Golden Greyhound and Adventures at Costco

If I'm gonna shop at Costco, I'll need a bigger house. There isn't enough room in my pantry for a twelve pack of paper towels.

Last week the J-man and I made our first journey into the land of bulk shopping. His company provides a free Costco membership. Free is good, so we gave it a try.

This is why America needs McMansions. To house all the crap purchased at buy-by-the-truckload stores.

We wandered around the store like rubes who'd just fallen off the turnip truck:

"Check it out! A vat of mayonnaise!" "Lookie! Enough tampons to keep me supplied until menopause." I slapped my hand on an enormous bag of sugar. "Who needs fifty pounds of sugar?" The only things we buy in fifty-pound increments are horse food and cement.

"Dang. Everything's big. It's like Texas, only without the shitty Dallas Cowboys." Even the pharmaceuticals are big. I stared at a six-pack of Monistat. I've never had a yeast infection, not even entirely sure what one is, but if a bread making factory sprouts between my legs, I know where to get yeast killer.

Soon we were sucked into the savings. "That's a good deal," said J-Man, his attention on a three pack of turkey bacon. Before long, our oversized shopping trolley is filled with a case of soy milk; a family-sized box of cereal; a 55 bag pack of instant oatmeal; huge jars of vitamin supplements; the aforementioned bacon; and enough toilet paper to wipe every ass in the neighborhood.

Any savings are obliterated by a trip down the chachke isles where all kinds of consumer crap--toys, appliances, and Christmas ornaments--sing their siren song. I ended up buying a turtleneck top and a book. I never buy clothes or books. (That's what Christmas and birthdays are for.)

We only intended to buy a calling card and some frozen dinners.

Given the size of The Greyhound's latest veterinary bill*, we will be eating everything we bought, including the toilet paper and book.

And possibly The Greyhound.

(*The vet's staff brought The Greyhound out after we paid our bill. We looked him over and asked, "Where's the gold plating?")

Rosa Parks (1913-2005)

Parks was a 42-year-old seamstress and a member of the local chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People in December 1955, when a white man demanded her seat on a city bus. She refused, despite rules requiring blacks to yield their seats to whites. She was jailed for her act of defiance and fined $14.

Her arrest triggered a 381-day boycott of the bus system organized by King. It led to a 1956 Supreme Court decision that said discrimination in public transportation was unconstitutional.

(As a bonus, all that walking during the bus boycott contributed to the cardiovascular health of Montgomery's African American citizenry. [wink, grin.])

As ya'll know, I'm a cold-hearted cynic, but something about Mrs. Park's story always struck a cord with me. Thank you Rosa for being a model of how the smallest peaceful gesture far outweighs the gradiose. Rest in peace.

Pat Kirby

Needed, One Power Washer

This morning the mold in the bathroom said, "You have a big butt."

Confronted with talking filth, I have three options: Start taking my meds again. Cut back on the doughnuts. Or clean house.

Things domestic have never been my forte. Blame it on my mother. We can still blame shit on our mothers, can't we? Anyway, Mom didn't exactly knock herself out turning me into a paragon of domestic perfection, although the effort would have been on par with turning a tiger into a vegetarian.

Mom is/was one of them evil working moms, as so decreed by Tom De-Jailhouse-Boy-Toy--Lay. Rather than teach her daughter how to catch a man with a great casserole, she was climbing the corporate ladder. She's now a fancy-schmanzy division director who goes on boondoggles, I mean, attends conferences.

This coming week she's got a conference in Albuquerque. Instead of booking a hotel, she will be staying with us and saving her per diem to purchase a sleek, brown cabana boy on her next trip to Cancun. Because we live in a kitschy bedroom community of Albuquerque, she can let her friends think she's staying in a stately adobe hacienda surrounded by cottonwoods and a herd of champion Arabian horses. (Reality: a matchbox with windows, surrounded by a dead car on blocks, tumbleweeds and one opinionated, scruffy Arabian horse.)

Despite her inability to raise a maid, she's a clean freak. Mom glories in a clean house.

Meanwhile, the mold in our guest bathroom has gone beyond destroying your body image. It tells stories, some of them good. I'm thinking of ghost writing its novel.

I have to clean house.

This includes washing the Rat Dog. Her little beard has congealed into crunchy Rastafarian tresses. And yesterday, the Greyhound peed on her. (Pees on the couch; pees on the Rat Dog; lovely dog.) Must be an interesting way to declare ownership--pull down trou and let loose. Imagine doing that the next time you go car shopping. "I'll take the red one." Zip. Shppssssssss!.

My mom is so clean-obsessed she can't stand to let a cast iron skillet "season." She makes her bed every day, and she puts distilled water in her teakettle to avoid hard water crust.

The crust at the bottom of our teakettle is thicker than the Earth's. When we're not looking, she tries to clean our teakettle. So today, in honor of Mom's arrival, we gave up and bought a new teakettle. Too bad we can't buy a new house.

I'm thinking a high-pressure washer might be just the ticket for douching out our filthy home.

Have a great Sunday.

Darn, Now I Have To Vaccum

Yesterday, I caught my get-out-of-housework excuse. The day before, the J-man had seen a little whiptail lizard dart behind our bed. The little buggers come into the house through the garage, trying to find warmth.

He searched but couldn't find it. So I announced that henceforth all vacuuming would be suspended because I wouldn't want to suck the critter to a dusty death. Husband thought this was a cheesy excuse to get out of cleaning.

I was type-typing away yesterday, when something darted under my chair. I turned and saw it was the little reptile. It tried to hide under a pile of CDs, but its hindquarters were sticking out in full view.

So I captured the beastie and subjected it to a photo session. Cute, no? (Oh, come on. It's totally harmless.) I freed it outside, where it can dig a proper burrow and snooze through winter.

Proudly announced the capture to J-man, realizing too late the flaw in my hubris. Now I've gotta clean house. Crap.

P.K.

Could She Get Any Dumber? The Series

Somewhere in Iowa a middle-class, college girl is suffering. And I am unmoved by her plight.

Stacey Perk--what a name--is upset because all that schooling got in the way of her high school fun.

I loved high school. I loved the memories I have of parties, football games, and hanging out with my friends. These are the things I have taken with me, not the useless information acquired in the classroom.

I remember complaining about how I'd never use knowledge I gained in the classroom in real life. I regretted all the time I devoted to school because, in the end, I didn't remember the algebraic equations, historical dates, or the periodic table.

See Stacey was a popular, her memories filled with that time in the backseat with Brad, the quarterback, his inadequate penis, and her cheerleading skirt hiked to her hips. That, she believes, not pesky knowledge, is the foundation of a journalism career. Basically, Stacey is a dumbass.

A problem exists within the high-school education system: It doesn't prepare students for their careers.

Okay so far, except she has to keep going.

When I decided in high school that my major was going to be journalism, I took the only class offered by my school in hopes of learning the journalistic writing style. I didn't learn anything from that class. My teacher was not a journalism teacher; she was an English teacher. We spent every class silent reading instead of learning about the inverted pyramid.

There is no "journalistic writing style." There is clear, concise writing that accurately reports the facts. There is the development of a voice. Neither of which can be taught. The best way to learn to write is to read. Yes, Sweetcheeks, READ. Your teacher had it right.

The school system needs a reality check; most students aren't going to be mathematicians, historians, or chemists.

You say that like it's a good thing. If you had learned anything in high school (or college) besides the mechanics of a good blowjob, you might know that this country was built on innovation; innovation founded in yucky maths and science.

When I got to college, the education system did a better job of focusing on students' career goals. But even then, I found myself stressing over statistical equations and astronomy facts during my first two years. Why? I was never going to use that information.

Really? So, as a "journalist," understanding the statistics put forth by Gallup et al, understanding sampling methodologies, the ways one can lie with statistics, etc., is irrelevant? I weep for this country.

Not only did the gen-ed classes waste my time and money, but they also hurt my GPA.

Somebody get me a hanky; my keyboard is drenched.

Being forced to take classes makes them less interesting. If they aren't interesting, you won't do well in them.

Nice attitude.

Statistics and astronomy bored me, so I opted not to attend class and neglected to study for them.

Oh, Lawd, it's like shooting fish in a barrel. What do ya do with a job you don't like, honey? Or when you find that marriage is too much work? Or that your kids aren't fulfilling your Barbie dream? Go on Oprah and whing about your misery?

You're boring me Stacey, and yet I'm still reading reading your publicized idiocy.

These gen-ed classes caused my GPA to plummet. I worried that these classes - ones that I would never use - were going to hurt my chances of getting into the journalism school, which has a 3.0 GPA requirement. As it turned out, my GPA was below 3.0 after my first year. I had to take summer classes to raise it, and luckily, I was eventually admitted to the J-school. I can not imagine what I would have done if I were not admitted. I would have had to change my major.

Oh, the horror. Somebody call Lifetime. We got us a tale of real life suffering.

How is this fair? I shouldn't have to give up my dream of working at Glamour magazine because my GPA was low - all because of some stupid gen-ed classes that I was forced to take. Let's just get rid of them.

Nooo. You would have to give up your dream of working at Glamour magazine, writing articles on "The Perfect Blow Job", because of stupid, stupid Stacey.

See, darling, if you had any sense, you would have placed blame for the futility of gen-ed classes where it belongs. On yourself, first. And second, on the incompetent teachers and lackluster curriculum that sucked the joy out of learning. Thanks to fluffy ideals like "everyone's a winner" and the iron fist of the NEA, our education system has become a celebration of mediocrity.

Here's the deal, Stace. I can call you "Stace," right? We're all friends here. Somewhere in India or China, there's a young girl. Her parents work their skinny butts even skinnier to pay for her education. She sits in a classroom, utterly rapt by what the teacher is saying. She absorbs it all, including the boring and "stupid" stuff. I bet she thanks God and her parents every stinking night for that education. Because if she doesn't, she'll be stuck in a shithole for the rest of her life.

And Sweetie, the myth of learning soley through life experience is largely that, a myth. There are great writers who attended the School of Hard Knocks. But ya know what? Everyone one of them was/is defined by their thirst for knowledge. All are voracious readers. And few, if given the opportunity, would turn down a real education.

Nope, that is only a luxury afforded spoiled little American girls.

We Don't Got No Steenking Joy

"Joy," unless used facetiously, as in "Oh, joy," isn't a routine part of my vocabulary.

Neither are the following words: amusement, bliss, cheer, comfort, delectation, delight, ecstasy, elation, exaltation, exultation, exulting, felicity, gaiety, gladness, glee, good humor, gratification, happiness, hilarity, humor, jubilance, liveliness, merriment, mirth, pleasure, rapture, regalement, rejoicing, revelry, satisfaction, wonder.

At least according to a search of this blog as per a Joy-Meme tag by Eugie Foster. "Search your blog for the word 'joy' used in the context of 'happiness.' If you cannot find the word in your weblog, you may use any of the select list of synonyms above."

So I dug up a few posts regarding my favorite things:

First I revisited a posting about The Rat Dog. More than a decade ago, I went to the animal shelter in search of a miniature duchsund, and came home with a scruffy little terrier. Though she looks like an obnoxious scrappy, yappy dog, she is the sweetest creature I have ever met. Like all pets, she's destined to break my heart, but she's a daily source of joy.

Last, but not least is the saint who married this lunatic. One day, while blog surfing, I was struck by how often women mistake jewelry and bling for love. Several decades ago, a man's ability to purchase shiny things might have proven his earning ability. Nowadays, it just means he has a high tolerance for credit card debt.

I don't get the usual sissy-crap for Valentines. This year's gift was Bob the Bionicle, defender of my workspace (above). I put him together all by myself, with no pieces left over.

So who/what makes you smile? If ya wanna play, consider yourself tagged.

Writing...
Got dance music station on the XM, which has turned into good mindless writing music. Will log off for part of day and (one hopes) finish the last of the revisions of first two thirds of W.I.P. Then on to new wordage.

P.K.

Pets, Why?

Yesterday, around 4PM.

Rat Dog and I are sitting on the couch. She's folded in half, one hind leg reaching for the ceiling, and licking her privates like a liver-flavored lollypop.

"Could you get any more vulgar?" I ask.

She shoots me a look that says, "We can't all have two-ply Charmin," and gets back to work.

Outside, Nikster is drumming on his feeder. It's been raining all day and he's trapped under his porch. (Otherwise, like an equine Wicked Witch, he'd melt.) I don't give a rat's behind about the neighbors, but the racket is starting to annoy me. I put down my book, shove the Rat Dog aside, open the front door and yell, "Quit it." He stops and neighs equine obscenities at me.

I shut the door and sit down. Silence reigns, but not because he's behaving. Chance are good he's now chipping the stucco off the adobe wall. (This replaces the old habit of gnawing on his porch's support beams. Lest he bring the whole structure down on his big, empty head, all the wood is now wrapped in chicken wire.) Just about the time my ass has found the last viable chunk of stuffing in couch, he starts beating on the feeder again.

The Greyhound, meanwhile, wobbles out of the bedroom. He only moves a few times a day. Sadly, someday he will pass away and we won't notice until he misses a meal. After a drink of water, he pauses in the living room, head high, ears up. He epitomizes the magnificence of the breed, an image of an Anubis statue in a pharaoh's tomb. Then he shakes, sending drool flying. His spittle is the stuff of an Alien movie, caustic, it eats holes in furniture and leaves permanent streaks on the walls.

And his farts can take down a charging rhino. And he has the mind of a yam.

In the bedroom, the pleco (catfish) is digging up the plants and decorations in the aquarium and sending them gleefully to the water's surface. He does this every day.

I'm looking at my menagerie and wondering if any of them make good eating.

Monday Horse Blogging

Horses are like hobbits: always eating.

Didja know? The average horse eats between 15 to 20 pounds of hay a day, depending on exercise and condition. He washes it down with 10 to 12 gallons of water a day. Unfortunately, horses are like big, inefficient SUVs. Only without the DVD package. While cattle have the multiple stomach thing happening, horses have one frequently malfunctioning digestive system.

The number one killer of horses--besides being shipped off in a can for fat Frenchmen--is colic, an umbrella term for any number of stomach upsets. Colic is also the number one source of college funding for veterinarians' children.

Anyway, most of that food and water comes shooting out of the back end in the form of big, inedible apples. (Well, one of my dogs thinks they're edible. I won't tell you which dog; guess when he/she gives you a big kiss on the face.) Might as well be flushing money down the toilet.

The big red toilet in the above picture is Nikster the wonder horse. Besides hay, he also eats "Warning, Horses are dangerous" liability signs.

Nikster's latest stupid horse-human trick: he picks up his ball, throws it and I catch it.

Writing...
Not one stinky word. I finally got to see "Serenity" though. More on that after I escape work today.

Monday morning, ugh.
P.K.

Red Deer

The J-Man and I are watching morning TV. An advert for ATV motorbikes is showing. A Bubba in full camouflage is roaring up a well maintained trail on his quad-bike-ATV thing. The following words are splashed across the screen:

NOBODY WALKS WHILE HUNTING

I turn to the man and say, "Could Americans get any lazier?"

He says, "Well, it's good for the deer, I guess. Can't sneak up on an ATV."

Maybe this should be PETA's next campaign: An ATV for every hunter.

Have an great weekend.

Pat K.