Tag: Señora

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Matrimonial Log – Star Date 5783.343

“Matrimony… the final frontier. These are the voyages of the Starship Casamiento Segundo, its until-death-do-us-part mission… to explore a strange new relationship… to seek out a new life and new adventures… to boldly go where no sane couple has gone before.”

Although my overflowing fountain of creativity – that’s a yoke, son – at times has me wanting to send out a bus load of blog postings on some days, I generally try to keep it to one a day or less.  No need to overwhelm my extensive readership  with the mundane grumblings of a run-of-the-mill curmudgeon.

However… today I could not resist.  I am not feeling well and have spent most of the day in bed.  I have a memory of Señora at my bedside telling me she was going to the Valley (local area full of strip malls).  An hour or so later I needed a beverage and went down to the kitchen to find this dire warning on the kitchen counter from my loving spouse:

I Think I Have Been Insulted

And so it goes.

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Matrimonial Log – Star Date 5783.326

“Matrimony… the final frontier. These are the voyages of the Starship Casamiento Segundo, its until-death-do-us-part mission… to explore a strange new relationship… to seek out a new life and new adventures… to boldly go where no sane couple has gone before.”

Last night I was lying in bed half asleep.  Señora was next to me watching the tail end of a TV show about Gilda Radner.  When the show was over she turned off the TV, and she leaned over to give me a good night kiss and hug.  During the hug I caressed her back and arms a bit, then I decided I needed to do the same to her hip and leg.  When I arrived there I had the thought, “she sure needs to shave her legs!”  That is when I realized The Wee Dog had weaseled her way in between the two of us.

And so it went with our little ménage à chienne.

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A Profligate, A Wastrel, A Dissipater


At times Señora is such a spendthrift.  She is attempting to convince me that I have maximized the utility of this particular pair of Sperry boat shoes.

Puts me in mind of a picture that was most likely put in the trash years ago.  I had a t-shirt commemorating Arkansas Razorback basketball that I wore for years when I jogged – in Arkansas.  It got to the point that there was no cotton left in the t-shirt. Just the base polyester weave, making it entirely see-through.  A picture was taken of me as I very reluctantly placed it ever so gently in the kitchen trash can.  I was thinking it still had a few more jogging miles in it.

Truth is I have a couple of other pairs of boat shoes that I purchased as I thought perhaps these were a little tacky to wear most places, nearly as bad as wearing a pair of house shoes to the supermarket.   Don’t tell Señora, but I did put them in the trash can today.  For some reason it had become almost impossible to keep rocks and dirt out of them.

And so they went.

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Matrimonial Log – Star Date 5783.298

“Matrimony… the final frontier. These are the voyages of the Starship Casamiento Segundo, its until-death-do-us-part mission… to explore a strange new relationship… to seek out a new life and new adventures… to boldly go where no sane couple has gone before.”

Señora and I were sitting at the kitchen table partaking of our evening repast.  She mentioned the upcoming birthday of a mutual acquaintance revealing that they were turning 70.  This somewhat surprised me as I did not realize that they were about to achieve this “milestone”.  Señora found this a little humorous.

I went on to say, “I don’t know how the f*** I got to be 70 years old.”

“You’ve managed not to croak this long,” she informed me, causing me to spew pasta upon the autumnal decorations anchoring the center of the table.

Words of wisdom from my own personal  rhabdomancer.

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Pity Laugh

We just got back from a week long road trip.  Our first stop was in Owensboro, KY to visit my Aunt Betty.  We got there about mid afternoon and spent most of the afternoon and evening visiting with her after checking into our motel.  The next morning we were going to meet her and some of my cousins for the traditional breakfast at Dee’s Diner.  Needing coffee I went to the breakfast area to get a cup for Señora and I.   As I was doctoring our coffees a young lady came in, pumped herself some coffee, added some cream, then begin looking around.

I asked her, “Are you looking for something?”

“Sugar,” she responded.

To which I replied, “Normally I am accommodating, but we just met!”

That is when I got the pity laugh.

Probably I am lucky I did not get my face slapped, but being elderly these sweet young things grant me some latitude… such as holding doors for me and allowing me to go in first.  They seem to think there is no bark left in this old hound dog.  Gotta love this getting old gig.

And so it is going.

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Not tonight…

I took a trip down to Mississippi for a few days to visit my buddy down there, and to get in a few rounds of golf with my old  – now really old – group of Mississippian golfing companions.

As is our wont each night Señora and I touched base  to hear each others’ voice and see how our respective days had gone.

My last night there towards the end of the phone call I suggested phone sex to Señora, more to pick at her than anything else.

She replied with little hesitation, “Not tonight Dear, I have a headache.”

Oh the thrill is gone.

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Four Possible Exit Predictions

I have four possible predictions on my final exit from the travails of this cruel world.

My first possibility is very pedestrian.  I go out the normal way, succumbing to one of the many infirmities that can affect us viejos. I am sure y’all can list them by heart.

A second possible way is  that I will be walking down the stairs.  My progressive bifocals are not on properly, I step down where I think the step is, but it is not.  I tumble down the stairs and break my neck.  I have come close to doing this more times than I can count .

The third way involves neighbors up the street from us who run Continue reading “Four Possible Exit Predictions”

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Paraphernalia

As these things come and go, I have no idea if it is still  in vogue, but the slang, at least for a while, was to refer to the male specific anatomy as “junk”.  At least I heard a lot of comedians on the telly doing so.  Recently Señora referred to my personal masculine anatomical configuration as paraphernalia.

Paraphernalia… hmm, I didn’t know about that.  One dictionary definition of this word is: trappings associated with a particular institution or activity that are regarded as superfluous. What is superfluous, the trappings, the institution or activity? There appears to be a little ambiguity in that definition. Another source gives the definition as: the separate real or personal property of a married woman that she can dispose of by will and sometimes according to common law during her life.

To the second definition…OUCH. To the first, I certainly do not consider my apparatus superfluous – at least yet, and I am hoping  Señora does not either.

But then again I did wonder what Señora had been smoking that she had paraphernalia on her mind.

And soooooo it goes.

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Matrimonial Log – Star Date 5782.238

“Matrimony… the final frontier. These are the voyages of the Starship Casamiento Segundo, its until-death-do-us-part mission… to explore a strange new relationship… to seek out a new life and new adventures… to boldly go where no sane couple has gone before.”

Caution the following is NSFW – Not Safe for Work – and more than a little randy… You have been appraised, proceed at your own risk.

It has been a great summer for watermelons.  On the way to the golf course is a vegetable stand, and I have been stopping there about once a week to buy us a specimen of this most wonderful of summer delectables.

Tonight as Señora partook of this treat  she moaned around  the red, luscious, juicy fruit,  “I hope I die eating watermelon.”

To which I replied, “I hope I die eating pussy.”

Not missing a beat Señora shot back, “At least I will know where to find the body.”

And yes Señora approved.

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Choice is Good

I have two frequent muses for my silly, little blog.  One is Señora. Most of the time she is okay with being my muse, sometimes she is tickled, and on occasion, she will arch one eyebrow and give me that look. After two bouts of the the brain fever known as matrimonitis I have gained enough “wisdom” to seek Señora‘s approval before releasing stories involving her into the wilds of cyberspace.

My other muse is The Wee Dog, aka Princess Lily, our 7 kilogram rescue dog. A year or so after we adopted her, on a whim – and on sale – we had her DNA tested.  She is 3/8 Bichon Frisé, 1/4 Dachshund, 1/8 Pomeranian, 1/8 Pekingese, 1/8 Shih Tzu and 100% adorable except to squirrels, rabbits, moles and especially chipmunks.

Señora and Princess Lily are essentially surgically/psychically/telepathically connected. Neither one of them can stand not knowing where the other is, generally they are in the same room together.  As revealed in True Confessions, I, by spells, have my roles to play in this ménage à chienne. For reasons known Continue reading “Choice is Good”