So. It’s another beautiful day in New Mexico and I’ve just discovered that I have more work to do on La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. The floor tiles in the guest bathroom have started breaking in half, a situation of considerable consternation. The reason for my confusion is that the tile was laid by “professionals” over the summer and the reason for the failure is, quite simply said, operator error.
I was busy out back with the yard grading problems—moving truckloads of soil with Adrian and Pedro—when the tile was laid in the small bathroom. Since I hired professional tile guys to do the work, I didn’t pay any attention to their efforts. They laid the tile with glue and didn’t “bed” it in mud.
Asshole fucking amateur tile-laying Republican shitheads. I bet they voted for Romney.
In order to have the bathroom ready for the Thanksgiving crowd, Adrian and I will be working the weekend to rip out the old stuff and install newly-purchased tile. Tiles?
Which reminds me. All of a sudden I’m not a very popular man. For months I have been receiving dozens of supportive, flattering Emails every day and suddenly last week, the bottom dropped out. I’m not sure what I did to make Stephanie Cutter unhappy with me, but her sometimes twice-daily love letters just stopped ringing my Email’s doorbell. I really thought we had something going.
And that reminds me of something else. With all the asshole businessmen pulling bone headed stunts in the wake of the President’s reelection, I want to take a minute to speak my positions re: thereto. Thereof? Therein?
Heretofore, I want to speak my positions therein.
First of all, I have long had a personal embargo on Walmart, Chick Fil-A and this restaurant in Austin whose meals gave me food poisoning twice. I started my Walmart embargo due to their asshole personnel policies and strengthened it with the giant chain store’s long list of Chinese product offerings. Now they have allowed their greed to creep Xmas sales all the way into Thanksgiving day, a move that forces other dumbass retailers to do the same. I won’t shop Walmart. Ever, or for any reason.
OK, stop. Do you have an embargo “on” something or “at” that offensive thing?
As for the chicken sandwich shop, I stopped going there because I was in their hometown in Georgia this one time and met some gay people who were fired when they disclosed their homosexuality to management.
So, “Fuck you Smallmart and Chickenshit-Filled Assholes both!”
As for Pappa John’s Pizza, I have consumed exactly one bite of that ketchup-covered cardboard and one bite was enough for a lifetime. But I’ll now add a “Fuck You!” to that asshole and Applebees and Denny’s and all the rest of you. Stop using Obama’s win to excuse your being an asshole.
Be an asshole and own it. I can at least have a modicum of respect for an asshole with integrity.
Which provides another reminder. I wanted to buy some drapes for the dining room to provide privacy. The windows in the front room are giant and some folks don’t like getting ogled by passersby while eating. I will be changing the windows out next spring for better efficiency units, so I wanted simple, inexpensive drapes.
OK, stop again. Maybe I wanted curtains and not drapes.
Anyway, I do everything possible to buy American made goods and services and I especially don’t like to buy Chinese. I refuse to consume anything Chinese unless it’s my only choice and I really need it. I’ll gladly pay higher prices for stuff to support homegrown business and that reminds me to say that I don’t do Staples or Home Depot either.
And now I’ve lied to you because I consume Chinese food—love it and eat it by choice—and the lady up to the spa where I got a recent rubdown was Chinese, and me glad she was. Maybe I’m showing a prejudice, but I think Asian women—or at least Asian-looking women—give the best rubdowns on the planet.
I used to think it was Scandinavian women who were the best rub-downers back to when I was married to Ingrid. Ingrid owns Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium back to Austin and Ingrid has her some magic fingers. Since our divorce, and the subsequent separating of the clinical rubdown from the hard-core sexual aspects of my relationship with Ingrid, I’ve decided that Asian women are the best rubbers.
I spent the entire last week trying to find already sewn drapes NOT fucking made in China. The best I could do was over to the Bed Bath and Way-too-fucking-far Gone, where I found an assortment of drapes that were, as the tags said, “Hecho in China.”
Hecho in fucking China?
I’ve got an appointment with a seamstress Monday morning.
Which reminds me. I’m headed to a party in my honor tonight and I truly don’t know what to think. My lawyer buddy is introducing me to some local folks and I have some confusions therein. Sex is a not-so-recent memory and I’m hoping he and his lovely wife have arranged for some unattached women to be there for me to meet. I’m concerned that I’ll do something to fuck up their friendships. Not that I’d ruin a relationship on purpose, but I’m trolling for sex of an accidental or purposeful nature, either way.
Is it proper to take more than one woman home from a party given in your honor? If things move quickly in one of the new relationships, do we sex it up in the bathroom or should we take it outside. Would it be proper to sex one new acquaintance in the bathroom during the party and take another home after?
It’s been cold at night so maybe I should put some blankets in the car, and have you noticed that my ADHD has gotten better since I left Texas? The Squirt told me just this morning that she thinks I’m getting better since we moved to Santa Fe.
OK, that’s another lie. What my adorable little puppy actually said was, “Not getting laid helps your ADHD—gives you something to focus your crazy mind.”
Then she giggled at me and said, “Shiny objects!”
I said, “Bitch,” and then giggled with her. “Will you check the hairs in my nose for me? Classy women don’t go for men with boar bristles poking out their schnozzolas.”
Blankets and a Barry White CD. I wonder if they’ll invite a nice lady artist. Maybe I should go with a Puccini opera CD. Maybe I should get one of my Navajo blankets in case I meet a nice woman from a local tribe. Maybe I should learn a few pick-up lines in Navajo. Maybe I’m over-thinking this dealio.
Ugh. So much to do. Manana, y’all.