It’s been a strange year weather-wise at the Rancho. Lots of rain and colder than normal temperatures have encouraged Max and I to stay indoors far more than usual.
Little by little we can sense the arrival of Spring. Our Japanese winter camellias are finishing their blooms while the Australian tea tree has burst into blossoms.
Scads of hungry hummingbirds have taken over the feeders and there are constant, grand battles being fought by these fierce and hateful little creatures.
The lawn is thick and lush; the same can be said of me. The magnolia trees are just sitting there with a bazillion shiny leaves anxious to drop and litter the homestead while at Max’s favorite park the first cherry blossoms have made their appearance.
All over Southern California there are epic “super blooms” of the golden poppy, our State flower. One particular site attracted over 100,000 visitors last weekend causing an enormous traffic jam in the small Lake Elsinore community.
You might say things are fecund. You might but I wouldn’t.
Great word, fecund. On the one hand, it sounds vaguely salacious but when I patted her on the butt, made pervy eyebrows and told the AJF that “things around here are looking rather fecund,” she thought that I was insulting her housekeeping.
I guess that people who learn English as a second language don’t trust native speakers when we slip an unfamiliar word into our discussions. On the other hand, this is the woman who announced loudly and in public that an acquaintance had died from a “brain hemorrhoid.”
Max taught me a new word – “sapiosexual.” I’ve since learned that this word is used frequently by the younger generations in online forums.
According to that bastion of knowledge, the Urban Dictionary, the word means “one who finds the content’s of someone else’s mind to be their most attractive attribute, above and before their physical characteristics.”
Max explained that since we so cruelly neutered him, he would forever be a sapiosexual dog and added that the fine little shih-tzu down the block had a beautiful mind.
I suggested that my leg must be a regular Einstein inasmuch as he tries to hump it with regularity.
Speaking of neutered, I’ve recently been assigned a raft of home projects by the AJF who thinks that I may be goofing off simply because she found me sitting with Max in my sweatpants watching basketball and quaffing a carbonated adult beverage at 2 in the afternoon.
(And how Max got in my sweatpants, I’ll never know.………..apologies to Groucho Marx.)
Young daughter agrees with her Mother that a man at leisure is a man who needs to be assigned a task and is on a campaign to convince the AJF to volunteer me for all sorts of jobs at the Casa de Progeny.
I get little respect from the females around this place and the only fellow male – the dog – ignores the Bro Code and offers scarce respect, too.
I was going to dress up Max on St. Patrick’s Day. As a person of Irish descent (the AJF says I descended from the apes and I find no inconsistencies between our positions) I felt obligated to turn the little Furnugget into a leprechaun or at least but a green hat on him but, alas, the ennui of the gray, gloomy winter sucked out all my motivation.
We did, however, go to Total Wines and More and purchase a fifth (that’s 750ml in socialist units) of Irish whisky. Come to Daddy!
Sure, I could have bought a Bushmills, a Jameson, a Paddy, Greenspot, Redbreast. or (if I was feeling flush) an aged Proper’s but…no. For giggles, the brand I chose was Hell Cat Maggie from the famed Cooley Distillery in Louth, Ireland.
Hell Cat Maggie is named after an American criminal and early member of the Dead Rabbits, a nativist gang in New York during the mid-1800s.
She was a well-known personality in Manhattan and a noted fighter, “her teeth reportedly filed into points and her fingers adorned with long claw-like brass fingernails.”
As Wikipedia says, “Although there is little information on her life, she is one of the earliest female criminals of the “Gangs of New York.”
Well, how much more of an endorsement does one need? Suffice to say that the whisky was…interesting. As one web reviewer put it:
“Perfect medicine for a cold. Like a honey-lemon Ricola. Smooth with hints of rubbing alcohol. Finishes with a slight bitterness, fades quickly.
Conclusion: This whiskey is aptly named as it has all the aspects of a traditional Irish Whiskey but rougher around the edges. For the price it’s perhaps OK.”
Despite the effusive praise, I liked Hell Cat Maggie, mostly because it was so darn cheap. I wish I had video’d Max’s reaction when I held a snifter of HCM under his sensitive Maltese nose. I think he would have preferred a whiff of benzene.
So, anywhoo, that’s all Max and I have to report. We haven’t posted much because we haven’t done much of late. But Easter is coming soon and I suspect there will be dog costumes, rabbit shaped treats, egg eating Maltese and other shenanigans.
Meanwhile, there’s a lot to be said for uneventful times.