Everyday is Valentine’s Day

Tags

Diego, life in the foothills, The Contrarian

The phrases always seem a bit trite. I love you. I am blessed. I’m the luckiest woman. I hear them all the time.  They seem to fall off the lips of so many people so easily, as raindrops sliding down the window glass.

They smile, and assure me that their husband or wife or love is simply the best, the most thoughtful, the truest. And for some it is no doubt true, but the divorce rates suggest otherwise.

I was a child of merely sixteen and I thought that I was “different from the other girls I knew. The whole idea of children and housewifery seemed so alien to me. I dreamed of my own apartment, a view of some wonderful city and smart suits and soft black pumps and broad mahogany desks with my own secretary.

And here I find myself, all these years later, married, and fully enmeshed in wifery at least. And I have never known such joy.

We met under strange circumstances some would say. The Internet is no place to “find” someone. But we did, and it stuck.

After twelve years of “roughing” it in the meadow, (how many times did you signal to pull, while I slowly gave  gas to pedal and pulled out Alice? or Alice pulled me out of the muck of spring rains?) I expressed that I had had enough. Your shock was apparent, but you made your peace with it. You told me to find the place I wanted to be. By the screwiest of methods, I found Las Cruces and we stuffed our belongings into a POD and sold the farm, and drove south.

And here we are, nearly two years later with a house we both love, in a small city we adore, with a dog that has replaced the irreplaceable Bear and Brandy in our hearts. And you do your woodworking and I do my crafts, and pretend to believe that my incessant writing means something to somebody.

But happy?

You bet. I have never known such joy.

You are still smarter than I am, and that is no mean feat. Whenever an idea captures me and I’m not quite sure, I can get a hold on it merely by running it by you. That is priceless to a person who lives on ideas.

You invented the Think-a-Thon and spend a lot of time at it. I tease you incessantly about that, but I admire your ease of sinking into the couch and never feeling the least pang of guilt at “wasting” a day “thinking”.

You are wiser and better than I am in so many ways that I’m tempted sometimes to feel small in comparison, except that you never make me feel the lesser, and that means everything.

And I have never known such joy.

We have fallen into that easy comfort zone with each other. We tease and poke each other throughout the day. I call you “idiot” and you call me “the woman”. We laugh more in one day than most do in a week.

Your sense of humor is infectious. It’s staggering at times. You can turn a phrase without pausing, in the midst of a conversation that leaves me giggling and interrupts my train of thought. You win more arguments than I do, because it’s your nature to argue even when you don’t disagree, for the sheer joy of playing with words. No matter my argument, you will come up with the most outrageous example possible to “prove” my points in error. All with a twinkle in your eye, that if missed, lead one to think you actually believe what you are saying.

You are a mass of craziness with your addiction to expiration dates on milk cartons and your terror of knives not properly carried. You have a thing about turn signals, and an inflated sense of Packer power. You leave the kitchen in a horror, always with a “I’ll clean that up later,” that I chuckle over as I throw away empty egg cartons and place pans in the dishwasher.

You treat Diego better than most people treat other people. And you are unfailingly kind to everyone. While I’m busy being “short” with the cashier, you’re standing there quietly unruffled. You give people more leeway than I for sure, and perhaps I have learned to be a little more gentle because of you.

And I have never known such joy.

I am not worthy of you, and yet I know I deserve you, for you are the ying to my yang to be about as nauseatingly trite as it’s possible to be.

This greeted me this morning:

BE MY VALENTINE

We both know dad’s a putts. (it’s putz dear “doggie”) He doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body, and I know a thing or two about bones.

I wanted him to find us some candy we could share, but he told me it was all of that poison chocolate stuff. He said these sharp things might help you while you are cooking my dinners.

You are one of the top two belly rubbers; you share your footstool with me even when you don’t want to. You’re pretty good at throwing  balls (for a girl anyway). But most of all you are a champion walking companion. I know you take me even when you are tired and it’s cold and dark.  You are my hero and I love you for that.

XOXO

I’m a lucky woman. I’m blessed.

And I have never known such joy.

Adventures in Coyotes

Tags

Diego, life in the foothills, New Mexico

Here in the high desert of New Mexico, it’s not uncommon to see coyotes. They come down from the mountains in search of water and food.

Since they will eat almost anything, if you come upon places with small holes dug, just a few inches by a few inches, you can be pretty sure it was a coyote digging up some large bug, scorpions perhaps.

I don’t know how they fare with jack rabbits who to my mind are rather quick fellows, so much so that Diego pretty much gives them a passing glance and plods on, oblivious to their enticing “eyes” as they bound away.

In any event, we’ve seen a few, coyotes that is,  in our travels through the Chihuahuan desert on our morning jaunts. Usually one vision of Diego, and they skedaddle. Coyotes are fairly small, tall but quite thin, no match for the hulk that has become Diego the Dog.

We were on leg two of our trip (there are six in all), heading due south along a dirt “road” fenced to our left. The mountains loom east along that line north to south and a scattered housing area peppers the area. All manner of houses, from manufactured, to double wides, and everything between dot the landscape at intervals about two to three times the size of the average urban lot.

One can see a horse, a goat, and certainly hear a lot of roosters along that southerly walk, as well as plenty of dogs barking. As Diego and I moved along our trail, I heard an unusual sound, a woman yelling quite aggressively: “Get out of here!” I smiled and looked up the winding dirt expecting to see a coyote pop forth momentarily.

Such never happened, though the woman repeated her order a good six more times. This led me to believe it was probably a dog searching a garbage can, since coyotes fairly move on when they see a human. I’ve had the creepy experience of finding a “body” bag (read rolled up tarp) along our western edge walk some months ago. Inside were the rather odoriferous remains of a coyote. Such animals are not appreciated around the rabbit and hen coops that litter those makeshift neighborhoods. Coyotes are wary of humans as a result.

Diego and I completed leg three and then four of our sojourn, turning on the “diagonal road” that takes us north and west back, back to our own subdivision. We were still a good three-quarters of a mile from home, and I was, as is my usual bent, engrossed in the magnificence of my own mind. Read, thinking about something or other.

Periodically, I look up to find Diego, who likes to wander off-road, following his nose. It’s enjoyable to watch as he gets further and further west, and sometimes goes back south, only to stop suddenly, and in a panic search the horizon for me. Sometimes a good block away and with the sun just breaking over the Organs, he cannot see me even though I wave my arms in the universal sign of “here I am” all the while saying those very words.  He follows his ears, in a slow meandering sort of way, and by the time we complete leg five, he usually has popped out on the service road a bit in front of me.

Well, this time was a bit different. I looked up to find the boy and saw him straight away, but I saw something else! Not a hundred feet to the west of him was a coyote, stopped and watching him. I’m not sure if Diego saw it at that moment, but when I yelled, it saw me, let out a low growl, and Diego saw it.

Diego trotted forth toward it, it trotted away. Diego trotted more, and I yelled more. No amount of “Diego, COME” seemed to register, and finally I was left with an authoritative “NO!” which did seem to get his attention. The coyote stopped as well. Diego barked several times, and the coyote uncharacteristically did not high-tail it for Arizona. Instead it held it’s ground.

The boy returned to me and I clipped on a lead, while the coyote eyed us both. “tough morning old man?” I queried. Oddly, he did not answer, but continued to stare. I stood there, some perhaps 50 yards or so away, and chatted on. “It’s really not a good idea to mess with people and their pets. A friend of yours paid the price, a bit yonder over there, you know.” He turned, and walked a few paces.

He seemed somewhat curious, not particularly fearful, and fairly subdued. I thought perhaps he was just tired of avoiding that woman with her broom. We walked on, and eventually I saw him sauntering west. As soon as I couldn’t see him any longer among the mesquite, I let the boy off his lead and he continued his interesting game of “follow my nose”.

A few weeks earlier, a neighbor was out walking her dog, her dog being a good friend of Diego’s but a very small dog, more like a Jack Terrier. She asked if I had seen any coyotes and I replied that I had seen several. She mentioned that one had “followed her and Poquito quite a ways the day before.

I didn’t point out that it was eyeing Poquito as a potential lunch undoubtedly and hoping for the degree of separation between her and the dog to get a good running shot. It’s a very good reason to keep a small dog leashed in the desert.

Such a thought never crosses my mind with the boy. He more resembles a small black bear than a dog. No coyote would be dumb enough to try.

It’s funny though. Diego was respectfully interested in the coyote. Not afraid, just cautious. He seemed downright silly scared of the turtle we encountered earlier this week.

Go figure.

Tales from the desert, signing off.

PS: if you were expecting some sage wisdom from all this, none was intended. Just a story.

Day in the Life of Dog

Tags

Diego, Humor, life in the foothills, lifestyle

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!

Tags

Diego, Humor, life in the foothills, lifestyle, New Mexico, The Contrarian

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!)

Tags

Contrarian, general bullshit, life in the foothills, lifestyle

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

Tags

Contrarian, Diego, home care, life in the foothills

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

 

Related articles

• life’s too short to fold fitted sheets…so roll them up and throw them in the linen closet! (funnystatusesforfacebook.wordpress.com)
• How to Fold A Fitted Sheet (newzaholic.com)
• Closet Makeover. (thegoodlife.typepad.com)
• Linen Closet Inspiration. (thegoodlife.typepad.com)

 

Whee It’s the Weekend!

Tags

2016 election, activist judges, immigration, Israel, life in the foothills, obesity in America, rebranding the GOP, Ryan budget

Now that is something a decent retired person should not have to say, yet I find myself doing it. It’s been a busy week and today is the first day that I have not had some errand, or several to run. I’m fairly ecstatic.

The Contrarian is off to buy potting stuff, I bought a bunch of flowers and plants yesterday. I also got most of my herbs. Hopefully I can get them in later today. I’m waiting for the lemon curd to get cold and stiffen up before I finish the lemon cake. I’m not busy as you can see.

Diego continues to astound. He takes his job as paper boy very seriously, now waking us at 5:00 am should he hear a car go by. He is still having trouble differentiating the delivery man from the casual driver out for a spin before dawn.

He races eagerly out to the drive, looks around, finds nothing, then heads for the neighbors to see if there is a paper there. Finding none, he returns home, only to insist upon going through this scenario about every fifteen minutes.

Today, a new breakthrough occurred. After his first two trips were unsuccessful, it being Saturday and all, he had the fortuitous luck to meet the delivery guy on his third trip. As the guy pulled up to stop and extended his arm to through the paper, Diego bounded forth and took it from his hand. The guy thought this enormously fun, and waved and chuckled as he drove off.

Diego, of course will now want to sit out from about 4 am  waiting his delivery. It is still unclear whether the Contrarian shares his eagerness to await the grand arrival.

There is nothing “new” about the New Ryan Budget. Just more of the same.

Seriously repeal Obamacare?

Seriously?

Yet Boehner the Orange will claim that it’s another “passed” budget out of the  House.

We can pass one that says unicorns are now free to buy property too, and that stands as likely a chance of getting passed in the Senate.

They keep running the mantra that the “American people” wouldn’t have elected a majority of Republicans to the House if they didn’t believe in Republican fiscal principles.

No, franking the word gerrymandering comes to mind when I look for an explanation of why the GOP retained the House.

Bloomberg’s attempt to reduce the size of sugary drinks in NYC, didn’t fare too well before the courts.

Sarah of course appeared at CPAC carrying and sucking on her Big Gulp, all to show victory over stupid liberals and their attempts to control what we stuff in our mouths.

It wasn’t that many decades ago when getting fit was a national event, and nobody suggested that the government shouldn’t play a part.

Now it’s some conspiracy.

The Right thrive on conspiracies. I’m sure some bright Republican entrepreneur will soon open a shop for selling conspiracies. “We will design the conspiracy that’s right for you!” “Everything you don’t like can be explained by a conspiracy. Get your’s now!”

Meanwhile (god I love that segue), Republicans are busy rebranding themselves.

Trouble is, they are still caught up in the shall we drink tea or return to good scotch?

CPAC was a perfect example of speaker after speaker coming forth and starting with “Forget what he/she said, what we really need to do is. . . .”

I think it’s best if the scotch drinkers just lock the doors and refuse admittance to the tea boat folks. After all, they are none too smart, and surely cold turkey is best doncha think? (NO not wild turkey!)

Republicans have yet to learn the lesson that judges appointed for life, tend to have a mind of their own.

Your concerns are theirs about as long as it takes to confirm them. Then, well they have other concerns.

Sometimes those concerns don’t involve your petty social bigotries.

It’s funny to hear the Right lament their “conservative” judicial appointments as now activitists.

Some are so angry and so utterly devoid of constitutional knowledge that they suggest that the SCOTUS, after all is just an “opinion”, and one they need not follow.

Yeah, like evolution is just a “theory”.

The GOP can’t seem to find its way on immigration either. The Tea People want them all deported.

The GOP wants to win an election someday that is larger than a state.

Never the twain shall meet.

The compromise is permanent residence status, or as South Africa calls it, “the good old days.”

On a side note, I hear tell, (have no confirmed, but heck it’s too good not to be true) that Michelle Malkin is an anchor baby herself, born in this country to ” immigrants” who were then allowed to apply for citizenship because their daughter was a natural citizen.

Hypocrisy, thy name is Right-Wing pundits. Malkin is known for her rabid hatred of immigrants who have children and then apply for citizenship through the child. She opposed citizenship for anyone simply by being born in this country. Doncha just love it?

Oh please, even the GOP can do better than this.

Santorum ain’t done yet. And perhaps we can get Sarah to make a run.

Please this can’t be all they can come up with.

They are just salivating for Hillary.

Funny thing, is so are we.

She beats every one of them in head to head polling.

Maybe an Allen West will stick his black heart in (and I do no black not Black). Oh please God, do have a sense of humor once more.

The far right thought the Obama trip to Israel would go badly. If you don’t believe me, fast backward to the crazy sites in anticipation of the trip and read the comments.

It’s a bit like Bill Clinton. The right was chewing towels when Clinton escaped the “trap” laid by the GOP and his popularity soared.

The reactionary Right continues to predict disaster in Obama’s relationship with Israel, except that by all accounts he wowed them as usual.

It must make them mad. I bet they spend the evening loading rounds in the basement and checking once again if they have enough spam to withstand the “insurrection” that is coming any day now.