Mexican life

Fooling God

plants
Saturday morning on the veranda

THIS SATURDAY is somewhat different than most, so I thought I’d gossip with you about it.

Normally, Saturdays are identical. My child bride is in her private kitchen out by the property wall, preparing her pastries for the afternoon sale on the big plaza downtown.

But not today.  She’s going to church this morning.

But first, here’s what I’m doing, and it’s not much different than what I do every Saturday morning. I make rounds under the cursed peach tree scooping up fallen peaches to toss out.

Then I sweep the veranda. I hear the shower running in the bathroom, and I hear a lively Mexican tune blaring from the backstreet neighbors. I also hear the electric pump that’s sending water from the underground cistern to the tank atop the roof. And I hear birds. Lots of stuff to listen to.

Soon I’ll be hearing the lawnmower and weedeater because Abel the Deadpan Yardman arrives later to trim the grass.

The sky is blue. The air is crisp. The lawn is wet because it rained quite a spell last night, making sweet sounds.

Now here’s why she’s going to church. It’s to fool God.

Relatives often ask us to be godparents to the endless array of babies they birth because we look like the best deal going in the family. Problem is that our marriage was only a civil one, not a religious one. A judge connected us, and that’s not good enough to be godparents. I suppose we’re seen as living in sin.

There has been a recent spate of new babies among the bunny-breeding kin, so we received at least two new invites to godparenting. I pass. But my child bride really wants to. There’s nothing she loves more than babies.

This morning, she’s pretending to be single to get the proper paperwork, so she can be a godmother without me tagging along. The proper paperwork requires a three-hour instruction from a priest. She’s doing that in a church downtown.

I hope she remembers to remove her wedding ring.

This amuses me while I sweep the veranda and wait for Abel to cut the grass that I’ve already liberated of fallen, rotting peaches.

It’s a lovely morning.

Mexican life

A good child

Kandra

RECENTLY, A READER lamented that I no longer write about my Mexican relatives, something I used to do quite often.

So here is one of my kinfolk, the lovelier variety. She is 5 years old and the daughter of a nephew who’s had a very difficult life. But things are going rather well for this little girl so far.

When my wife recently asked her why she was so pretty, she replied that it was the way God sent her.

Can’t argue with that. Her name is Kandra.

The Odd Pot

War against men

I’M MAD AS Hell, and I’m not taking it anymore!

To what am I referring? The corporate war against men. Corporations are the root of all evil, as any clueless Smith College coed will assure you.

And what is the specific battlefield on which I wage war today? To wit: There are two sizes of nail clippers, right? A small version for fingers, and a large version for feet.

But those sizes are for women exclusively. The foot version doesn’t work for men’s feet unless the man is a midget.

I use the foot version for my fingers because the finger version fits my fingernails about as well as the foot version fits my footnails, which is to say not at all.

This is a clear corporate attack on men’s rights, men’s Constitutional and God-given rights to have neat feet.

And I’m sick unto death of it.

footLet’s be clear: The “big” clipper is about half as wide as my big toenail. And the smaller clipper for fingers likewise goes about halfway across my nails.

What are we to use? Hatchets? Cutlasses?

This is a feminist-lesbian plot* to diminish men, to put us in our place. I encourage all men to withhold sex from their women until something is done about this outrage.

Man up for nail clipper equality!

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*Yes, feminist-lesbians are in bed with corporations. Who knew?

The Odd Pot

Dying to music

noteWALKING THROUGH the living room the other day, the FM station was playing a nice classical work, and I thought, “That would be good to die to,” and I envisioned falling forward onto the ceramic floor, dead as that doornail.

I was in a good mood when the thought struck me, and dying in a good mood is desirable. Dying to music is common in movies, but I wonder how often it happens in real life. Not much, I think.

A sudden death, which is how I want it, would reduce the chances of dying to good music, something that likely requires planning. Which is best? Dying suddenly to no music or a prolonged demise to good music. The sudden death wins out because you want to go fast, music or not.

Good mood, fine music, healthy and sudden. That’s how I want to sail away. Of course, a sudden death contradicts the notion of healthy, but let’s imagine it was an unknown heart problem that brought down the curtain. Just thinking you’re healthy till the final moment is enough.

But if a sudden death isn’t in the cards, I would like some good music playing on Departure Day. Kitaro’s Light of the Spirit is the top pick, something I’ve loved since the late 1990s. Downing some ecstasy and turning on that Kitaro tune is a religious experience in itself.

Try it. You’ll see.

A close runner-up would be one of a number of songs by the appropriately named Dead Can Dance. A real standout is their Host of Seraphim, a fine piece to shuttle you off into that distant space where resides whatever God or Goddess you put your money on.

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(A close runner-up to Host of Seraphim is Yulunga. About the 3:18 mark on the video, it moves into high gear visually, going multicultural in a spectacularly fine way.)