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)

 

What Fresh Hell is This?

Tags

Contrarian, Humor, life in the foothills

It would not be a good idea to cross me right now. Seriously. Don’t do it. I’m channeling Dorothy Parker and you know how dangerous that can be.

One of the ubiquitous sayings of the Great Parker was: “a good thing to appear on my tombstone would be: wherever I am, is usually against my better judgment”. And nothing could be truer.

Okay, so yesterday was set up to be the day from hell from the beginning. I had a dental appointment at 7 am, followed by a rush through the grocery store, followed by a drive to El Paso to make up for a cancelled eye appointment.

So far so good.

I don’t think the drive to El Paso is all that bad mind you, but I do worry about catching some communicable disease as I drift across the border from my beloved Land of Enchantment to the home of one George W. Bush, painter and failed president. (You heard he’s just soooo committed to his new art career right?)

Anyway, we got down there okay, although one does has to run the gauntlet so to speak of some of the worst drivers in all of kingdom come, which is where I feel headed as I try to avoid their bumper car mentality. I mean does anyone in Texas no anything other than “put ‘er to the floor, close your eyes and yell Yippie-Kio-Kia?”

So after nearly one hour plus the inevitable stop at the train tracks and the inevitable train with no end, we arrive, almost late, but not quite. The Contrarian is called within 15 minutes of arrival, which is as close to telling time as I would assume could be expected in the land of cows and over-sized steaks.

He emerges fifteen minutes later, “done”, meaning that they have discerned his eyeglass prescription in nothing short of laser speed. But there is a catch. There is always a catch.

The dude assigned the monumentally difficult job of turning the pages in a book offering you the latest in VA eyewear fashion (meaning the damn frames), while you dear patient look and point when you find a pair that don’t look too nerdy or Elton Johnish, is NOT IN TODAY. And *gasp* not another employee of the eye clinic is qualified to turn that page. I mean even a post-it note stuck between two pages and a best guess that these are the ones, was past their pay grade level.

This of course means that we must return on another day to pick out the damn frames. Good news? Oh, we don’t need an appointment–anything time between the hours of “this is a damn stupid way to handle things” and “you’re nearing the ninth gate of Dante’s hell” will do.

So after some shouting at each other, for no good reason but that we are both so gloriously pissed at the VA and “bureaucracy” in general, we cross back into the land of sanity, (the pavement actually improves at the state line), and we careen happily home, secure only in the knowledge that tomorrow is another day, and the Contrarian has a dental appointment at 10 am. My joy overflows.

So, now my swimming plans for Tuesday are off.

So, all my schedules are screwed up, and you KNOW I am a very scheduly-type person.

So I reschedule my day for today.

Now the wonder kids in Washington of the D.C. (standing for Dumb Cockroaches) have as you recall, changed up the Daylight Savings Time, which is no saving at all since you give back what was gained any the damn way. And if ever there was a thing not to f**k with God over, it would be time itself.

So after 9/11, the Dancing cephalopods in Congress wanted to “DO SOMETHING!”, so they started the DST even earlier and let it run longer, and nobody gained as I said a damn thing, and something about saving money, well that never happened either. So we have a dumb thing in the first place, made even dumber, and poor milk cows just weep in frustration as their udders have no clue what to do.

So instead of it being nicely light with the sun just beginning to send a glorious glow over the top of the mountains, it’s freakin’ pitch black. And I don’t like walking with a flashlight waiting for a rattler to show me his pearly whites in the beam.

So, I am forced to rearrange my schedule of walking too! Instead, I get up at the crack of dawn which here is now not dawn at all, but dark dark as I said, and begin cleaning the kitchen and bathrooms, which is a bit hard on the stomach at such an ungodly hour. After I have that done, it is light enough to walk the Diego, who is having a crisis of sorts finding that other people on the block get newspapers too every morning, and feeling duty bound to bring them all here, to sort out the mess.

To this deadly mix of mismanaged mayhem, comes the Contrarian, with the announcement:

I CANNOT FIND MY PHONE!

After a look through the car, and every pair of pants pockets, hoodie pockets, robes, and other items that have pockets, searching through the bed, the oven, the drawers in the every place that has drawers, even gazing hopefully down the gullet of said Diego, who has been known to take it for a walk,  the only and I do mean ONLY answer, is that it is in the EYE clinic in EL PASO!!!!

And it’s there, waiting for us to go and pick it up.

Pray for me.

Pray for me a lot.

 

 

At the Finish Line, and Ready to GO

Tags

Contrarian, Diego, life in the foothills, lifestyle, New Year

Holy heavens!

Shockingly, we have made it through another year. I find that hard to believe really. I mean according to many, there were so many obstacles in our way. There was that pesky Mayan calendar and it’s prediction of the end.

There were all the crazies who predicted that the President would declare marshal law and imprison the Tea People en mass.  There were predictions of economic Armageddon. There was predictions that Sally’s shorts would catch fire and that would be the “butterfly effect” that would set off the start of black hole that would envelope us all.

Well, here we are.

We had rain last night and it froze in the morning. Decidedly not nice, though the sun keeps popping out now and again. I’ve spent the morning cleaning the house which is also decidedly not nice. Then I spent another morning (actually part of the same one) making stuff for the buffet tomorrow. I make New Year’s buffets. I don’t wanna make a sit down meal. So I have the dough for pizza in the fridge awaiting. I have something called chorizo/caramelized onions dip, I have jalapeño poppers, eggnog monkey bread a rising, and Caribbean wings a marinating. I have eight geese a laying and 9 golden rings too, if anyone asks.

We are gonna start our traditional Star Wars marathon tonight. I am always excited for that. I just get so worried how it will all turn out and all.

We are having the famous Burger Time burgers today with cheese, bacon and green chiles. Mmm, good. The Contrarian is required to go get that. I’m not cooking a meal today after all!

Butt Boy otherwise known as Diego is asleep, scheming as to how he can get into more mischief. The Contrarian wants to get him a subscription to the Wall Street Journal. See, he loves to run out the door and get the paper and come tearing back  in and take it to the Contrarian’s office. Trouble is, he hates giving it up. Who knew his favorite toy is newspaper. It ain’t like the WSJ is worth much as a newspaper, so let him have at it. Shredding paper is a skill he has utterly perfected.

I have a lot to be grateful  for as the year ebbs slowly away. I know I’m supposed to think more about that at Thanksgiving, but frankly, I’m up to my elbows in turkey and dressing and cranberries on that day to feel particularly grateful. So I’m gonna think about gratitude a lot today I think. I sure am grateful for you guys. I would be pretty sick to write all this down for “posterity” wouldn’t it? Is posterity like the butt of history?

We are supposed to be in winter here.

Wimpy winter.

Not a snowflake has descended, though we were told we might see a flurry or two last night or maybe it’s today. It’s 44° here at the moment, so I rather doubt it. It will be in the 20’s tonight, which it often is during winter. The highs get in the mid-50’s usually. The elevation of Las Cruces is about 3900 feet, give or take a yard. We figure to be maybe 300-500 feet higher here in the foothills. I always realize a significant warmth when I get into town. High desert is nice. I like it.

It’s sure played havoc with baking I tell ya, the elevation. They meant that stuff seriously about baking changing at high altitude. I didn’t think we qualified as “high” but everybody has their own notion of high I guess. I mean to a caterpillar a turtle seems high no doubt. It’s all relative.

Which is no surprise, since most everything is relative. They say that right and wrong aren’t relative, but with few exceptions, and maybe no exceptions at all, they are wrong–relatively speaking of course.

Reality is pretty much relative these days doncha think? I mean the Tea People clearly live in some universe but it sure ain’t mine. And don’t get me started on quantum physics. That stuff will have you coming and going at the same time, and that is not relative at all, but sure will drive you insane if you actually try to sort it all out.

Anyway, gosh I sure can go on about nothing.

I’m not a good listener. Are you?

I’m not. I told the Contrarian is partly my training as a lawyer–the one who gets the last word in often wins the day. Why that is so is a puzzlement, but I can assure it is. Judges may simple get tired of listening.

Part of it is the simple fact that I think that what I have to say is vastly more important that what most anybody else has to say. I wish this were not so, but I’ve researched the issue, and find it to be true. It causes me all sorts of trouble in life. People think I am a loud-mouth. They think I’m “full of it”, the IT being unstated. I am not sure what the IT is, but facts and knowledge would be my choice, though I doubt it is the choice of those who say it to me.

You would think that would shut me up.

No, it only makes me try harder to convince the other person that I actually do know a lot more than they do. I wish they would just admit that I am smarter than they are. Funny how people are so reluctant to admit the truth about themselves.

I know I am not afraid to take a cold hard look in the mirror and see my faults. If I had any that is.

Now you see my enemies will nod sagely and be re-enforced in their conclusion that I am “full of it”, while my friends are cracking up.

I should take this show on the road.

Have a great Woop-de-doo Tonight!

And see ya next year.

 

 

 

So Are Ya Jollied UP Yet?

Tags

Contrarian, holidays, Humor, life in the foothills, lifestyle

So how’s it goin’ out there?

I mean, are ya all Christmasy yet?

Depending on your gender, you’re either yawning about now, or twisting your hair into frizzles as you gnaw at the pencil bemoaning the long list that still greets you.

Yes I said gender.

Everyone knows that MOST (remember I did say most, which I am constrained to say, since the Contrarian ALWAYS makes note of when I say ALWAYS because he suggests that it’s an unfair assessment of anyone and everyone should everyone be more to the point than anyone. Got that? Didn’t think so, so move on). Okay, again.

Everyone knows that MOST men have little to do with any festive occasion, be it Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years or Easter, the “Big Four” as I call ’em. Oh they have their little chores, but they pale in comparison to what WOMEN are called upon to do. Mostly men fetch and carry and SHOW UP reasonably on time and not looking like they just stepped out of a scene from AX MEN.

On the other hand, MOST women are the food preparers and decorators, the house cleaners,  the buyers of gifts, the wrappers, the planners, the strategic organizers. They are BUSY while the men are ZONING in front of the big screen, beer in hand and remote clutched firmly lest anyone interfere with the switching back and forth from da Bears to The Patriots game, simulcast in quadruple screen brilliant blood and gore. If you speak to them they grunt. Yes, as in “huhhhhh?” Then of course they still don’t LISTEN to a word you are saying.

I know that WOMEN do all the real work when it comes to holidays, because yesterday on Facebook, WOMEN were the one’s who were sending out seasonal greetings to all their FB friends. It was only Wednesday but WOMEN know they are about to start that run to the goal line–which is getting the damn food on the table on Christmas day. Then they can almost collapse into a puddle of goo, that is after the freakin’ food is put away and the dishes all cleaned up, which is just about the time when the masculine types will bellow out that a “snack” would be nice about now.

And of course tomorrow, the MALES will burp and fart their way to a late morning wake up, while the WOMEN are busy cleaning up all the trash from the day before and making the house somewhat presentable again for the “you know they will come” various lost relatives who come to remind you that their lives are way more interesting and fulfilling than yours, and gee, you STILL have this sofa? I remember that burn hole from when we were in high school, chit-chat.

So if they haven’t already, WOMEN are busy turning out a production line of cookies in various shapes and sizes and flavors, all to prove that they learned a thing or two from their Easy Bake Ovens. And they are wondering if card boughs draped around the front door are dated. And they are wondering if they got the right size for Uncle John’s slippers. And did they remember scotch tape? And gift cards? Are there holiday napkins? Oh lord the china needs washing. The cat is climbing through the tree again, and the dog is stealing ornaments and hiding them in his bed.

The kids are insane and need to be simply locked in their rooms until the big day. Oh and Bobby needs a hair cut, and Brenda broke her glasses again.

A WOMAN slips back and forth from one reality to another–the Christmas holiday she would love to have, and the one that is doomed to be.

A MAN, drinks his beer, flips the stations, naps, snores, and takes out the trash and feels self-satisfied with his “helping out.”

A MAN goes to the mall late at night, bemoans his limitations to the prettiest clerk he can find, and lets her figure out what he should buy. Then he buys it, and moans once more about the “wrapping thing” and he is directed to another pretty little thing who laughs at his macho jokes and dutifully wraps his gift, which he has already forgotten the contents of. He will place that baby under the tree and beam with “ain’t I greatness” when she opens it and oohs and ahhs, and sighs inwardly, wondering how many times she will have to wear “it” before she can safely stow “it” in the back of the drawer and put on the nice warm jammies she really wanted  to wear during the long cold winter.

Both MEN and WOMEN will sigh contentedly at the end of the holiday, figuring they have done another good job.

So, yeah, I know. Most of you are men. The Women are of course, already getting started with the chaos for the last 5 days.

Merry Christmas

When is a Cruise a Cruz?

Tags

Contrarian, GOP, Humor, Mitt Romney, Politics

When your name is Contrarian, that’s when.

A bit of history is in order.

The Contrarian, bless his heart, has this issue with names. I am not sure of the reason, but I rather think it’s lazy ear syndrome, as in “I don’t give much of a shit what your name is–I haven’t yet decided whether you’re worth remembering” syndrome.

He says otherwise of course.

You can decide for yourself.

Anyway, his bastardizations of names has become fairly comical on occasion as he comes up with new and unique ways to identify of whom he speaks.

For instance, the Williams  sisters, of tennis fame are not Venus and Serena. No they are referred to as the flytrap sisters, since Venus is related to a plant called a Venus Fly trap. You get the logic I presume?  Liam Neeson becomes something like Leland Nelson. Some of them are quite hilarious. Woman who pulls on ear is the illustrious Carol Burnett. I’ve become quite adept at figuring out who he is talking about. When it comes to Spanish names, well, it is unreal. He really can’t get his heard around the concept that LL in a word is pronounced like a y. So our historical Old Mesilla is to him Missilla instead of MaCeeya.

So anyway, last night we are watching the football game when there is a Bud commercial and I see this guy whose name I don’t know but he’s bald and wears sunglasses and is supposed to be “hip” if that world is still understood by anyone below the age of 60. I had seen a similar commercial with him in it some months ago and thought he was simply an actor, but saw him later singing on the American Music Awards, so I figure he is “somebody”.

So I said to the Contrarian. “I don’t know what his name is, but I find him intriguing. You know what I mean. He’s not classically good-looking but something about him is compelling. No doubt men find some women like that too–like Cleopatra who was thought to be quite plain-looking but was adored by men.”

Well the guy looks at me, and says, “yeah that Penelope woman would be like that.”

And I looked puzzled, which is a normal state of look for me around the Contrarian as you can imagine, and said, “Penelope? Who are you talking about?”

And he up and says, “You know, Penelope, the one who was married to Tom Cruise and had the baby Sookie Balooey.”

“Are you talking about Penelope Cruz?” I queried.

“Yes, Penelope and Tom Cruise,” he replied with satisfaction.

“They were never married dear.”

“But they had that baby, Serius or something like that.”

“No they didn’t, that was Katie Holmes.”

Cruise and Cruise, I think I’m right.” he pontificated from upon high.

“NO! Good grief, Charlie Brown, they are not the same. Do you think that Tom is Hispanic or something?”

“Huh?”

“Tom Cruise is spelled C R U I S E. Penelope’s last name is spelled C R U Z.

“Huh, you don’t say? Well she still has a big nose.”

Whereupon the Packers scored again and the world arighted itself. Once more the hapless Lions whimpered their way off the field, and I dear readers was gifted with yet another blog post that writes itself. Everyone is happy at Casa Peyton.

PS. Every time Selma Hayek appears on anything thing, I get: “Hey I thought she was dead!”  “Selma Hayek” Where did you get that notion?” “Ain’t she that Selana woman?” “You mean Selena? No she is not Selena.” Sigh. . . .

œ

Apparently it’s part of therapy to announce your failures openly to anyone who will listen in an attempt to come to grips with the reality of your life.

Thus Mitt Romney, goes into the locker room to meet Manny Pacquiao by saying, “hi I’m Mitt Romney. I ran for president. I lost.”

Mr. Pacquiao went on to suffer a knock-out in the 6th round I hear.

I’m guessing that many a football team will politically request that Willard NOT come to their games, and certainly not enter the locker room.

He’s now the creeping angel of losing. I wonder if crucifixes and garlic would work?

œ

Dead but they won’t stay dead: Glenn Beck and Newt Gingrich.

Can you tell me why anybody asks Newty to give his opinion on anything other than how to get a divorce? I mean really. Seriously.

And why is John McCain always on the Sunday circuit of talk shows? All he ever says is: “I love war, I lost in 2008, and did I tell you I love war?”

I’m not sure if this is the same story but I think it is.

A few days ago there was a report of a whale that had become entangled in fishing lines and was having trouble surfacing to breath. Divers went out and carefully cut all the lines off the whale.

She swam in circles happily for a bit following her liberation, and then, according to reports went to each diver in turn and nudged them, before swimming off.

We have much to learn I believe about the species we live among.

We would do well to think more carefully before we destroy them or ignore them as we busily go about the business of trashing the planet.

I continue to be dumbfounded at the price wildlife is asked to pay for our stupid ideas. Elephants are being slaughtered because somebody thinks it valuable to have a piece of sculpted ivory on a shelf to look at.

Turtles are killed for their livers, considered some sort of delicacy in some places.

The list is long and disgusting.

When will we learn?

Oh, did you see this one?

The Other Side of the Oreo

Tags

Contrarian, GOP, right-wing crazies

This morning the Contrarian went off to Lowe’s for lumber. He’s always going to Lowe’s for lumber. I was going to go, since I wanted a new front door mat, but I realized that I had a heavy cooking schedule today after housework. So I declined, thinking to stop there on my way home later in the week.

Much to my What surprise, the Contrarian returned with the lumber and a doormat! I praised him profusely as a good wife always does, and he replied, “I saw they had a long aisle devoted just to doormats. I thought I probably should just go to the end of the display and just stand there.”

“What a thing to say! I don’t treat you like that!” I exclaimed.

“All men are doormats, it’s part of the definition of husband,” he murmured, smiling benignly and handing me the knife he had just used to peanut butter his bread. With that he walked out of the kitchen.

Men are strange creatures.

We’ve done a bit of renovation here at Casa Peyton. We had sliding patio doors at the back of the living room leading to the patio. We were not keen on them. We now have french doors which I really adore.

I’m sure you didn’t notice, but the temperatures here have taken an ugly dip. Just another day, and things are going  back to the more normal 70’s during the day. Our walks in the desert have been decidedly chilly the last two mornings, but Diego seems to enjoy it immensely. This leads to our second renovation.

Diego is one of those animals that insists on having an ability to get in and out at will. If he isn’t granted an open door policy, he bugs you like every fifteen minutes. With the weather growing cooler in the morning and late evening, a solution was in order. Voilá, bring on the dog door.

Our intrepid handyman took care of the doors and the Diego door in a couple of days. It took Diego all of 30 seconds to understand the concept. He goes in and out so often that the Contrarian says we mis-named him. Frank Burns should have been his name (famous for his taunt to Hawkeye–“I can go in, I can go out”–when Hawkeye was under “tent arrest.”) We taped the flap up until he got used to it, and then lowered it while he was out, and he blew through like it was not there.

So next I figure to replace most of my counter. I have grown in a very short time to hate grouted tile counters. Food sticks in the grout, and it’s awful to try to roll out dough. So we are having it replaced for most of the kitchen. That sounds so unfun to live through but still it shouldn’t take too long to do.

So before you all leave in utter boredom, let me get on to something interesting.

Republicans remain clueless. The douchy-bag of all douchy bags, Joe Walsh, who was soundly defeated in Illinois, he is making noises that he might run for either Governor of Illinois or Senator. Yes, another pig just flew by my window! I’m sure Walsh will be successful too.

Nutjobs from 47 states are now petitioning the US Government to be allowed to secede from the Union. Texas is leading the way, but I suspect you knew that before I said it. They of course also demand a recount. Because of all the voter fraud. Which was not reported by any media. But then the media is part of the conspiracy to deny real Americans their rights. Except the right to petition the government for a redress of grievances. You might think that would be the FIRST right taken from them. Odd I would think. Key word is THINK.

A woman in Arizona ran down her husband in a parking lot because he didn’t vote. She blames him for Obama’s victory. They said she was sober. They said nothing about her sanity.

Tip to the GOP. Rule one in trying to solve your “Latino” problem. STOP CALLING PEOPLE ILLEGALS.

Sigh. . . .Ryan continues to live in the delusion. He of course blames the loss on “urban” voters, not issues. Of course not, everyone loved his tax plan.

A poor deluded man had Romney/Ryan tattooed on the side of his face. He is a bit disappointed at the results of the election, but hopes his tattoo may lead to some work in the “entertainment industry.” Yes, Jay Leno surely can find 30 seconds for him on one of his stupid human nights. I’m sure that will pay the rent for a couple of days.

Well, I couldn’t find a lot of interesting news today. Sorry.

It’s like that some days.