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.

 

 

 

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)

 

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.

 

 

 

And Now For More of the Same

Tags

Diego, fiscal cliff, GOP, Humor, life in the foothills, marijuana, Politics, Romney, teabaggers

Diego here. Just a moment of your time. Momsie wants to show you cartoons which may be interesting to humans, I don’t know, but I am so excited I just had to interrupt (which she says I do too much, but gosh I can’t help it) to tell you this!

I’s taught my human momsie a new trick!

As you know, I takes my momsie on a walk every morning. Well, she has a tendency to wander off and get herself lost in the desert. So, I’s taught her to whistle!

You know how to whistle doncha? Just put your lips together and blow? HAHA, I learned that from a movie my popsie was watching one day.

So when my momsie gets herself all lost, she whistles, and I come a runnin’ to find her and gets her back on track. Pretty nifty huh? So if any of you doggies are readin’, e-mail me at “whistlin’inthedark.doggiechannel and I’ll give ya the spifics so your momsie or popsie won’t get lost too. Okay?

Diego signing off.

Are you gettin’ ‘er done? The shopping that is?

Are you spending a fortune to impress everyone with your largess?

Nobody in Washington seems very interesting in impressing us with their brains.

I guess when you don’t have many of those it’s pretty hard to fake it.

DeMint is leaving the Senate. I’m not sure anyone will notice. Stupid seems a rampant disease in the Capital.

Forget it and go buy me a present. I like largess expressly meant for me.

This seems to be the sticking point.

Why is beyond me.

Ever notice that the business types are the one’s screaming? It’s the teabaggers who are but the working class. They ain’t ever gonna be rich, so I don’t know why they want to protect those who are.

I guess they believe that the could be.

If it weren’t for all us moochers.

I guess their grandma on social security and medicare ain’t a moocher though. Moocher is a very vague kinda word and is hard to define precisely. Everybody has their own definition that avoids their “earned” benefits and only relates to the freebies your lazy ass sits back and enjoys. Funny word huh?

Doncha just wish you coulda been there?

Oh I bet it was priceless.

I bet little Willard just sweat bullets.

I bet it was his first time ever in that room.

I know it will be his last.

I hear Ann cries in her room every day. Before she gets on her jodhpurs and saddles up Rafalca and goes riding around in the air-conditioned ring at the snooty-patootie riding club for the disgustingly wealthy. It almost makes you want to feel sorry for her. . . .almost I said.

Meanwhile a couple of states in the union were pretty darn happy.

The election results seem to energize them.

Everybody is happy.

Except the rightie-tighties.

They never are happy unless everyone is as miserable as they are. Then they are happy.

And then they repent and look for more things to dislike that feel good, taste good, or look good.  Did they forget that when God created the world he said, “IT WAS GOOD!” ?

It’s all in how you interpret. Ya know what I mean?

Nothing much changes in the great dizzy land of teabagging.

After all, rationality is not a word then subscribe too. It’s too bourgeois.

The conundrum. What to do, what to do.

You ask them: What exactly has this President done that is so awful?

The answer: “he’s a Democrat, ‘enuf said.”

Is that enough?

Ted Nugent says people on assistance shouldn’t be allowed to vote. I say people without brains shouldn’t be allowed to vote. I doubt we are talking about the same people.

Really got to feel sorry for the GOP.

Just a little.

I mean it must be tough standing there in front of microphones and acting like you are important brokers of the common good.

When you are pretty much laughingstocks. Mere shells of political might.

I mean look at Lindsay Graham. Can you listen to him without laughing?

I mean really, can you?

And McCain? Don’t you want to just offer him a diaper change?

And Mitch? A chin? And Boehner the Orange: you know he goes home and cries his eyes out. Heading up a bunch of clown college rejects.

This was just plain unconscionable.

Santorum was delighted.

Santorum is one of those who ain’t happy unless everyone else is miserable.

How can you explain this?

You cannot.

No one can.

Except to say that the GOP is still so afraid of the crazies that they will risk public humiliation again and again rather than lance the boil. Disgusting is too good a word for them.

It’s nice to get along