Weird-looking Christmas tree. Isn’t even decorated.
Well, our white Christmas finally showed up around 4 p.m. yesterday.
Better than never, I suppose. But 0.04 inch is hardly for the dashing through in a one-horse open sleigh.
Our “white Christmas.”
Ours was a modest celebration at El Rancho Pendejo. We broke fast with coffee, toast, oatmeal, and tea, went out for a short trail run, and lunched on leftover pasta with a mildly lively sauce of tomatoes, sausage, rosemary and olives.
Afterward, while I made the tee-hees here at the blog, Herself whipped up a giant cookie using a shortbread pan she scored from Goodwill. Background music was from The Chieftains, The Pogues, Mozart, Robert Earl Keen, Hozier, Tom Waits … you know, the usual holiday suspects.
Dinner was jambalaya with a green salad. Beverages included Guinness 0.0 and Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.
Gift-giving was restrained. I have this fine new MacBook Pro, and Herself has the green light for a getaway with a friend.
Gotta save our pennies for those tariffs, $50 cartons of eggs, and $20-per-gallon gas. Also, moreover, furthermore, and too, bribes for the guards at the camp. A fella can’t eat rat tartare three meals a day, y’know.
It was a light turnout for Halloween at El Rancho Pendejo. We handed out just half of the candy I bought, and not even the two neighbor girls showed up.
Thursday was our first truly chilly fall morning — Herself and I had to break out the pants, long sleeves, gloves, and caps to go running — and I finally caved and switched the HVAC from “cool” to “heat.”
Adios, October; buenos dias, November.
Across town, the Not-So-Great Pumpkin was said to be trick-or-treating a smallish crowd of boneheads in a hangar near the Sunport. Let’s just dial that back to “tricking,” shall we? What treats he has are not for such as we.
In any event, I wouldn’t take a fat envelope of Benjamins from his short, greasy meathooks with a set of fireplace tongs and welder’s gloves. The Secret Service used to take a deep professional interest in counterfeiting, but I expect they’re too busy making sure his fat ass only has the one hole in it to frisk him for funny money.
And like I said, treats? Fuhgedaboudit. We’re waiting to see how many suckers have fallen for his tricks again.
Fall color remains elusive at the bosque. But it’s still a fine place to ride the ol’ bikey-bike on a Tuesday morning.
The 32-mile loop I did is about two-thirds easy-breezy like a Cover Girl. But the last bit from Mountain and Broadway back to El Rancho Pendejo has about a thousand feet of vertical in it. And since most of the climbing stacks up on the back side it sorta gets a fella’s attention.
As does the ongoing devolution of TFG. When the legacy media finally start catching on, you know that shit is dire.
It’s quiet around El Rancho Pendejo. Herself races off to the Lab at 5:30 in the a.m. and it’s just Your Humble Narrator and Miss Mia Sopaipilla manning the battlements. Cat’lments. Whatevs.
Sometimes I’m up before The Boss hits the door running, sometimes not. This morning I managed to see her off and then got down to brass tacks, as the kids don’t say anymore.
Miss Mia must be greeted, loved up on, given a second round of food and drink, and her litter box unburdened of its dark freight.
Then the Winter Palace is to be prepared for Her Majesty, after which I may offer myself a little sumpin’-sumpin’: coffee; toast with butter and jam; either oatmeal with dried fruit and nuts or yogurt with granola; an apple or mandarine; a scoop of crunchy almond butter; maybe a mug of tea.
The news is to be scanned but not dwelt upon lest it hamper the digestion.
OK, so I missed a few needles. I blame management.
This morning saw the last slice of bread slide down the rathole so a new loaf was in order, and I set that machinery in motion.
Next I congratulated myself for taking a moment yesterday to rake up the pine needles scattered across the lawn by last Thursday’s window-rattler, with the goal of restarting the irrigation system for a quick spritz this morning, when I noticed our bird feeders were getting low. So I filled those up. From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.
This short detour threw a slight hitch into my gitalong. The next items on the schedule were exercise and grocery shopping. If I hadn’t stopped to pat myself on the back I could’ve squeezed in a quick trail run before the sprinklers came on (I wanted to be around to make sure nothing had frozen up during our short cold snap).
Running afterward would put me at the grocery noonish, which is not optimal; the amateurs scuttle out of their holes and get in everyone’s way at noon and 5 p.m. I like to do my shopping between 9 and 10, or sometime after 1, when only pro hunter-gatherers are working the aisles and the registers don’t look like The Big I at rush hour.
Thing is, the meal I have planned for tonight is a slow-cooker deal that wants four hours in the pot.
So, yeah. Here I sit, muttering to myself (and to you) while I update my grocery list, avoid the news, and wait to see whether the irrigation system erupts like Vesuvius.
The transition from winter to spring seems a bit blurry this year.
On yesterday’s ride I was wearing a Sugoi watch cap under my old Giro helmet; Castelli wind vest and long-sleeve Gore jersey over a long-sleeve Paddygucci base layer; winter gloves; heavy Pearl Izumi tights over Castelli bib shorts; and Darn Tough wool socks in Gore-Tex Shimano shoes.
And I still got cold. Should’ve added a Buff to keep the windpipe insulated.
Looking into the Elena Gallegos Open Space from Spain and High Desert.
Happily, I was riding a Soma Saga touring bike, which with fenders, rear rack, tool bag, Zéfal pump, lights, bell, and bottle goes about 32 pounds. So we’re talking minimal self-inflicted wind chill on the flats and ascents.
And today? The first day of “spring?” Sheeyit.
It was snowing, lightly, when I struggled out of bed consumed by desire for hot coffee. Herself was already at her computer, earning. Miss Mia Sopaipilla was making her usual morning noises, which sound like a cross between her name (“Meeeeeeee-yah!”) and a demand for attention (“Meeeee-now!”).
Somehow she manages to find the precise point in El Rancho Pendejo from which her voice will project to every corner of the house. She should be the audio engineer for Radio Free Dogpatch, is what.
Given the conditions breakfast was medium-heavy. Two cups of strong black coffee, thick slabs of whole wheat toast slathered with butter and jam, one tall mug of strong black tea, and oatmeal with fruit and nuts.
Now it’s 40° at 10 a.m. The trash and recycling bins have been emptied and retrieved and we seem to be between drizzles, so some class of healthy outdoor exercise is indicated, if only to get away from the cascade of “news” items about Paris Hilton, boneheaded banking practices, and whether Adolf Twitler will get a long-overdue perp walk.
Mad Blog Media 