m the only one on the planet who seems unable to fathom how to deal with this obvious problem.

You have no idea what I’m talking about?

Surely you jest.

You seriously don’t?

Ahhh, well it’s not me then?

Let me explain then.

Our happy home is utterly disturbed on a regular basis by the digging about in the drawer reserved for all things called “eating utensils.” I mean digging. As in pushing aside, throwing spoons into the knives, pawing to the bottom, cursing, growling, and pointed periodical statements such as “where are all the decent spoons in this house?”

Let me back up a bit.

I did not learn of this issue during the early time of our courtship. All those e-mails, phone conversations, leading up to our meeting in February of 1999, gave no clue that forks would come to divide us. Even during the whirlwind weeks of co-habiting, nary a clue could be garnered by the romantic food interludes we enjoyed.

As with all secret nut cases, my husband kept all these things hidden until the ring was squarely implanted on the third finger left hand.

And then it began.

The complaints.

The whining.

“Why don’t we have any decent forks?” he mewed.

“These spoons are the wrong shape!” he exclaimed.

I looked at them each time. Fork = longish rod with four tines. Spoon = longish rod with ovalate shape at the end depressed in the middle for holding liquids.

They seemed fine to me.

But they were not.

No, not by a long shot.

They were “bad” forks and spoons.

Knives, well we don’t even bother with knives. Knives are either sharp or to be tossed. They are either large, or useless. This man takes my biggest chefs knife of some twelve inches to cut a piece of pie. Moreover he doesn’t like knives much. He used to bone hams in a past life, yet he is terrified of them.

“You’re walking!” he screams.

“Yes, I am, I learned that around age one.” I intone.

“You have a knife in your hand–the blade is up. TURN IT DOWN!”, his face turning shades of red I’ve only dreamed of seeing on paint chips.

“Parker, I’m 63 years old. So far I’ve never stabbed myself.”

“THERE’S ALWAYS A FIRST TIME”, he snorts.

But at the table where we consume victuals, he doesn’t have much to say about knives, other than the obvious, “I think we need the steak knives babe, since WE ARE EATING STEAK.” He usually grins broadly following such an exclamation and you can see how proud his mother was when he smiled like that. Time to take the kid off the pot. He’d done his poop.

No, at the table, we reflect on the limitations of our forks and spoons.

And there is no good reason for this.

When we moved from the meadow and I was engaged in the endless task of sorting and packing, I omitted some of the worst offenders from the “stuff going south.” The near round spoon? Out it went. “Ridiculous shape” it was called. “Who can get their mouth around that?” it was taunted.

When we arrived in Las Cruces I planned on a new set of regular stainless steel. We shopped. He picked.

Did you hear me?

HE PICKED.

Has the complaining stopped?

Hell no.

Case in point.

Salad fork.

An innocent piece of cutlery. It sits first in line for forks. To be used for salads, and desserts. Perhaps for appetizers if necessary.

We have some. They come with the “set”.

But the Contrarian cannot use a salad fork.

Why you ask?

Because the handle is too short.

Did you hear that?

THE HANDLE IS TOO SHORT.

That IS what defines it as a salad fork Mr. Contrarian. If the handle were longer it would be a FORK as in DINNER FORK.

“But it makes the food too close to my hand. I don’t like that.” he moans.

How exactly does one answer such a statement?

The soup spoon.

It has a lovely place in the line of cutlery, for using for soup. It allows the slurping of liquids not drunk with enough speed that the entrée doesn’t get cold/burn up awaiting the finishing of the soup course. It is larger than a regular spoon but smaller than a serving spoon.

What’s the matter?

“It’s too large for my mouth!” he laments.

This delicate mouth that I love to kiss is frightened that the one-quarter of an inch increase in width will harm the corners of his delicate lips.

Short of giving this man his food through a feeding tube just what am I to do here?

Signed: desperately seeking food moving tools.

PS: Diego still disdains the use of stainless steel, preferring silver plate or his tongue. I live with a couple of heathens I tell ya!

Mostly I’m Sane, Except on Thursday

I think I mentioned it.

I have a new housekeeper.

She started last Thursday. She was an hour late. Not a good sign.

She’s due again today. In about ten minutes.

I’ve had a housekeeper before.

It was years ago.

It was great.

She came and went while I was busy trying to extricate various criminals from the long arm of the law.

I have no place to escape from now, being “retired” and all. I feel “in the way” in my own home.

Now you have heard it all. Complaining about the inconvenience of having a housekeeper.

Don’t I just beat all?

But since I’m doing such a bang up job of complaining, why stop now?

A couple of days ago, I stopped by the local grocery to pick up a few items to drop off at the church.

I had two large bags of paper plates and two large boxes of plastic silverware. They were slightly unwieldy but I had not thought to grab a cart. I balanced them precariously as I made my way to the express lane.

Of course upon arrive, I found two people in front of me.

Of course, one of those two persons, a somewhat elderly lady, (you know the kind, they take forEVER to write a check), apparently had a good case of the counting disorder.

As in, how does six filled plastic bags in a cart = fifteen items?

The man behind me, who had no where near fifteen items, but did have the intelligence to have a cart, grinned as I whispered, “creative counting”,  all the while threatening to dump my silverware into the Lays Potato Chip display. I was threatening that is, not him.  He grinned and offered the usual manly helping hand.

“I bet you didn’t know that items of the same type, i.e. bread count as ONE no matter how many loaves you actually have, did you?”

“Why no”, he laughed. “Is that how it’s done?”

“Yes, but that’s just the beginning of how you get to fifteen. You can use the “all breakfast items are ONE”, all non-foods are ONE, all fruits are ONE. I mean do you count a bag of six apples as six? Of course not. No reason to count a grapefruit as an individual thing when it’s really just a different looking kind of apple. Or at least it could be called generically a citrus.”

By now, a second all you can stuff up your shirt lane had opened, and my best check out clerk was at the helm. She motioned me over and I gratefully dumped my load on her counter. “Do me a favor,” I intoned, “have that sign changed to creative counting, or How to make thirty-two items into fifteen.”

She laughed. “Honey, I can tell you that I’ve seen far worse than thirty-two in my day.”

Adventures in the Express Lane. It would make a good book title.

Which reminds me, I have an acquaintance who hasn’t a clue what the difference is between stupid and ignorant. True to form, she refuses to look either up to become informed. This borders on being both at the same time, or as I define it:

Being stupid is being ignorant and then opening your mouth and letting the whole world in on it.

Speaking of which, stupid or ignorant, that is. I have another story of small dimension.

I’ve been having the hair-pulling joy of trying to explain evolution to people who are very sure that God did it all in six days, and just 6+ thousand years ago. I mean it drives sane women to drink to engage in this sort of baby steps approach to human learning.

So after link after link of “here are tons of real biblical experts, and here are lots of theologians, and here are honest to goodness WHOLE Freaking Churches who know there is no dilemma between science and God, all I can arouse from that creaky rusty brain is:

“Well, no matter what you say, I still will never believe humans come from monkeys! I mean monkeys are still having monkey babies, aren’t they? Show me one that had a human baby?”

Well, slap my face and show me whose boss!

I’m relatively certain that God reserves the best accommodations for those of us who maintain a straight face (online of course) to that type of remark, all the while not shouting from the roof tops–STELLLLLAAAAA I MAY JUST HAVE FOUND THE MOST INSIPIDLY STUPID PERSON ON THE FACE OF THIS PLANET.

It raises the real specter that indeed there may be people in this world not worth educating, but rather just consigning them to bottle Soylent Green in dark factories, allowing them to scurry to underground caves for their rest and meal of gruel. Only allowed to procreate under adult supervision. Ew, that sounds gross doesn’t it?

This was followed by the following episode of “Aw, come on, I really can be dumber than a whisk broom”.

I asked the reasonable, (or so I thought) question which went something like this:

Given that 71 children under the age of 12 have died since Newtown, the result of negligent gun ownership by adults, would you agree that at the least we might try background checks just to see if we can keep guns out of the hands of people who can’t be trusted with them and thus prevent needless deaths?

The answer I got?

“Sherry, just because you think that will prevent them,  is just your opinion. There will always be children dying you know.”

Yes, and horses will continue to defecate at will, but I can keep them off the kitchen floor can’t I? But I do wish to offer my condolences. I understand that when the right and left brains are severed, some people manage to develop fairly normally. Sorry that you weren’t one of them.

Just to prove that I have a sense of humor, I leave you with another Contrarianism. Those who read regularly know that sometimes, nothing beats a Contrarianism, or Sometimes you feel like a nut.

So, out of the blue the other night, I got asked this:

“So did it take you a long time to get used to wearing those shoes?” referring to my flip-flops.

“What?”

“I tried them once. Got horrible blisters between my toes. Just horrible.”

“No doubt you did. I’ve been wearing them since I was a kid, ” I sighed, not knowing what else was coming.

“Anybody with a brain would know that you don’t shove something between your toes. That’s why there is a between . . . .to protect the between part. I mean that’s obvious, right?”

“I’m going to sleep now.”

WAKE UP!

I’m done. Return all tray tables to their upright positions.

We have landed.

ADDENDUM. The housekeeper just called. Can’t make it. Probably is passing kidney stones. Pray for her. Forgot all about her job. Doctor said it’s probably kidney stones. Going to doctor. Pray for me.

Why me Lord?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day in the Life of Dog

It’s me. Diego. Also known as “the dog”, “butthead” and sometimes “pumpkin”.  My momsy is busy so I thought I wud tells you about my days here in Las Cruces.

I am a busy guy. I like being busy. I need to get busy showing my momsy take better pictures of me than the one to the right. But that’s another whole story.

My days, as I said, is busy. I have lots of jobs to do. It starts out with getting popsy up in the morning. Momsy says I am to wake him up but not her. Popsy is supposed to turn Momsy’s coffee on. I sometimes catch a few winks with momsy after I have hauled the old man out of his bed. He don’t like that much I tell ya.

Okays, so after I gets Popsy up, I has to listen for my paper distributer. He’s a nice enough fella, but very unreliable. So I listens real real careful for his car. Then I gets all excited and twirls around and whines. The parentals seem to get what I mean. So Popsy opens the garage door and I run as fast as I can and grab that old paper off the driveway. And I runs it back in as fast as my four paws can scramble which is pretty fast I tell ya.

Then I grab a bite or two of my kibble which is my snack food. Then Popsy’s phone goes off and he goes “sweetie, sweetie, it’s quarter to.” Whatever that means she grumps and gets up, Momsy that is. I give her kisses.

Ya see, my first job, before all the others is to be cute and loving. I am really really good at that. It comes natural to me. I don’t knows why. But I got to be happy, cuz heck, I’m alive, what’s to be unhappy about. Hooomans are weird. They get grumpy for dumb reasons. So I gots to cheer ‘em up with my big smile.

So anyways, after a while, I finally convince my Momsy it’s time for me to walk her. I gets her all dressed and we go out for our walk. I feel bad that hooomans only gots two feets, cuz it’s lots more fun when you gots four like me. I mean hooomans are sooooo slow!

‘K. I guess you might have heard I gots a new fence. It makes my patrol area bigger. And I can look for bad people easier. ‘Cept we don’t seem to have any bad people around here. Which is darn good, cuz I don’t like to be mean. I growl at the man who fixes stuff around here and made my fence. He reminds me of somebody who was mean to me. I can’t ‘member any more ’bout that tho.

Did you hear about my hair cut? It looks real nice and is comfortable for me. I fits in me bed better! That was a joke! Anyways, Momsy has a man called Roger who cuts her hair, and Popsy goes to the same place but in a different part to get his hairs cut off, but me? They don’t take me there. It says “fambly hair cuts” but they don’t take me there. I don’t know why. My hair guy came right to my house! He was nice, but I was kinda scared of that buzzy thing around you-know-where! But he didn’t hurt me. Popsy said I smelled like a girl. I like girls.

There is a disease here in my neighborhood. It’s called “gotta rub a belly” disease. It’s a big effort and sacrifice on my part, but I go around and tend to all the hooomans who suffer from it. I take my belly right too ‘em. There is this one lady, Lizbeth, she got it real bad. I go over there ever chance I can. Momsy is always apologizin’ for my “bothering” her, but she really needs to rub my belly, I mean it’s like she’s addicted to it!

I would recommend my Momsy to you if you are hungry. She cooks real real good. She still won’t let me eat at the table tho. I don’t get that.

We got this big thing in our libbing room, and it talks. My parentals watch it at night. They watch the Newwwwz on it. Momsy yells at the people talking on it then. She calls them “liars!” I don’t know what that means. Other than that, I don’t pay much attention. I chewz my bones.

I get my bonez from a place called Pet Solutions, and the mailsguy brings it to my door. Popsy left them out the last time, and I nearly got squished by the garage door saving them. I mean I don’t want my bonez stealed! I made Popsy bring them in where they were safe. I chewz them all up. Momsy won’t let me chewz them in bed tho.

I used to have  digging boxes, but they put stinky plants in them and I figure they don’t want me to dig in them now. So I don’t. Unless I forgets. Then Momsy waves her arms and says words I dare not repeat here! Popsy laughs because I like to go out and lay on the stones on my back and sunbathe my belly.

My belly rubbers says they like a tanned belly. I try to help as best I can.

I is a smart dog. And I mean that. I am as smart as the little peoples that come to visit me. They are funny, but not much as to conversation. I like the little little peoples. I am careful not to knock them down. I really am.

Momsy says I got to go. She says I talk as much as she does. That would be hard to do I tell ya.

I am so glad I ‘dopted Momsy and Popsy. They is good hooomans, and that is saying sompin in my book!

Bye, Diego saying bye.

Sooo, I’m Waiting for the Big Celebration!

Yeah, I’m waiting for the doorbell to ring, and the balloons to fall, and the gaily wrapped presents to tumble into my lap. Just to keep me busy, while I’m waiting, I walked the dog, cleaned the house, did a load of laundry, and got groceries.  I was pretty sure everyone was hiding in the bedroom when Diego and I returned from our desert jaunt.

I was even more sure that the backyard would be stacked with friends and relatives when I got back with bags of groceries. I even changed my top to look extra nice.

The guys are here to paint the rest of the new fence out front. I’m waiting, because no doubt they brought all the presents with them. Along with the paint.

Speaking of which, Diego loves his new fence. He runs out his back door and speeds around the house to check out what the neighbors are doing. He has a water dish in case he gets thirsty. He has plenty of shade. He likes it all. He’s thinking of what he wants for his birthday, and we haven’t yet even picked a date for his “birthday” yet. He seems unconcerned about it all.

Actually, I don’t pay much attention to birthdays. Other people’s? Yes, I pay attention to that because that’s polite. My own? Naw. The Contrarian managed to remember before the morning was over. That’s saying a lot. Heck we often talk about our anniversary and then get so caught up in living, that we forget when it actually hits.

Having a birthday now is sorta of a badge of survival anyway. I’m not sure that makes me feel a lot better about being 63 years of age. I’m smarter than I was at 36. But what to do with all that stuff stuffed in there? I have no clue. I figure when you get to heaven you get to put all that stuff in a box. I’m not sure how to make enchilada sauce is a useful thing in heaven.

We are going out to eat today. That’s what we usually do on Monday, so I don’t even get an EXTRA “out to eat” day. That seems wrong, and somehow doesn’t make today’s out-to-eat day all that special. I noted that on google search they had cupcakes and candles? Was that for me?

I got the usual number of “X posted on your wall” in Facebook. It took me a minute to realize it was the “happy birthday” obligatory if you can remember, stop by to type happy birthday. Or Have a great day! Or Hope you have a super birthday!  Or words to that effect. Do you try to come up with something a bit different to make it appear that you actual care? I do. But I confess I don’t think of the person’s “happy day” much past the click of the mouse to the next page.

I haven’ really thought about anything I “want” for my birthday. I pretty much buy what I want anyway. When you can afford to buy most things, nothing much seems very special does it? Unlike Tiny Tim and his wonder at the goose for Christmas in A Christmas Story. Or all those stories about pioneer life in the olden days when an orange and gum drop were major delights to be swooned over and enjoyed slowly and to the last drop on Christmas morning.

I got a number of “gifts” from some stores. JCP sent me a $5 dollar gift certificate. Pier One gave me a 25% off ticket. I got a bunch of tickets from JoAnn Fabrics. My broker sent a card, my dentist a $5 coupon at some ice cream palace over on RoadRunner Rd. I’m sure they all are thinking about me today. That makes me feel warm inside.

I noted that the wind stopped blowing as Diego and I walked into the desert. I’m sure it was homage to me and my desire not to walk into a head wind. I thought that was nice of Mother Nature, aka, God.

The housework went nicely, all the dust cooperated and clung to my dust cloths. Some people call their dust cloths rags, but I think that’s just mean. How do you expect a slip of cloth to do its job well when it’s referred to as a rag? I mean really. These things are important folks.

The car cooperated in my drive into town for groceries. That was a nice gift I thought. It’s been a thoroughly nice car for some time, although the engine light does like to come up a lot. That’s got to do with the catalytic converter according to the computer code at Auto Somethingorother place, which hooked her up and said she was only unhappy with her fuel mixture. It goes on and off. We can disconnect the battery and let her sit and stew in her unelectrified self for a bit and then plug her back up, and the light stays off—until it doesn’t again. She’s just petulant.

Actually I think the car is not a she. But I haven’t gotten under her to check for sure.

If you are in your twenties and reading this, boy are you in the wrong place. Unless you are studying to become a geriatric nurse. Then you can screw OFF. I’m being polite, and not using the F word. If you are in your 30-50′s, then the above is a preview of the state of mind you too will attain upon reaching your 60′s. It’s got to do with social security. It’s not very social, and not very secure by the way. And Medicare doesn’t care one whit I suspect either. You’re just another warm body until you are a cold body. And then it’s on to someone else.

So hey, if you get lucky and get to be 63, you too can be the happy person you’re reading right now! Aren’t you excited?

Yeah, well screw off then too!

Just kidding.

Sorta.

 

 

 

He’s Still Young (in his little toe!)

It’s the Contrarian’s big day, and so far he has mopped the floors and is now unstucking my garbage disposal. He’s having a ball I tell ya!

I’ve made most of a delicious chicken pot pie which is what he requested. I have to make the biscuit dough yet, and take the chicken off the bone, but the rest is done. I have most of a Boston Creme Pie done, just have to make the ganache and put the parts together!

Diego is supervising everything, but he does run to me when he hears swearing coming from the kitchen. The tinker-toy aspect of drains and piping have their own “issues” apparently. All is made more complicated (adventurous?) by having to contort one’s body under the sink.

We ran into a white rabbit along our hike this morning. No idea whether it was a genetic throwback or a domesticated one that had escaped his hutch. Diego searched diligently for Alice but to no avail.

Our garden is all in. Not as in all tired out, but as all put in place. They seem content in their new home. The plants that is. The seeds are not talking as of yet. Diego finds the whole process silly. He’d rather lie on the dirt. He’s not sure why we don’t like that idea much.

I shall be forced, this evening to root for Louisville. I certainly can’t root for that other team. Funny how college hatred stay with you forever. In truth, I don’t hate U of M. No, I just merely loathe it. That’s ever so much more polite.

Did you watch Mad Men last night? I rather think they took too long a hiatus. It took a good hour just to get back into the rhythm of things. Don (spoiler alert if you have Tivo’d it and not yet watched) is back to his “womanizing” ways. I don’t think you can find the meaning of life in a woman’s vagina. But he seems to think you can. It wouldn’t be so bad if Don wouldn’t keep shtupping the wives of men he knows socially. It’s unbecoming doncha think?

All the characters on that show are in various states of serious maladjustment. Even Peggy is turning into the usual sort of “boss” you learn to hate. Roger doesn’t cry when his mother dies, but breaks down into sobs when his shoe-shine man does. Go figure.

We’ve been watching the Vikings. Male hairstyles are inordinately bizarre. Other than that, they are great killers.

Have you been watching Kevin Bacon’s The Following? Super gruesome, but oh what a plot line. Think Jack the Ripper with a cadre of eager serial killer wannabes who do his bidding. Delicious in a Breaking Bad sorta way.

Are you excited about ” Under The Dome” coming in June? It’s a Steven King production.

Are you watching the New Dallas?

Are you smarter than a 5th grader and thus not watching TV at all but reading a good book?

Which one?

I’m reading one. Stop This Depression Now! by Paul Krugman. He wrote it a while back. Quite obviously, nobody followed his directions.

Harry Reid, so I hear, is threatening to really do something about that filibuster thing in the Senate. After the “nice” agreement he and Mitch worked out. Republicans don’t play fair. I could have told Harry that. They just laugh and whisper “chump” as they walk away. I’d like to grab Harry by the ear (substitute his privatey parts but I’m not sure you could maintain a firm hold given their miniscule size), and drag him to the shed for a whippin’. Sit him right next to that baby Kim Jong Un. Grow up you two!

It’s breezy outside. We have to water our veggies and flowers twice a day here. The humidity is like 20% and that’s in the morning. It goes down to “suck the water right out of ya” by 3 pm. You can almost hear them whimper for a drink. If they could crawl, they would. It’s gonna get cold tomorrow and Wednesday. . . .highs only in the mid to high 60′s. Can probably make ice-cubes if you try.

How soon we forget the snows of Iowa.

Are you alive out there?

Oh. I forgot. The speakers are off, and I couldn’t hear you anyway.

Hey do you turn your cell phone to “mute” and forget to turn it back on? I do that every freakin’ Sunday. Do you remember when ever church service began: “If you have a cell phone please turn it to the silent mode”? I don’t recall when that transition happened.

Best answer for why climate change is a hoax?  “Because my grandparents remember that the weather patterns were the same in late 1800′s as they are today, so not to worry. It’s just fine.”

Best question about evolution and the bible? “Are you actually saying that you can believe in both?”

Best response by me to both? YOU CAPTURE THE ESSENCE OF IGNORANCE FOR THIS WEEK! CLAIM YOUR PRIZE OFF THE END OF A SHORT PIER!

So, back to the kitchen I go.

 

 

 

How To Fold a Fitted Sheet

I thought I was being pretty darn anal. But I was on Facebook one day, and I saw this video posted by one of my “friends” on how to fold a fitted sheet.

I admit, I was intrigued. I bit.

I watched it. “Wow, how easy is this!” I mused.

The next Saturday when the sheets were dry (I waiting with eager anticipation I gotta tell ya), I raced to the bedroom with my sheets and started following the directions as I remembered them.

After three tries, I threw the wadded up mess on the shelf in disgust.

But then, well my anal really kicked in.

I went to YouTube and searched for a fitted sheet folding video.

And I found dozens.  I mean literally dozens.

It seems that (1) almost everybody knows but me, and (2) almost everybody wanted to show me how.

So I tried again.

And failed again.

And again.

And again.

I watched at least six different videos.

Finally after watching ever more closely, I got the hang of it.

So I was going to just mention it to you in passing–you know the way people do on the street–”hi, good morning”–(walking past each other, then turning)–”let’s do lunch next week okay?”–(walking a bit further but still not out of shouting range)–”oh, hey, your hair looks great like that! New style?”–now just a bit too far past to hear, so wave and turn and go on your way. . . .you know what I mean.

But I went in search of a picture of the process, and accidentally found this site. Well not exactly accidentally, since I was looking for the picture, but I double clicked instead of single clicked and found myself at this lady’s site, and I went, “whoa this is anal +.” So I thought I’d show you some of her stuff, cuz I makes me look really really normal.

Well, normal. That is a relative term if there ever was one right. I mean if you are in a “home” for the crazies, and you are the least crazy, well, you’re normal as far as they are concerned aren’t you? And if you are at a psychiatric conference in San Francisco, my dog probably qualifies as being the most normal. Ya see what I mean?

Anyway.

This is anal:

I mean really? A sign to tell you what you are looking at? But she means it literally, as you can see:

See? These are not “antique” quilts but “play” quilts. Don’t get mixed up.

Here’s the whole enchilada if you wish to see a “well-conceived linen closet:

I mean it’s to die for right?

I knew a person like this. But it was a guy. We used to sneak into his office and “mess” it up for fun. We were adults. He put up with us. He bought a house. A year later he was “sorting” out his attic.

I admire people like that. When I don’t call them crazy. You can admire crazy.

I can be tempted by “order”. But I fight against it.

I like to imitate the universe.

It may seem ordered, but it’s really ordered chaos.

The blog is called “I Lived on Wisteria Lane”. She seems to have stopped blogging abruptly in October. That’s always worrisome. If you like organization, well, do visit it.

By the by, I still can’t figure out fitted sheets. I have a mental block I guess. I’m a failure in the housewife wars.

So I’ve made a cake, and some pastry cream. It’s for the Contrarian’s birthday on Monday. It’s a Boston Cream Pie. He likes Boston Cream Pie. My cakes are still sinking in the middle. I have upped the temperature, and reduced the baking powder. They still sink. I’m a failure in the baking wars.

I am going out soon to help with planting. I have my new L-shaped planters to fill with petunias in the front. And about seven thousand planters in the back. The Contrarian is concentrating on the veggies.

We’ve got plenty of good old New Mexican soil in the bottoms of everything. It’s hard as a rock. It doesn’t seem to rain here.

We have bags and bags of manurish top soil. It smells like horses, well the behind of horses. Wait, that’s not right either. I don’t smell the behinds of horses, I can promise you that. But the stuff that falls out of their behind. The dirt smells like that.

Diego likes the smell of the soil. Maybe he would even like the smell of a horse’s behind. He doesn’t say. We have put up wire lines to keep him from rooting and digging in the big beds. He’s a dog after all. They like dirt apparently. Diego digs in the desert a lot. I think he’s looking for jack rabbits. He just wants to be their friend.

They don’t seem to understand dog speak though. They run. They run very fast.

Just me knitting in the garden

 

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Can You Stand the Excitement?

It’s been another long week. It’s been a productive one. All the usual stuff and lots of home improvement stuff going on.

We have the fence around the front nearly done. The guy will be back this weekend to finish off the last side with the gate. He’ll weld on site. And then paint and we will be done.

Ernest, our great handy man is going to tile the “front porch”. He’s looking for some tiling to make some patterns with. Turquoise is our favorite color, or mine at least.

The Contrarian finished two L-shaped flower boxes to rim the walk leading to the front door. And he plans two more, a long box underneath the bedroom window which will be a about 6 feet in length and a triangle one that will sit in the corner of the fencing. It’s a nice beginning to our jazzing up the front. We actually like to sit out there, and Diego will soon be able to keep track of everyone in the neighborhood without wandering down to see “how everybody’s doing.”

In the back, I have a few more planters to do. The flowers are lined up and ready to go. We’ve got our vegetables and plenty of top soil to fill the planters. That’s tomorrow’s job. We’re planning one more long planter for the back south wall yet.

All in all, we’ve been adding a lot to the place. Ernest has another couple french doors that we may just cut down and install as long windows to frame out the patio area. That would leave it enclosed on three sides and open just at the end. That makes at very cozy, while we can open two of the french doors and get additional breezes when needed. A flat screen will be put in the corner, and we should be having ourselves basically another room to enjoy.

I signed up at Santa Rosa yesterday. Such a forlorn little church, but the new one, should it ever be finished, will be wonderful. It’s styled as an old adobe mission church. They were well on the way to finishing when the economic bottom fell out of the economy, and bank loans dried up. It’s been on hold for a few years now. Hopefully our new bishop will see fit to steer some funding toward finishing the building. I don’t know a lot about parish financing, but I think each is required to stand on its own feet financially. The people there are so warm and loving, that I cannot but think that good things will happen.

Just to keep you up on things. The 5/2 “diet” plan, of fasting two days and eating normally is working very well. I barely notice the fasting days, starting and ending at 1 pm on Tuesday-Wednesday, an Thursday-Friday. I’ve lost five pounds over the first month, which is slow, but steady, and like I said, I barely notice I’m “dieting”. I’m looking at this as the normal way for me to eat and live from now on. I know Larry had done fabulously well on his vegetarian diet. I salute his bravery and commitment.

Hey if you see that little twit, Kim Jong Un around anywhere, grab him. What that kid needs is a good spanking. Did anybody ever tell him that you can’t sabre rattle without a sabre? Or is he simply seeking to declare war on American for the foreign aid once defeated?

If you want to know what is so very wrong with Congress, you need look no further than Senator Roy Blunt. He’s the (in the hip pocket of agribusiness) jackass who with the help of Monsanto, added a rider to an unrelated bill, which protects Monsanto from being sued over it’s genetically altered foods. Monsanto of course contributes big to Blunt’s war chest. The rider is specific to Monsanto. Blunt added it “anonymously” as Senators are allowed to do, but word finally got out that he was the culprit. Blunt is known as one of the worst “bought and paid for” politicians around and was a favorite of criminal Tom DeLay during his House years.

You know, I sometimes wonder if Republicans think of anything else but butt sex and bestiality. I mean Louis Gollllly Gohmert said that opening the door to marriage equality would lead to “animal love.” As Jon Stewart put it, “do they really think that people are going around thinking. . . .”God that goat looks good, but dang, it’s illegal!”. Now the Attorney General of Virginia and probably candidate for governor, Ken Cuccinelli,  is just not gonna let the state sodomy law go down the tubes without a fight. He’s petitioning the Federal court to reconsider its conclusion that the law was unconstitutional on its face. I mean dude, do you have nothing better to do? I’m beginning to think that Republicans are some sick mothers.

If any of you have ever heard of Wilcox County High School, well you are doing better than me. You have no doubt heard of those Japanese soldiers who have lived for 60 years on South Pacific islands, never knowing that WWII ended? Well, At Wilcox County High, they never heard of the civil rights movement. That’s in Georgia of you weren’t aware?

Seems that the school holds and HAS ALWAYS held two proms. . . .one integrated, and the other “whites only”. And it’s just not in name only either. In 2012, a biracial student was turned away by police for trying to attend the Whitie prom. The school has no intention of changing things either.

There is no longer any racism in America. Let’s make that very clear.

See ya Saturday–It’s the FINAL FOUR! GO ANYBODY BUT MICHIGAN CUZ I HATE THAT SCHOOL!

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