Catching Up, So To Speak

Sorry for the late post, but I was recovering.

Fact is, I got married yesterday to my first-ever girlfriend Angie, after over forty-odd years apart.  Here we are as teenage sweethearts:

Yes, that’s my genuine boys’-boarding-school haircut on display.

This was a much-older Kim & Angie, after dinner at III Forks in Dallas, last night:

How we got back together again is a long and rather boring tale, and I may share it with y’all some time in the future.

We were married by the Reverend-Doctor Combat Controller at Doc Russia’s house, surrounded by my family and that of Bobby K (Tech Support II), and by the miracle of Teh Intarwebz, with Angie’s family in Johannesburg, London and Melbourne as well.

So there was a woman out there willing to put up with all my nonsense, after all.  I just had to go back to South Africa to find her.

From My Cabin To Yours…

…a warm and wonderful New Year.

And may all the new guns you buy in 2019 shoot straight and work properly.

You are going to buy some new guns in 2019, aren’t you?  It’s one way to make your New Year a happy one.

And speaking of happy:

Cheers, y’all.  That’s for “Dry January”… and after that, it’s this for “Veganuary”:

Might as well start the year off the way I plan to do for the rest of it:  pissing off the people who want me to stop enjoying myself.

Wife Needed

I don’t do well by myself.  Today I dropped the Tiguan off at the Eurocar repair shop to have the back brakes replaced (after only 65,000 miles — whatever happened to quality?).  The owner of the place very kindly offered me a lift home, which offer I gratefully accepted.

And then it all went pear-shaped.  You see, I always drop the deadbolt on the front door when I leave the house because I go out through the garage.

You know where this is going, right?

Yup;  the garage door opener is still in the Tiguan, ten miles away, and my front door key is useless because deadbolt.

So I sidled off to the apartment complex manager to see what could be done.  Long story short:  nada.  For security reasons, there is no universal remote for the garages, and as with the front door, the patio door is likewise deadbolted.  I am marooned for the next four hours or so, and I don’t like it.

Follow my reasoning, here:  if I had a wife, she’d be at home to let me in, with a steaming cup of consoling coffee withal, and I wouldn’t be sitting here typing on the complex’s public computer with only the lovely Claudia in the office to look at, listening to the canned “boom-tsss, boom-tss, boom-tss” background music supporting the usual helium-voiced Black chick singing crap lyrics in nigh-incomprehensible Ebonics.

Or maybe it’s Taylor Swift singing.  I’m not sure because tinnitus makes it difficult to hear anything through the World’s Cheapest Speakers echoing through the hard-floored hard-walled curtainless office complex.

This wife thing may seem to be something of an extreme remedy for the (very) occasional circumstance of locking oneself out of the house;  but there are plenty of other reasons, such as the fact that my last sexual encounter with a woman was during the Bush presidency (and don’t ask which one, either).  Another reason for me to have a wife is that I am absolutely sick of my own cooking — a man can only eat so much steak, shrimp, toasted cheese or -chicken sandwiches, coleslaw, lamb vindaloo, Jarlsberg cheese, bacon & eggs, grilled boerewors, baby back ribs, grapefruit segments, sausage rolls, steak ‘n kidney pie, ice cream, and baked beans on toast for so long before he dies of the dreaded Gastric Boredom.  Some variety, in other words, is needed.

Speaking of need, I need a drink, but of course old-fashioned hospitality has disappeared because offering a cocktail to a man in dire straits is nowadays something Only Hitler Would Do, or so I’ve heard.  If I had a wife, I’d never have that problem because anyone I’d marry would know that when I need a drink, I need a drink and that’s the end of it.

So I’m announcing today that I am now in the market for a wife, on a first-come first-served basis, so to speak.  And while all offers will be closely scrutinized, I should remind all lonely desperate needy partners that I am, to put it very mildly, a terrible prospect and you would be better off hooking up with Hitler.  Or something like that.

Unless Maintenance somehow manages to find some way into my apartment and gets me inside, in which case never mind.

Thanksgiving

Last year I missed Thanksgiving because I was over in Britishland chez  Mr. Free Market.  As I recall, I went out and had fish ‘n chips for dinner with The Englishman, as the Free Markets were unavailable.

This year I’ll be doing it properly.  Daughter is doing the cooking, and Son&Heir will be hosting the dinner at his place.  Today I will be back with my family again, and for that I am truly thankful.

May your Thanksgiving be as blessed as mine.