So. I’ve had my alarm bells rung and it’s time to head back to Austin. The lovely Dr, Sam I. Am-Johnson has decided that I’m to be either in her offices Friday in the am or check myself in over to the Loony Bin. The simple fact that I find those two options as reasonable debatable choices is reason enough for me to head back to Austin, and pronto. Sammy left me a terse comment to yesterday’s posting. She thinks she’s so very clever. That whole “I have four words to say to you” dealio is a tired trick.
I’ve got things here to Santa Fe to a manageable state, and I have stuff to do there to Austin and people missed.
Which reminds me. Nobody has complained about the fat pig Rush Limbaugh or his wife Rick Perry. And don’t even start on me that they are both males so they are each a husband. Rick Perry is the wife in that marriage and a long-suffering wife at that. The fact that Gram hasn’t bitched at me about my pet pig and ostrich might be a sign of danger.
I have Sirius Radio in all my cars and we were listening to Tom Hartman yesterday on one of our many trips to the Ace Hardware. Tom was interviewing one of the Republican delegates and this asshole was going on and on about how America needs a strong Defense so we can patrol the World’s oceans and “keep the peace” on land around our ever-more uneasy globe.
At commercial break, Squirt turned in her harness and said to me, she asked, “Why do you assholes call wasting all that money on your military “defense”? You haven’t used your military to defend any fucking thing since World War II.”
I puzzled at the question and wondered at the mental prowess behind it’s development from facts to thoughts to question. I have always known that my little brown-furred bundle of puppy meat was smart, but this was different. As I formulated a response, she interrupted my thoughts.
“Offense,” she blurted out. “America’s military should be called it’s Offense.”
We then had a lengthy discourse about why the military is important and how much military is enough military. The final words of the debate were the Squirt’s when she said, “Well, I think that each branch of the military should be governed by a tribunal consisting of one man, one woman and a third not heterosexual General. Then it will be deserving to be called Defense.”
With that we entered the Ace Hardware for some diamond grinder blades to cut flagstones, a new garden hose to replace the one damaged during construction, and to drag our ass for a while. I headed straight for Aisle One where I know the 4-and-a-half-inch grinder blades sit locked into their display. When I arrived a dozen steps ahead of the Squirt, there was a nice lady already there reviewing the blade display.
“Need assistance?” I asked her.
She turned to me with a dazzling smile and said, “With what?”
“What, where, who, when or why, Mademoiselle, Mooner Johnson’s the name and solving Grammar’s big questions is my middle name.”
The dazzling smile faded and a look of question mixed with disgust filled her face. “What,” she asked, “is THAT?”
I turned to see the Squirt heading our way doing her ass-scoot shuffle–face all scrunched-up, hind legs pointing skyward, a squiggly trail swiped into the dust of the floor.
“Isn’t she just the most adorable little bundle of dog fur you’ve ever seen? She’s got an anal gland thingie going on, and…” I turned to say, “and she loves to come here to the Ace because the ridges in the tile give her some relief.” But I was speaking to the woman’s back as she walked away, quickly.
“That’s it, kiddo, I’m taking you to get your glands removed. Get your brain latched around having surgery and I don’t want any guff about it.”
Squirt scooted to my feet, looked me in the eyes and said, she said to me, “Fuck you, asshole,” and scooted off.
She really is adorable.
Anyway, I’ll be packing our personal kits tonight before we hit the sack and heading out to Austin whenever the first of us awakens Thursday morning. I just opened a can of cat food and set it at the base of the big Ponderosa pine. Yoda and Squirt are on alert for when Honor the fucking cat comes down to eat. She’ll have the choice to stay or go. I’m starting to discover that the only sane way to interact with a fucking cat is to mirror the cat’s give-a-shit attitude right back in their face.
“Tell her I said ‘Come, don’t come, as I don’t give a shit either way.’”
The older I get, the better parent I am. Manana, y’all.