Marijuana is My Friend

Tags

marijuana, medicine, The Contrarian

The following comes with all the normal provisos: I am not a doctor. I don’t portray one on television. As in all things that have to do with your health, consult with whomever you esteem as having expertise in the area you are concerned about. This is just information you might want to research yourself and decide whether it’s a good idea for you.

My husband is a Vietnam Vet. He came away from that war with PTSD. He was probably on the cusp of when the military was starting to take “shell shock” or “battle fatigue”  and other various appellations for PTSD seriously. He attended the PTSD clinic in Kansas City back in the seventies for some weeks.

In addition, he suffers from COPD, and a very strange and intermittent lack of balance which makes mobility difficult for him sometimes. The latter is usually attributed to several concussions suffered in youth and in a helicopter crash in Vietnam.

We live in New Mexico, a state that has a “medical marijuana” law. My husband is candidly, no stranger to pot. After all, we are from the 60’s generation and it would be expected that we had dabbled with cannabis and perhaps more over the decades.

In any event, my husband decided to pursue the issue in New Mexico. The process was easy for him. A quick trip to a psychiatrist for an evaluation, and the securing of his rather large PTSD file at the VA was essentially all that was required. My spouse was lucky in that a few years ago, the VA re-evaluated his PTSD pursuant to a renewed request for VA disability status.

His PTSD was diagnosed as active and ongoing, which, as I said, made the process with New Mexico fairly much a no-brainer.

Within a few weeks of his evaluation and submission of application, he received his card. We live in Las Cruces, which has several “drugstores” that cater exclusively to medical marijuana users, so my husband soon was purchasing weed legally for the first time in his life.

We were concerned that whatever relief he might garner from the marijuana vis-a-vis his PTSD might be overwhelmed by a turn for the worse in his COPD status. We expected that he might have to use it in the form of food or as a vape. But he started out in the traditional way: the joint.

After a week, an amazing thing happened. His breathing improved dramatically. Not just dramatically as far as he was concerned, but it was astoundingly obvious to me. I had long grown used to the fact that even walking from the car to the house left his breathing hard. The focus of walking straight seemed to add to his burdened lungs even more difficulty.

Yet, here he was almost NEVER breathing hard no matter what he was doing. Surely he was still taking his inhalers as required, but he was no longer waiting for his next dosage–he often forgot.

So much better did he feel in fact that he has started to ride the recumbent bicycle each morning, taking Diego for a good ride through the neighborhood. He returns in fine fetter and for a while at least, even his mobility improves.

I’ve done some cursory research. What I have learned is that a couple of very long term studies seem to have put to bed the argument that marijuana is even worse than cigarettes for the lungs. In fact, for “light users” there seemed no long term damage to the lungs at all. Even with heavy usage (daily) there seemed to be little change.

Beyond that, there seems to be an increasingly large anecdotal collection of data that suggests that contrary to expectations, use of marijuana seems to help COPD patients. A number of theories are advanced: the normal coughing that might bring up more phlegm and thus open the lungs, the deeper inhaling customary to pot smokers, or just the general relaxation of the body’s systems which allow for greater oxygen intake.

For whatever reason, some COPD patients have reported that they are doing much much better using marijuana. One person has gotten off inhalers completely.

While my husband has not experienced quite that dramatic an improvement, it has been significant. He has been much more active, which explains the bike riding. He sleeps very much better, the best in years. His balance issues come and go, but he feels that that is a worthwhile tradeoff for breathing so much easier.

I wondered whether I should talk about this, but it seems to me that the tide has turned on the issue of marijuana in this country. Colorado and Washington State have led the way, as well as a number of states that have legalized marijuana for medical purposes. People on Facebook, for instance, now talk openly, supporting further legalization.

I thought therefore that I had some obligation to speak out as well. If you have a medical condition and live in a state that allows medical marijuana, you might be surprised at the range of diseases or conditions that can be improved. Who would have thought that smoking a joint would help COPD?

As I said, I’m no doctor. I’m sure a boatload of them will still say it’s a bad idea. A boatload of marijuana supports will say otherwise. As far as I can find, most of the supposed dangers of marijuana are way overblown, and it seems certainly to be less of a health risk than alcohol.

I have no interest in talking you into anything. I just offer one story, one anecdote among others that suggest that some really good stuff can come from pot. I can’t speak to what that might mean five years down the road or twenty. It’s just more information for you to use as YOU see fit in determining your own care.

Conversations from the Marriage Cave

Tags

life in the foothills, The Contrarian

Married conversation is a thing unto itself. It takes a translator to make it intelligible to anyone other than the two persons directly involved.

Except some things are universal I guess. Meaning that all married people recognize the special meaning of various words and phrases that, well, are unknown to the non-married population.

For instance.

This morning as I was relaxing from a grueling jaunt into the wind to the next state with dog in tow, (hiking in the foothills of the Organs), my other half, (better is certainly a matter of opinion and  I’ll argue that I am that, as would he argue that he is), poised in the doorway to my office/craft/retreat room and said,

“Where did we get my last pair of sandals, babe?”

Now this question is loaded. First there is the use of “we”, which as I recall did not include him at all, rather “I” got his last pair of sandals. 

Then there is the use of “babe” which is a generic term husbands use from long use as bachelors when getting the wrong name attached to the woman in your bed was likely to result in the end of your getting laid, thus all “girlfriends” become “babe” or “sweetie” or “honey” or some term that can safely be applied to all females. This carries over to the marriage, where it’s still better to be safe than sorry even if you are swearing under oath to be monogamous.

Third there is the implied problem that necessitates knowing where the old sandals were purchased, which suggests that another pair might be needed.

I replied,

“I got them at Penny’s. Is there a problem with your sandals?”

“Yes, one of them is broke,” he uttered softly. “When you get over that way next time will you pick me up a new pair?”

Now this one is similarly loaded. First he is saying he doesn’t want to go to the mall (he hates malls). Secondly he is setting me up on a number of levels. First I can’t say, “why don’t you go”, because he’s not telling me to go today, just “anytime I happen to be there for another reason” so it would be unfair for me to protest that he should go himself since they are his feet.

I wrinkle my brow for a moment and respond, “I’ll go today when I get done at the pool.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to go today!” He retorts again, that “anytime I’m in the area” will do.

Now this of course doesn’t mean that at all. In that little protestation are two things. First, I’m aware that he has balance issues and man with balance problems needs a secure shoe, so anytime I’m in the area darn well better be today!

And of course if I do continue to insist that I will go today, well, I better not complain about it EVER since he made it clear that I could do it “anytime”.

Ya see how this goes? You have to have a manual to follow the true gist of what’s being said.

I go on. “Instead of making gazpacho for dinner, we’ll have leftovers.”

“Fine,” he grins.

As I get a cup a coffee, I see the dish with the leftover mashed taters conspicuously empty on the counter. Somehow mashed potatoes goes well with fried eggs (his breakfast).

I confront him.

“Well that was bad of you. You ate all the potatoes from the leftovers.”

“Are there enough leftovers for today?” he queries.

“Well, I’ll have to boil some more potatoes.”

“No, I mean the Salisbury steak, I ate some yesterday.”

“You ate it yesterday????”

“You told me to, and a man always eats what his wife tells him too.” (the grinning again)

“You never eat what I tell you to!”

“Well don’t worry about the sandals then, get them another day.”

“No, I’ll get them today. I’ll figure something else out for dinner.”

“Well, I’m off to the pool.” as I start for the door.

“Oh, what size shoes again?”

“10 1/2, the standard size for all married men.” he intones.

“Riiigggghhhtttttt.”

I can hear him as I open the car door, “game, set and match!”

I’m sure he said that.

I’m sure.

The echo of his chuckling haunts me during the drive into town.

 

 

Get Ready to be Jealous

Tags

Humor, life in the foothills, The Contrarian

Hello.

The picture at left means nothing.

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

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

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

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

Ya see they get to think they are normal.

But this is not about that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the freakin’ F**K is that?

This man is always a surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How so,” I giggle.

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

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

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

I stare.

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

Such is life in the foothills of New Mexico.

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

Yes, I gotta get a shorter rope.

 

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.

I’m Going to Heaven and You Aren’t. . . .Unless. . . .

Tags

Humor, The Contrarian, useless information

Okay, the Congress is a bunch of poops, and there is really nothing much more that needs be said about all that, so lets talk about something that’s REALLLLY important, like how likely you are to get to heaven.

Okay, so. (By the way, do you realize how many supposedly smart people who are being interviewed start every answer with, “okay, so”? Listen up next time. You might be surprised.

One hundred and eighty degree turn!

So this heaven thing. You see, I have it on good authority that there is a test. And if you fail, well, it’s sulfur, brimstone, and well, all the accompanying bells and whistles for you.

In our household, we study a lot, to avoid that. Make that, the Contrarian studies a lot. He passes on the answers to me, and I, well, I love ya all, so I’m going to pass them on to you.

First, in no particular order. Whose faces and in what order are they at Mt. Rushmore? You must get both right to get credit. No, I’m not going to tell you, because it’s only a key stroke away, and really you need to learn to do this stuff yourself!

Second, what where the middle names of Washington, Jefferson, Adams (the first one)? Okay, I’ll give you the answer on that one. NONE! Protestants didn’t start using middle names until the end of the 18th century. Hurrah, you’re up another step on the staircase to heaven!

Now comes the big essay question: How many have died in elevator free-fall crashes?

Wait for it!

Remember all the movies and television shows that showed elevators careening down the shaft at increasing speed, with dead bodies huddled together at the bottom? Remember all the nefarious villains who cut the cables to murder someone? Or the massive fires in high rises where the “do not use elevators in case of fire” were ignored and a stuffed elevator plunged to the floor amid the screams of those about to die?

Well?

Okay, I’ll explain.

Otis was a smart guy.

Otis is the famous elevator guy. Everybody knows that. And Otis build a better mousetrap. See, if the cables break, well the braking takes over. Let me explain a bit better.

Knurled rollers are held against the outside of the elevator solely by the tension of the cables. When the cables are cut, break, or loosen, the rollers pop forth and engage in the sides of the shaft. I’m thinking like teeth in a cog. So the elevator cannot free fall under anything less than an extraordinary event.

Okay, so why the B25 pictured to the right?

The B25 was a mini B52, and has its own claim to fame. The Japanese figured the US could never bomb Tokyo since the distance from an American-friendly land was too far. Enter the B25. A bunch of these babies were winched onto Aircraft carriers and floated to off-shore Japan. They could JUST take off from the carrier without crashing. (most anyway). Their mission was to bomb Tokyo and then fly into China past the coastline (which was Japanese controlled) and land in Chinese-controlled areas.

To make a long story short, they weren’t able to get as close to Tokyo as they wanted, which means they were all on lower fuel than hoped. Some didn’t make the takeoff and crashed into the sea, but most made it to Tokyo, dropped their bombs and headed for China. Most I think, landed on the coast and were captured. A few crashed inland, and a few landed successfully and made their way to being rescued.

It’s now 1945, and a guy is flying one of these babies, and because of fog, flies it dead into the Empire State building, hitting between the 78th and 80th floors. The crew of course died, as well as a few others, but the sensational news was as follows:

Betty Lou Oliver, a Otis Elevator operator, was blown out of her elevator by the crash. She was badly burned. When rescuers got to her, they put her in an elevator, unaware that the cables were badly damaged as well as the cab itself, crippling the rollers. As they started down, the cables broke and the cab plunged 75 floors to the bottom.

Still, no one died.

And there are no verifiable deaths from falling in an elevator anyone in the world. EVER.

Simply put, the elevators don’t fall. People die in elevators to be sure, ala Isadore Duncan, (having a scarf caught and being strangled), or from falling down an open shaft, or from smoke inhalation during a fire, but not from falling, since they just don’t do that. Most deaths are repairmen who fall during repairs.

So how did Ms Oliver survive her World Guinness fall?

Nobody is really sure. Some think that the coils of cable at the bottom served as a “spring” of sorts and that the cable, “gave” and then recoiled, making the elevator bounce to a stop. Others think it had to do with the compression of air during the speedy decline that also buffered the fall.

In any case, she lived, though badly injured.

(The only proviso I attach to all this, is that it’s unclear how many at the World Trade Center may have died from free-falling elevators. The wreckage was probably too severely mangled to know. )

Otis claims that it carries the equivalent of the entire world’s population every five days in elevators around the world. There are on average 26 deaths per year in elevator-related accidents (not free falls).

For lots more about elevators and the riding of same, go here.

So there ya go. Stop anguishing over that next elevator ride and relax. You’re going to be fine. And you’re on your way to heaven!

Happy Saturday!

The Cutlery Wars

Tags

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

I really need your help.

Seriously.

I trust you.

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

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

So, why I need you?

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

You have no idea what I’m talking about?

Surely you jest.

You seriously don’t?

Ahhh, well it’s not me then?

Let me explain then.

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

Let me back up a bit.

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

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

And then it began.

The complaints.

The whining.

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

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

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

They seemed fine to me.

But they were not.

No, not by a long shot.

They were “bad” forks and spoons.

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

“You’re walking!” he screams.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there is no good reason for this.

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

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

Did you hear me?

HE PICKED.

Has the complaining stopped?

Hell no.

Case in point.

Salad fork.

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

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

But the Contrarian cannot use a salad fork.

Why you ask?

Because the handle is too short.

Did you hear that?

THE HANDLE IS TOO SHORT.

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

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

How exactly does one answer such a statement?

The soup spoon.

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

What’s the matter?

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

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

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

Signed: desperately seeking food moving tools.

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

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.