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aaHello.

The picture at left means nothing.

It just popped up when I put in “my sorta better half”.

I find Google weird like that. Or perhaps not Google, but the HUMANITY THAT WOULD MAKE THIS POP UP WITH THOSE WORDS.

It just goes to show you that when you take the entire human population (or most at least) some really weird shit comes out.

It’s really the down side of the Intertubes. The Contrarian puts it thusly: Every village has it’s idiot. The trouble with the Internet is that all the idiots can get together and form their own village.

Ya see they get to think they are normal.

But this is not about that.

It’s really about the Contrarian, “my sorta better half”. Sorta, cuz well, he’s mostly my better, but not always. I have enough self-esteem ya know, thank you very much.

Like most normal and successful marriages, we have a lot of “division of labor”. Mostly it is defined as “those things I don’t wanna do, you do.” It works pretty good, as long as the other person doesn’t have “removing snakes from the toilet” as his “things I don’t wanna do” too. Not that we have ever had a snake in the toilet. Had one in the living room once, but that’s another story and deals with a cat.

Anyway, the universe blessed us with mostly not having the same “I don’t wanna” things on our respective lists, so voilà, we have a happy married life. Ya didn’t know I bet that it was that simple did ya? See all you kiddies out there. Just make a list with the prospective spouse, and if they don’t have the same stuff on them, well, you are good to go. If they do, one of ya better be dominant and the other a sniveling worm if ya have any chance in hell of making a go of it.

Okay, that was all to lead up to this: The Contrarian’s first job of MY day, is to wake me up. This requires that he haul ass out of bed before me, and he does, often with a helpful poke nudge from me. At the appropriate TIME, he is to come in and say, precisely, “Babe. . .Babe” to which I reply, “UHHH. . . .” to which he replies, “time to get up”, after which he should move away from the door lest he be hit with a flying object.

I then send the dog out the door because he is all happy, and wiggly because he wants a walk and that utterly makes me wanna cry.

Now I have talked to the Contrarian about his TONE of voice. It should be flat and dull. It should not be “happy” because there is NOTHING to be happy about when getting up means I gotta make the bed and get dressed! I mean seriously are those two things the MOST boring things imaginable the first thing in the morning?

So don’t ask me why my morning wake up was punctuated by this: “babe. . .Babe. . . .wake up, if we had moved to Florida it would be 8 a.m.”

What the freakin’ F**K is that?

This man is always a surprise.

Speaking of which, it continues to surprise me that he thinks he has hair. He has hair, plenty of it all around the sides. But on top? Only if he stands with his back to the sun can you see a bunch of wispy stalks parading across his dome. He is convinced it would “all come in thick and luxurious” if only he could be allowed to grow it out again. Like when we met, like when he had his pony tail.

Yes he had a pony tail.  It was not especially long, and quite handsome in its own way, although there was even then a thinning at the top, fewer and fewer hairs from the front were being pulled to the back and more and more from the sides were. Actually from the sides, they remained the same, since one usually doesn’t add hair as one ages except through Rogaine-ing which said Contrarian has not done (having nothing called vanity in his word dictionary).

Any the how, the Contrarian has been cutting his hairs (with much moaning and groaning) for some years now, and it’s quite a task to get him to the barber, except through threats, promises, and serious begging.

So the other night we were watching Vikings, which if you weren’t aware is a television drama that the Contrarian favors. A bit much too much blood-letting for my taste, but alas this seems the framework of most everything considered “drama” these days. The main character is one dude called Ragnar, who has an interesting style of hair –shaved on the sides and back, tattooed, and with just a wide strip on the top that is gathered and braided quite elegantly down his back. The ladies seem impressed since he has had two lovely wives so far.

So, as I was saying, the Contrarian is watching away, when suddenly he muses, “I think I might let my hair grow and braid it like Ragnar.”

I sit stunned as I usually do when confronted with another bizarre remark from his lips.

“Um, did ya notice that Ragnar has a lot of hair on the top of his head? You braid would be a might thin with only nine hairs in it,” I queried.

“Oh, I will too, once I shave the sides,” he utters confidently.

“How so,” I giggle.

“Why similar to  thinning a grove of trees of saplings, babe, it allows the other trees to reach the sun and really grow.” This is said with, I swear, a straight face.

“So you think your head is like a grove of trees?” I sputter.

“Well, not exactly, but surely without all that stress of having to grow out the sides, the hair-growin’ can put all it’s efforts into the top. I’m sure it will be plenty,” as he draws his wiggling fingers across the top of his head in a pretense of sliding through silken locks of plenty.

I stare.

He smiles softly and returns his gaze to the latest Viking war going on over the screen.

Such is life in the foothills of New Mexico.

I gotta keep that man on a short rope I tell ya, or the wimmin will be beatin’ down the door to take him away for themselves.

Yes, I gotta get a shorter rope.

balding