Got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Do it every day. One thing after another. This my life
with my guy. We're hotter than a pepper sprout. Usually.
Started right off about 8 or 9am. I was reading the Atlanta Journal-Constitution online, finished eating breakfast,
moved my plate over to my side desk--without paying attention to what I was doing, natch--and knocked over my
full 20-oz. mug of coffee. Coffee spilled and ran all over my computer desk! A great lake of it. Splish Splash my
scattered Post Its were taking a bath. But, fortunately, it didn't slosh down on my keyboard or my computer. I
went tearing into the master bath, grabbed a big green towel, and came tearing back into my office, dabbed it up.
The desk needed a good clean, anyway. But I had rather use 901 surface, not Kroger 50% Caffeine.
Later, I thought my husband Nabo was asleep so I decided to wait about showering until he woke up. Silly me. He
came in about 10 am and wanted to go shopping. Now!. The baby cats: Mr. Big, Bruce Lee, William and Harry,
were hungry and didn't have any wet food; he wanted to cook, he needed this and that, yada yada yada. My hair
was slick, but he didn't want to wait until I showered, so off we went. At Kroger, i covered my head with my
jacket hood and went around looking like the female Unabomber. Heh.
with my guy. We're hotter than a pepper sprout. Usually.
Started right off about 8 or 9am. I was reading the Atlanta Journal-Constitution online, finished eating breakfast,
moved my plate over to my side desk--without paying attention to what I was doing, natch--and knocked over my
full 20-oz. mug of coffee. Coffee spilled and ran all over my computer desk! A great lake of it. Splish Splash my
scattered Post Its were taking a bath. But, fortunately, it didn't slosh down on my keyboard or my computer. I
went tearing into the master bath, grabbed a big green towel, and came tearing back into my office, dabbed it up.
The desk needed a good clean, anyway. But I had rather use 901 surface, not Kroger 50% Caffeine.
Later, I thought my husband Nabo was asleep so I decided to wait about showering until he woke up. Silly me. He
came in about 10 am and wanted to go shopping. Now!. The baby cats: Mr. Big, Bruce Lee, William and Harry,
were hungry and didn't have any wet food; he wanted to cook, he needed this and that, yada yada yada. My hair
was slick, but he didn't want to wait until I showered, so off we went. At Kroger, i covered my head with my
jacket hood and went around looking like the female Unabomber. Heh.
| Wildflower Starters in February |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
In the checkout line, some jerk hit me with his cart. Twice. I glared and snarled.
On the way home two idiots tried to mow me down. I shot them a look. Nabo shot them a bird.
We got home, and, since Nabo toted in most of the groceries, I put most of them up, including the bathroom stuff.
Then I hoped in the shower. Little while, he comes charging into my office wanting to know where something is. I
am deaf in one ear and can't hear out of the other one, but I do read lips. I do have trouble understanding him
sometimes because, although he speaks fluent English, his Spanish accent is really thick. He usually writes things
down. Today he was in...um...rear-mode and refused to do it. Duh. He is without a doubt a darling man, my knight
in shining armor, but that armor has a few dents. Finally, I figured out he was looking for the plastic cups he
bought. They were Dixie Cup type thingys. I told him they were in plain sight on the vanity in the dressing room,
which adjoins the /bathroom.
"No, no, no. You leave my tings alone. I don't want my cups in the badroom."
"Well, excuse me all over the place and gone."
What did he want with the cups anyway, if not to rinse his mouth out after brushing his teeth. He isn't a bit
afraid to put his mouth or any other body part in the "badroom."
He stomped back into the kitchen and began cooking costilla de puerco en salsa roja con chile huajillo, arroz blanco
y frijol pinto--pork ribs with red chili pepper sauce, white rice, and pinto beans. From scratch. Yum. But I was on
the South Beach Diet--for the day, anyway--starving, wanting to make a big green salad in my big glass bowl, and
had to wait until Sir Rear's dried chili peppers finished soaking in it. He offered to switch them to another bowl.
What bowl, I wanted to know. It's not that we don't have plenty of big bowls; it's just that they are still at my
sister's house from Thanksgiving, two months previously.
"I put them in one pot," he said, walking toward the cabinet over the dryer where I stick my pots.
"No, don't bother," I said, "I'll just nibble on the desk," and stomped back into my office.
My friend Mary once asked me if we ate a lot of Mexican food and I told her we ate a lot of Chinese. And we do;
we eat out most of the time. I can cook, and well, but he seldom has a taste in his mouth for it. (Pssst--don't tell
him I told you this, but the real reason we seldom cook is because he thinks the less we cook the less our gigantic
$17 gas bill will be.) When we're broke, I fix spaghetti and we eat it for three or four days until his next payday.
One week we had to do that and were looking forward to dinner at Aunt Pam's house. And what did she serve.
Spaghetti. Heh. Anyhoo, we most times eat out--China or Hong Kong, KFC, Hardee's, Ryan's. Puckett's--how
'bout them biscuits!
I finally got to make my salad and ate it with a South Beach TV dinner, while he was poking around doing
something outside. After I ate and cleaned up the kitchen, I stepped out onto the front porch and discovered what
he had wanted with the little plastic cups. He had filled all fourteen of them with yard
dirt, planted wildflower seeds in each, set them on a tray he had laid across a white
five-gallon bucket overturned on the porch. plant starters in early February.
On the way home two idiots tried to mow me down. I shot them a look. Nabo shot them a bird.
We got home, and, since Nabo toted in most of the groceries, I put most of them up, including the bathroom stuff.
Then I hoped in the shower. Little while, he comes charging into my office wanting to know where something is. I
am deaf in one ear and can't hear out of the other one, but I do read lips. I do have trouble understanding him
sometimes because, although he speaks fluent English, his Spanish accent is really thick. He usually writes things
down. Today he was in...um...rear-mode and refused to do it. Duh. He is without a doubt a darling man, my knight
in shining armor, but that armor has a few dents. Finally, I figured out he was looking for the plastic cups he
bought. They were Dixie Cup type thingys. I told him they were in plain sight on the vanity in the dressing room,
which adjoins the /bathroom.
"No, no, no. You leave my tings alone. I don't want my cups in the badroom."
"Well, excuse me all over the place and gone."
What did he want with the cups anyway, if not to rinse his mouth out after brushing his teeth. He isn't a bit
afraid to put his mouth or any other body part in the "badroom."
He stomped back into the kitchen and began cooking costilla de puerco en salsa roja con chile huajillo, arroz blanco
y frijol pinto--pork ribs with red chili pepper sauce, white rice, and pinto beans. From scratch. Yum. But I was on
the South Beach Diet--for the day, anyway--starving, wanting to make a big green salad in my big glass bowl, and
had to wait until Sir Rear's dried chili peppers finished soaking in it. He offered to switch them to another bowl.
What bowl, I wanted to know. It's not that we don't have plenty of big bowls; it's just that they are still at my
sister's house from Thanksgiving, two months previously.
"I put them in one pot," he said, walking toward the cabinet over the dryer where I stick my pots.
"No, don't bother," I said, "I'll just nibble on the desk," and stomped back into my office.
My friend Mary once asked me if we ate a lot of Mexican food and I told her we ate a lot of Chinese. And we do;
we eat out most of the time. I can cook, and well, but he seldom has a taste in his mouth for it. (Pssst--don't tell
him I told you this, but the real reason we seldom cook is because he thinks the less we cook the less our gigantic
$17 gas bill will be.) When we're broke, I fix spaghetti and we eat it for three or four days until his next payday.
One week we had to do that and were looking forward to dinner at Aunt Pam's house. And what did she serve.
Spaghetti. Heh. Anyhoo, we most times eat out--China or Hong Kong, KFC, Hardee's, Ryan's. Puckett's--how
'bout them biscuits!
I finally got to make my salad and ate it with a South Beach TV dinner, while he was poking around doing
something outside. After I ate and cleaned up the kitchen, I stepped out onto the front porch and discovered what
he had wanted with the little plastic cups. He had filled all fourteen of them with yard
dirt, planted wildflower seeds in each, set them on a tray he had laid across a white
five-gallon bucket overturned on the porch. plant starters in early February.
