Carnitas Dog

I've decided, under the advice of his father, to make Winston into carnitas. He's been pushing it lately with the wanting to play ball all the time and obscene guilt trips. Today was the final straw though. Not once but twice I came home to find garbage strewn throughout the house. Fabulous. Boy, I'll tell 'ya. Nothing beats working all day and coming home to a house with icky disgusting garbage all over the carpet. *sigh* It's bliss, just bliss. And so yes, carnitas it is. It always was my favorite, anyway.

Today I was listening to one of my older patients talking about the senior complex where he and his "senile" wife live. It's funny, he refers to her as senile without a moment's pause, like it's nothing at all. What a bastard. You know what? I'd go senile too, living with him. Sorry, that's another blog. Anyway, he was talking about this party at "the rec. hall." The way he phrased it, "rec. hall" sounded so...old. I began to think about old people in general and especially the ones that live in complexes and communities specifically for seniors. The people I'm thinking of are caught in the past and are fearful and loathing of the present. They seem to sequester themselves into their weird, dull communities. They live in their 70's decor homes with weird objet d'art (aka knick knacks) such as glass grapes collecting dust on the shelves. They speak their strange World War II language (hence rec. hall) and cloister themselves in a world without diversity, technology, and loud music. Ick. I wonder why they choose to remain in the times they do. Like, why is the house still done in the 70's style? Why not 80's or 50's or something less...goldenrod? Was the 70's so fabulous? What must it be like to feel to at odds with the rest of the world?

Perhaps most profound of all...will we ever be there? God I hope not.