Archive for the ‘La famiglia’ Category

The Dog, the Cat, and the Voices

August 2, 2022

Dark-thirty at the DogHaus.

Tuesday is “Pay Your Dues Day” at El Rancho Pendejo.

Herself gets up at stupid-thirty to prepare for the first of two weekly 10-hour shifts at the Death Star, and somebody has to make her breakfast and lunch. I keep hoping this somebody will turn up and clock in, but nix.

So I crawl out of my coffin like a dime-store Dracula with the insomnia, head out to that kitchen, and rattle those pots and pans.

By this time Herself has brewed a cup of what she calls “coffee,” given Miss Mia Sopaipilla an amuse-bouche, and returned to her sanctum sanctorum. So I toast a thick slice of bread, slather it with Irish butter and French jam, and deliver it posthaste. Miss Mia gets a butter-finger out of this and another small helping of cat food.

Next it’s lunch, which is usually leftovers from the previous night’s dinner. But honey-chipotle chicken tacos with black beans and Mexican rice seemed a tad aromatic for a business lunch, and so this morning I whipped up a basic tuna salad and built her a sandwich with provolone, lettuce, and tomato, plus a side of watermelon chunks.

Miss Mia is always very interested in tuna or anything even vaguely tuna-adjacent, so she got a couple tidbits in the process.

After Herself hits the door running at 5:30 I’m free to do whatever. Going back to bed always seems attractive, but so does a midafternoon nap, and what the hell, I’m already up.

So I have a couple mugs of authoritative black joe and sit in the dark living room for a while, half-listening as the birds sing up the sun, Miss Mia snores on the back of the couch, and the voices in my head start tuning up.

This is the sweet spot of a Tuesday morning. No NPR, no Zoom meetings, no phone calls, no online exercise/yoga classes … just the Dog, the Cat, and the Voices. And the distant grumble of traffic, which is someone else’s bête noire.

Going nowhere fast is just my speed on a Tuesday morning. I’ve paid the toll and everything.

Attack of the Killer Bicycle

August 27, 2010

OK, yeah, right, not a lot of O’Grady®-label content around here lately, apologies, sorry sorry sorry. A tip of the Mad Dog propeller beanie to everyone keeping the sound cranked up to 11 in the comments so none of the other WordPress blogs can get any sleep.

Herself is on the road, helping her kinfolk marry off a youngun (no first cousins were harmed in the making of this marriage, or so I’m told). Thus, for a few days now I’ve been on my own, which is never pretty, as I revert to bachelorhood at warp speed.

Lacking adult supervision, I know that there is still a place for everything, but that place has become the floor. No one in authority suggests the use of the inside voice during attempts at debt collection. Meals tend to be infrequent, unheated and taken over the sink, and the only laundry that gets done involves colorfully sublimated Lycra.

An extra added attraction this time around is that my road bike tried to assassinate me, a titanium Virgil “The Turk” Sollozzo to my all-too-vulnerable Don Vito Corleone, knowing that in Herself’s absence nobody had my back.

The treacherous titanium two-wheeler put me into a Death Wobble on a descent on Wednesday and I only survived the assault thanks to the intervention of the Blessed Virgin of Hell Is Full and Satan Is Busy But Your Call Is Important To Us And Will Be Answered In the Order In Which It Was Received.

Either that or the cats implored their dark lord to spare the hairy-legged roadie, if only until The Chosen One returns from West Texas. They have yet to master the filling of the dish and the emptying of the litter box.

It was 20 years ago today

May 12, 2010
Sgt. Pepper and Lovely Rita on May 12, 1990.

Sgt. Pepper and Lovely Rita on May 12, 1990.

How time flies — Herself and I submitted to the bondage of holy macaroni on May 12, 1990, in Hyde State Park just outside Santa Fe.

As you can see, unlike a certain baldheaded fat bastard of your acquaintance, the former Shannon B Gentry has changed not a whit in the intervening two decades. She remains as beautiful as the day we met, and her relentlessly sunny disposition continues to shine straight through the foul thunderheads of my perpetual pissiness. God help me if she ever gets her eyesight back. I had a bad moment there when she underwent Lasix, but it must not have taken, ’cause she’s still hanging around. Maybe it’s the life insurance she’s after.

Anyway, we’re going to treat ourselves to a nice feed and a little of the Frog bubbly, shop for a little jewelry (she says I need a new nose ring) and hope it doesn’t snow. Come to think of it, the weather went south at the wedding, too — we nearly got blown right the hell out of Hyde State Park, wedding party, sky pilot, harpist and all.

Beauty and the Beast.

Beauty and the Beast.

Y’think God was/is trying to tell her something?

Meanwhile, Count Vino’ got staked in today’s team time trial. His fifth man croaked big time in the finale and Cap’n Blood had to keep turning around to check on his whereabouts, gesticulating and banging on his bars in frustration. Liquigas won the stage, putting Vincenzo Nibali into the maglia rosa, and Vino’ slipped to sixth at 33 seconds. The count will be muttering to himself in Kazakh this night as he sleeps in a footlocker lined with a bit of the auld home sod.