Ramblings from the Desert

The man who trades freedom for security does not deserve nor will he ever receive either. ~Benjamin Franklin

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Location: New Mexico

Author of the urban fantasy novel, The Music of Chaos, and the paranormal romance, The Canvas Thief.

Monday, January 30, 2006

Convicts Have It Easy

"You've had your last hot meal."

Those were the J-Man's words on Saturday
. You'd think I was a condemned prisoner. No, my man was just announcing his intentions to start demolishing the kitchen.

By Sunday evening, things had turned grim and not just because we now had a bad case of in-laws. (Bless their hearts, the in-laws are useful, but nobody wants happy in-laws stories.) I was hiding in the office, reading comics and writing sex scenes. When I emerged, the atmosphere was thick with angst.

"What's up?" I said cheerfully.

"We broke the countertop," said my husband. In my head I see the countertop, its faux-feldspar surface split asunder by a mighty crack. Reality. A teeny, tiny crack in one corner only visible through an electron telescope.

He denies it much, but the J-Man is a bit of a perfectionist. We're not just building a countertop, we're sending it into space. Or so you'd think. J-Man approaches the project with tolerances so tight they'd be approved by NASA.

And when stuff doesn't go as planned...woe to all within a one-mile blast radius.

So I almost looked forward to escaping to work this morning. It's a beautiful morning, if you like a sky splattered with psychedelic shades of red and pink. My reaction is to hiss and fumble for my sunglasses.

The guy in the truck next to me is leering and I'm revolted. He's at least forty, with the physique of a football player--an ex-football player whose muscle has transfigured into fat and is migrating south. The truck has a "W 04" and "God Bless American" bumper sticker.

"Not if you were the last man on Earth and cucumbers had gone extinct," I muttered. "I'd rather fuck a walrus."

Other highlights include signs tacked to telephone poles. In our neck of the woods, "Lost cats" is a common theme. It's about like putting up a sign that reads "Lost 100-Dollar Bill." We have coyotes. If Maurice the cat is gone for more than a day, the only way you're reaching him is via a séance.

Proving that New Mexicans are dipping into the shallow end of the gene pool, was this winner: "Lost Baby Stroller." How does one lose a baby stroller? Uh-huh. Where I'm from we have a word for that--STOLEN.

Another sign advertises a "Dieta Magica." For you Gringos, that's "magic diet." Heh. It's the Harry Potter Diet. My idea of a magic diet is this: only eat cookies that come out of boxes emblazoned with the Keebler Elves.

I made it to work, visited my fave blogs and comics, and then headed for home. We fed the dogs yesterday, but apparently the law requires that we feed them today, so I stopped by PetSmart for more canned lips and assholes. The place was filled with women carrying obese Chihuahuas. If you feed the little fuckers treats all day and never let them walk, they will get fat.

I picked up the canine cuisine and stood in line behind the oldest living shopper. You're supposed to respect the elderly. Pray tell me, "Why?" As my Grandma used to say, "There's no fool like an old fool." And there's nothing more annoying than one who hasn't discovered check cards. Especially if she stops and fills out the transaction tracker in the front of the checkbook--slowly.

Then I'm next. The poor cashier monotones her script. "What kind of pets do you have?" This is the big soul-sucking corporation's idea of fooling the sheeple into thinking they really give a shit. It's kind of cute the first time, but gets old fast.

I have the desire to say, "I have a Long-Dicked Kegel-Meister." Or maybe something racist like, "A Mexican. I call him Pablo. He trims my lawn. Wink-wink." But I feel sorry for the cashier, so I keep my yap shut.

Then home to the disaster. "If things are as ugly as they were yesterday, I'm calling OSHA."

The good news is that the countertop is installed and we have a sink again. We also have a spiffy new gas stovetop. And I might get a hot meal.

(By the way, the J-Man is the family chef. If he wants to destroy the kitchen, it's his prerogative.)


Graphics and Content Copyright © Patricia Kirby 2005