Correction

I was mistaken. Last night's post should have been titled "Saturday Evening" instead of Sunday evening. Lord knows I don't have to hurry things along any faster than they're already going.

But..speaking of Sunday...

...actually this goes back even further, to Saturday afternoon. I lay down for a short nap and as I was lying there I felt a tiny bit of tightness in my chest. This worried me a wee tad because, as regular readers know, I have a pacemaker in my chest. But the thought that went through my head was this:

My buddy Steve, who has season tickets to the Arizona Diamondbacks games, had invited me down to take in a game this afternoon (Sunday). So as I was lying there contemplating the tightness in my chest Saturday I wondered idly if I suddenly "ceased to exist" (to quote the Monty Python dead parrot sketch), would SWMBO call Steve and tell him I wouldn't be able to make the game.

I then further thought that if she had neglected to do so and the time reached, say 12:15 p.m. today (Sunday) when I was due to to meet Steve at his house and I wasn't there, would Steve call and ask SWMBO "Where's ***** (Catalyst)?" And would she then respond, "He can't make it. He's dead."

Well, I told Steve all of this today when I did get to his house on time to go to the game. He said if the latter case had happened, he probably would have told SWMBO that he still had the ticket and could she make it to Phoenix and go to the game with him.

Y'know, that's what friends are for.

Sunday evening

Summer evening.

Whiskey and water.

Smell of grilled meat.

Diamondbacks win.

SWMBO clipping rose hips.

Smoke hanging out.

A trip to the (new) neighbor.

Her neighbor out grilling steaks on a barbecue grill.

Stop for a quick visit.

He's bare from the waist up, except for numerous tattoos. But he's a gentle man, in spite of his unmufflered car, truck and motorcycle.

A talk with the new neighbor about her love of cats, including Smoke (she already knew his name.)

Later, after TV dinners, a wonderful strawberry shortcake.

Nice evening.

Car Sale

SWMBO sold her car today, thanks to Craig's List. She got exactly what she asked for it and, considering it was 17 years old, we think she did well.



So, on this Wednesday, everything's coming up roses.

Accidental Scott

There's something you should know about SWMBO and I.

Though we've been married for 37 years, it's not our first rodeo.

I was married before and so was SWMBO.

And we both have sons named Scott! Curiously, I guess, my kids have never met her kids. And none of them are kids anymore.

This story is about SWMBO's Scott.


In this picture of him in California a year or two ago, I think of him as "Indiana Scott." Which is fitting, not just because of the hat, but because he actually lives in Indiana, where he grew up.

We had a telephone call from him about a week ago in which he told his mother "I thought I'd better call you before you find this out from somebody else."

Uh-oh.

Scott is a contractor and a remodeler and a damned good one at that. But he has a tendency to be a little stubborn. When a refrigerator was delivered to a construction site, he asked the delivery man with some help moving it into the house.

"Not my job", said the delivery man.

So Scott . . . being Scott . . . said "All right, I'll do it myself!"

Well . . . that didn't work out so well. The fridge fell over onto Scott, breaking two bones in his left leg.

He told his Mom that he had broken one of his own rules. He had employees on site who could have and would have helped him but his orneriness took over.

So, he had surgery and his left leg is now full of screws and staples and he's trying to be patient. That is not a good trait of his: patience.

But he has a sense of humor. Some years ago, some friends of his gave him a lift somewhere and as he got out of the car, he got hit by another car and broke two bones in his right leg.

As he told his Mom, "Now I've got a matched pair!"

Weddings, anyone?

As I was contemplating our near-arch of roses this morning, the thought came to me of how to turn it green. I think I could find some place on the Web that would make me an ordained minister for a relatively small investment. With my papers in hand, I could conduct WEDDINGS!

After all, who doesn't dream of being married surrounded by roses. Just step into my bower, dear hearts, and I shall be happy to commit you to a life of (a. happiness, b. misery == pick one).

And, after the rain, a carpet of rose petals.

Sometimes, my brain just stuns me.

Me and the Times

O.K. I've been reading Mike's blog for a long time now and I've been through his problems with his job, the Mormons, Utah, his kidney cancer, his lawyer daughter, his running son and that ugly dog of his. (Man, he's gonna love that.)

So, I've decided to bare my soul and tell you of my problems with the Newspaper of Record, the New York Times.

For months, maybe years, now I've been taking the Sunday Times delivered to my driveway. Since I live in Lower Butf--k, Arizona, I find this amazing at best. Every Sunday morning, I open my door and there lies the Times in my driveway. Except some Sunday mornings when the delivery guy has had a meth overdose or something and my paper didn't arrive. Or some mornings when it's been lying in the rain or snow for long enough to soak it through. (Note: you can't dry it out in the microwave.)

For this great convenience (mainly for SWMBO who gets through the whole paper in one day while it takes me two, three, four or more days) I pay the New Yorkers 26 bucks a month.

Until this month. I noticed a payment deducted from my bank account on May 6th for $52. Well!!! I called the Times (very convenient: 1-800-NYTIMES) and was told I had been double-billed because I had not paid anything in April. I checked. Yes, I had. My bank account had been debited for $26 on April 8th. I told the guy on the phone about it and he said they had no record of it. I faxed them the proof. (This was on about my third conversation with a third person - - you never get the same guy or gal twice.)

Everyone I talked to said the same thing: we have no record of it but the billing department has opened an investigation and we'll get back to you. I finally asked them to tell the billing department to call me. They never did.

Somebody once told me: go to the top.

So last night, I e-mailed the Publisher (Arthur Sulzberger Jr.) and the President and General Manager (Scott H. Heekin-Canedy), told them the whole story and asked for their prompt attention.

This morning at 8:15 I received a call from someone who said her name was Tanya, who sounded cooperative, or perhaps cowed, who asked me to fax all the bank proofs of my various payments (which now are $78 more than I owe) and she would definitely take care of it. She gave me her private, direct telephone number. She was very sympathetic.

Of course, this is Friday. The beginning of the Memorial Day weekend. I am hoping that maybe, just maybe, by next Tuesday I will hear something back. If not, maybe Mr. Sulzberger and Mr. Heekin-Canedy (what kind of a name is that?) will receive yet another e-mail from me.

Grillin' 'n' Chillin'

Oh, yeah. It's time to fire up the grill.

What we have here is some asparagus, several boneless skinless chicken breasts and a half a hunk of Artisan bread wrapped in foil.

SWMBO fires up the gas.

This is not time-lapse photography but the first side of that chicken is done. The bread is heating on an upper rack.

The asparagus is in the grill basket. Oh, yeahhhhhh!

Can you smell that chicken?

Can you taste that asparagus and chicken?

Oh, yeah. Fill my plate. Add some brown rice. And my salad: grated carrots and apple, some poached raisins and toasted slivered almonds.

Let's see. Anything else? Oh, yeah, a glass of red wine.

I'm in heaven!