I'm under a major allergy attack.
After a pre-breakfast of an oatmeal cookie and coffee, I preheat the oven to 450. I 'm itching for punkin pie, despite a recipe which calls for three eggs, a cup of sugar and a cup of evaporated milk. I understand why the label on the pre-made pie crusts called them "traditional" because I get two punkin pies from a recipe for one deep-dish pie.
Yes, I got lazy and asked Dawn to pick up pie crusts on her way home. We don't have regular milk in the frig because I have switched to soymilk. I'm on a semi-vegetarian diet thanks to Jorge's influence. I watch and wait for him to screw up. The net results are that I have refined my bad habits and cut my meat intake.
I'm concentrating on eating more vegetables and as always doing things organically.
For example, Jorge gives me a pint container of white miso he purchased weeks ago. He tells me he likes miso soup, especially the way I prepare it with bits of tofu, scallions and fresh parsley. His diet is so routine, it would make me scream loudly for a Big Boy Hamburger. He's a lazy cook.Meals are repetitive. Boring. He'd never think to add saffron to rice. He does like garlic. However,subtle is not in his vocabulary. A few days ago he chopped an entire bulb of garlic and added that to his lunch-time fare. I asked if it caused any gastric distress. "Not a bit," is his reply. I think about an aphorism of his-You Don't Have To Think To Lie. A few days later, he admits to an afternoon of flatulence.
The allergic reaction? To get me out of bed, Salvatore Pucci crawls next to my face purring loudly. He licks my fingers . To show how much he cares and a subtle hint that he's hungry, he gnaws my knuckle. Cat spit. It makes my eyes itch. It makes me wheeze.
I'm kinda in between things at the moment. I'm no longer a teacher, or a peddler. The Indian Trader/drum maker retired to the country. The traveler got tired of the hassles at the airport. Ask Dawn about a pair of shoes she wore in Sky Harbor Airport which had a metal rod in the soles. I don't need no more stuff. I got a barn full of stuff. Enough stuff to open up another trading post, except I don't wanna live in or near a major urban area. I've always been a farmer, so that doesn't count. My past shows that I've moved every seven years, give or take for divorce, kids and restlessness. What to do. What to do.
|Not A Monk|
He's still a cop. He has a downtown beat. He pops into the Rialto Theater to take a leak. The Rialto showed X-rated stuff. A guy walks in and goes to the urinal adjacent to this cop. Kinda ballsy if you asks me. Jorge looks at him. The guy is peeking over into his stall. "Can I have a look?" he asks. Jorge replies, " No,You got one of your own."
I love women. Women of all shapes, sizes and colors. It's the way I feel. I'd describe my attitude toward life as similar to that of Fritz Perls. I am me and you are you. If we agree, it's wonderful. If not, it can't be helped.
|Our Lady of Indiscretion-Seven Roads Gallery 2011|
Again, I have strayed. It takes awhile to get back on track after summer of pawing in the dirt.
Dawn called the care facility for her father. She spoke with the director, identifying herself and giving her credentials. The ugly sister lied about a number of things. The director of the facility told Dawn that visiting hours are 9-6. He said there is no need for registering as a family member to be able to visit. Dad is faring well.. Their definition of "comfort care" is different. In our neck of the woods, it means care for a terminal resident. To them it just means making the resident feel comfortable. So he's not dying. Sister has large control issues as well as a fondness for paranoid hysteria.