Herself wished to take a family portrait on Christmas Eve, and as you know, her every wish is my command.
It took some doing — the specter of blood loss kept rearing its ugly head, personified by Turkish, who loathes the paparazzi — but we finally managed to get one shot in which the primates looked vaguely human, at the expense of the menagerie.
The cooperation, as per usual, was at U.N. Security Council levels. The Turk was wondering whether giving me a quick right cross would be worth the consequences (no lap time come evening); Mia was egging him on (“C’mon, do it, y’big pussy!”); and The Boo turned a blind eye (ho ho ho) to the entire endeavor.
Herself, whose idea this was, remained serene as always. Someone has to be the rock around here, and while I have certain millstone-ish properties, these are rarely helpful in moments of crisis like this.
I did manage to trip the shutter, though. So I got that going for me, which is nice.
Mister Boo is thankful for monocular vision, but says the Cone of Shame can get lost pretty much any old time now. Turkish and Mia are thankful that nobody has tried to put Cones of Shame on them lately, and so are we.
That time of year again, is it?
Mister Boo is thankful for monocular vision following successful surgeries to remove one bad eye and repair one not-so-bad eye. Also for the delicious bits of chicken breast that accompany his four-times-daily rounds of post-op medication.
Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment) and Chief of Staff Miss Mia Sopaipilla are thankful for full bowls of top-shelf cat chow that for some reason are on my kitchen counter.
Their staff is thankful for paying work, a flat roof over their freshly New Mexican heads, and the sod firmly underfoot where it belongs. Here’s hoping Thanksgiving 2014 finds you likewise.
And a special thanks to everyone who keeps popping round to check on us, despite the irregular posting of late. We’ll be back on track before you can say “Happy holidays.”
Meanwhile, you still can get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant, kid. Don’t forget to pick up the garbage.
The Turk grabs (what else?) a catnap on a bit of furniture we bought from the previous owner of Rancho Pendejo. It won’t last.
Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment) doesn’t know it yet, but his repose is about to be disturbed yet again.
The movers are supposed to show up with all our crap today, and you know what that means: the terrifying sounds of Unauthorized Personnel Operating Within the Perimeter.
Sigh. And we had just gotten back to what passes for normal around here, if your idea of “normal” includes a small satchel full of soiled clothes, no cooking/eating gear, and less furniture and electronica than one might find in the average Motel 6.
The view from Tramway, on the descent to Interstate 25.
I managed to squeeze in my first ride as a born-again resident of New Mexico yesterday.
Nothing special, just an hour or so riding the Tramway bike path north from Rancho Pendejo, peeping out the terrain, getting a feel for things. We’re just a couple of blocks from the path, which links up neatly with the Paseo del Norte trail about 20 minutes up the hill. Other east-west feeder routes abound, and I hope to explore them directly.
I think this is Sandia Peak, as seen from the base of the road to the tram.
Lots of folks on bicycles out and about, most of them roadies, though there’s also some class of mountain-bike trail network in the area that I’ll inspect at some later date. Right now, the old plate is full to overflowing with chores and annoyances.
For starters, we have no Innertubes at the new place, and won’t until Oct. 3. This forces me to play “Hipster In the Coffee Shop,” a role for which I am far too unhip.
Also, and too, the cell service is only slightly evolved beyond the log drum, smoke signals, or two tin cans linked by a waxed string, so using the iPhone as a mobile hotspot is right out. One bar on the iPhone does not a data connection make. Coupled with the dearth of Innertubes this renders communications a bit, shall we say, spotty.
Likewise, we have almost none of our shit — the movers won’t show up for another four days or so, so we’re getting by with some stuff we bought from the previous owner and whatever we could cram into the rice-grinders.
Speaking of which, two of our three critters have more or less successfully made the transition via Subaru to new quarters. The lone holdout, Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment), spends the wee hours walking the battlements, inspecting the perimeter, and issuing challenges to foes only he can see.
As did Herbie Goldfarb in “The Milagro Beanfield War,” I find my brain going all foamy, like a vanilla milkshake, from lack of sleepzzzzzzzzzzz. …
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