I was watching the telly with the window behind me wide open and I was leaning forward to read some subtitles when I heard a thump behind me; a frog had jumped in the window and landed on the pillow behind me.
I looked at it, it looked at me, and this was not my night to be froggie friendly so I took the pillow, frog and all, and shook it out the window.
Gone frog. And I didn't even think to kiss it.
Maybe next time.

Her name was Connie. She was a friend of Rhoda's from Connecticut and like Rhoda, a long term resident of Vallarta.
And she needed some work done, some for her and some for husband, who she described as " a big man " .
I met him; he was short and fat. And Connie and I did not quite hit it off. She had an annoying habit of checking every stitch to see if it was up to her standards.
One time I lost my cool and said to her quietly through gritted teeth as she was checking out some of my work :
Maybe you would like a magnifying glass ?
She looked at me truly dumbfounded and said in her nasal New Yorker accent:
My, you are really sensitive, aren't you !
I decided then and there that it wasn't worth the measly fee to go through this again.
And never did.

So here is how it works.
Every afternoon, about 3:30, I look at the mutts and they look at me and we all know it is getting to be time to get their dinner ready.
What they don't know is that it is also the time I get the carton of Cheap Red Wine out of the cupboard and ready for use.
So as I fix the color coordinated bowls with food for the mutts, I also fix the first glass of wine for self.
And as the mutts clean their bowls, I finish the first of the glasses of Cheap red Wine.
After that I just continue.
That is how it works.

When the mad queen was my neighbor he would take his enormous, black and macho truck for his trips to the local bars and one night, early morning actually, returning from a night of debauchery, he had a flat. This, however, in his inebriated state of mind, was not going to stop him, so he finished the trip driving on the flat tire and that was the end of the truck for a while. It was parked in front of the house and looking like some wounded animal, listing to one side not even having a tire to rest on. I found the tire in the canyon where it ended up after this wild and uncontrolled driving.
Living here one needs transport, so he came to me and asked to borrow my car, right neighborly and all. I said no but I would help out by driving him--and his compatriots--to the store and back. Which I did.
Later I talked to Nicholas my neighbor who also had been approached by The Mad Queen. Nicholas told me he just said NO WAY to the quest for borrowing of a vehicle and that was it. No nampy pampy helping of a unlucky neighbor.
And so I am wondering . Why cannot I be more like Nicolas ?
But then I would not really be me, now would I ?
If the Mad Queen should need help again, as much as I don't care for him, I would still do it.
That is just who I am.

On one wall of my kitchen I have five pigs. One is a little copper pan, one is a framed woodcut, two are carved bowls and the last is a carved and painted wood relief. And I have a framed print of a survivor of seventy cock fights, the Yorkshire Hero ( and no, I do not like cock fights but I love this print ) .
Today, as I was filing my glass with some cheap red wine, I glanced at the wall and realized, for the first time, that all the pigs are looking the same way, to the right.
The fighting cock is looking to the left.
What are the odds that all the pigs are looking one way and the sole chicken the other ?
It struck me funny, but then it was not my first glass of cheap red wine.

There used to be a saying going something like this :
Beware of a skinny chef ( cook ? )
This adage is not so true anymore, in fact I think the fat chef ( cook) is the rarity now.
Watching a lot of cooking shows on the telly I marvel at the trimness of the cooking class.
But one thing has me stumped and it might be a purely personal thing.
I cannot stand the female chefs who sport long, sometimes very long, fingernails.
I watched one trying to dice something and not being able to get a good grip due to the nails. Admittedly these dames, and only dames thank goodness, are a minority but still
maybe one should start a new adage going something like:
beware of chefs with long fingernails.
OY.

I keep in touch with the Old Country by reading the newspapers online and one curious thing has me all riled up. In one of the papers a person, a new arrival to the fair shores of Denmark is writing a blog. In English. And I have read it a few times and I have, a few times, written what I thought were insightful and unbiased comments, basically saying that this person was full of shit.
And then I decided not to seek out this blog to preserve my precarious blood pressure; till today, when I caught another blog celebrating the blogger's first year in the country of Vikings and Hans Christian Andersen. And I despair. To be sure, I have not been back in many years and I make fun of my own chosen country--or countries, but I do this with a love and understanding that I, Alan, made the choice. I. Me.
This new person living in Denmark is pissed at so many things, one of which is that he still does not understand what the announcers are saying on the telly when they speak Danish...DUHHH. I had to take a lot of deep breaths and count to ten to convince myself not to reply to this silly post. But this is my blog and here I can say whatever I want, and I will say this to this person who has the pulpit of a daily newspaper to spread his discontent......you don't like it ? Leave. Right now. Get out and make room for someone who might appreciate the situation better.
There.
I said it.