Last night, with nothing else in mind for din-din, I decided to make a beef stew (pronounced 'stoo') type of thing.

Aside: (This is important, people. Read it.) Whenever I have leftover veggies or beef gravy, I put it in a zipper bag in the freezer for times such as last night. After the bag gets a whole bunch of stuff in it, I cook up some beef, toss in the veggie/gravy stuff, and, Eureka! Beef stoo! (sort of)

Ok, so anyway, I'm getting ready to make the stoo. I remember me dear sainted Mama Yip sometimes including barley in soups and stoos.

As it happens, I have some barley in my extensively-stocked pantry! (By 'extensively-stocked', I mean there's 1 bag of penne pasta and a can of crushed tomatoes. I think there's a half-eaten Hershey bar and some kosher salt in there too.)

I throw a bunch of the barley in the stoo. After a while, dinner was served, with a glass or two (Ok, 7 glasses. Or was it 8?) of red wine - shiraz/grenache to be exact. Pretty damned good, if I say so myself! I mean, I'm no Bobby Flay. I'm no Ming. I'm no French dude (can't remember his name). I'm no Julia Child - though we do bear a striking resemblance. But all in all, it was pretty tasty.

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After a kitchen remodel, I had an old (ancient!) dishwasher to get rid of, along with some other crap (not 'good' crap, 'bad' crap) including a couple of broken patio tables, a patio heater, about 12 feet of duct work, and miscellaneous (bad) crap.

This was all stuff the regular trash pickup won't accept.  So, I call the city to make an appointment for what they call 'bulky item pickup'.  I'm told to have the crap out by the street no later than 7:00 A.M. the day of the appointment.

Being the clever lad I am (read:  to damned lazy to get up at 5:30 to move the crap to the curb), I put it out at about 8:30 the night before.   I showered, got all sparkly and shiny clean, and went out for an evening of no-no beverages and delightful dining with some other homa seckshuls.

I arrive back at Hell's Half Acre at about 11:00 that night.  EVERYTHING, except one broken patio table, is GONE!

Maybe that crap wasn't so bad after all!     Right now, somewhere in the K.C. area, some guy is thinking to himself, 'What am I gonna do with this crap?  Oh well, it was free.'

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The only Domestic Partnership Registry in Arkansas--and one of the few in the Mid-South region of the country--may soon be history, if one right-wing state legislator has his way.

But the City of Eureka Springs and DPR advocates, vow to vigorously oppose a move by Republican Arkansas State Rep. Bryan King to do away with it.

In only 22 months, 256 unmarried couples from 55 Arkansas communities and 14 other states have registered as domestic partners in Eureka Springs.

At least 28 of those couples came from neighboring Oklahoma and another 32 from Missouri, says Michael Walsh, who wrote the domestic partnership law that went into effect in June 2007.

Efforts to keep the resort town from officially honoring gay and straight couples is «transparent homophobia,» he says.

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I've been gone for a few days, but, just like the proverbial bad check, I've returned.

I'm not sure if the past few days have been a dream or reality.

In speaking with my shrink -- I mean, psychiatrist (not good to mention the word 'shrink' to a man during this cold weather, ya know) -- he's decided one of the following is my reality (in no particular order):

1. I've been engaged in a rasslin' match with a she-demon in the purple waves of the 9th astral plane.

2. I fell into a sink hole in the outer reaches of Hell's Half Acre. I subsisted for 6 days by eating bugs and worms, and squeezing water from the muddy walls of the sink hole. At one point, The Boy (Little Yip) passed by, spotted me screaming for help 32 feet below the surface, and shouted down to me, 'Piss off, old man! I found the car keys, I'm taking the cat with me.'

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In spite of Doris Day singing Que Sera Sera in my ear, these burning questions (in no particular order of importance) have been keeping me up at night.

What will 2009 bring?

A new Commander-In-Chief, for one thing.  Halle-fucking-lujah!!  Goodbye, Mr. Bush.  You will not be missed.

(And a personal note to Doris: Sweetie, I KNOW the future's not ours to see. I just think about these things, ok? So BACK OFF bitch.)

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*Offstage Announcer*

Ladies and gentlemen, it was my great pleasure to interview Governor Sarah Palin (Wingnut-AK) during her visit to the United Nations today.  I found her to be quite gracious, stunningly attractive and more than willing to share her thoughts - unrehearsed and sans cue cards - regarding meeting foreign heads of state for the first time.  Here is a sample of our talk, which took place in the foyer of the United Nations Building:

Announcer:  Governor Palin, it's my pleasure to meet you.  Thank you for granting this interview.

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I don't know if this girl is trying to come out, or if she's just more enlightened than her mother appears to be. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm standing in line the other day at the grocery store, about 5:00 in the afternoon.  In front of me is a rather tasty looking man buying a package of hamburger, buns and a 12 pack of beer.  My kinda guy!  Bet I know what his dinner is tonight. 

In front of him is a well-dressed woman I would guess to be about 60-something, with quite a lot of groceries.   Behind me is a girl of about 15 or so, with a woman I guess to be her mother.

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I've put it off long enough.  I've GOT to update my kitchen.  New sink and faucet, new dishwasher...a whole bunch of shiny new stuff.  Most of  what I have now doesn't work properly, or leaks, or is just plain UGLY.

Last week, I'm in Home Depot, looking for a dishwasher.

In the appliance department, I spot a washer.  It's in my price range, but it's got a stainless steel front. I would really prefer white. 
I look around for a sales clerk. 
Nobody.
I wander around for a few minutes, looking at the appliances.
6 or 7 minutes pass, a woman wearing an orange apron walks into the appliance area.
She sees me playing with the dishwasher, but keeps her distance.

«Excuse me, do you know if this is available in white?»  I ask.

«Ummmm.....well......Sharon's on break.»

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I quit.

After six months of having no life, I quit. 

We returned from Europe on a Sunday.  I was scheduled to work the following Thursday. 

By Wednesday, my stomach was in knots.  I couldn't sleep.  When I did sleep, I had nightmares of the seven machines I ran coming after me.  It was like a really bad horror movie.  I'd hear a noise upstairs.  With nothing to protect myself except a non-working flashlight (picture a slightly heavier, slightly balder Tippi Hedren in The Birds), I'd climb the stairs to find one of the machines glaring at me.  I'd turn and run back downstairs, only to find another machine grinning menacingly as it approached me.  I'd run outside, through the woods, and fall down.  (Of course.)  Rolling onto my back, I'd see all seven machines romping through the trees to feed on me.  I would see my supervisor hiding behind a tree,

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