Time Warp

Return of the road warrior! This week I travel to Kansas City, last week I was in Detroit.

Or, as my colleagues call it, "Detroilet."

On the flight up I convinced myself that I'd be struck by lightning when we landed. You know...a lifelong Chicago Blackhawks fan in Red Wings territory.

You think I exaggerate, but this was a perfectly valid concern considering that when I crossed the threshold of Busch stadium earlier this year, the damn place was assaulted by a massive hail storm and just missed being hit by a tornado. (I was standing beside the guy who took this video, shaking in my shoes and promising the baseball gods I'd never again cheat on the Cubs).

Luckily, no sports-related injuries were incurred in 'The City of Tomorrow.'
How-evah, I did trip and fall into a time warp....

Back story: In the 8th grade I had a devastating crush on a boy named Ray Wasik. Over the years I've thought about Raywasik (you have to read his name all running together because that's how I've said it in my head since the day I met his blonde, Polish loveliness in Political Science class). This is because I experienced my first near- mental breakdown working up the courage to ask him to sign my yearbook on the last day of school. Ever since then, when I've been Chihuahua-in-a-thunderstorm nervous about something I've thought, "This isn't Raywasik Yearbook bad. I can do this."

Present day: The morning of my meeting last week, I pulled on my power panties and headed out to the site of a pretty important customer. I was feeling good. I was cool. I was going to run the smoothest, bestest, most productive-but-fun meeting ever held in Novi, Michigan, goshdarnit. (Hey, it ain't saving puppies, but it's what I do).

Everything was going fanfuckingtastically - for ONCE the rental GPS worked so I didn't end up hopelessly lost in a strange city. Therefore I arrived early and found a Mary Catherine Gallagheresque Superstar parking spot. All good signs, right?

Right. Until I walked in aaaand.....


There sat Raywasik. Not the real Raywasik. Not even someone related to him...you know I had to ask ...but he was close enough.

And I was sooooo fucked.

There was no way in hell I was going to be able to sit in that room, all day, and cooly interact with the doppelganger of the person who comes to mind whenever I'm losing my shit.

Aaaaaand I didn't.

I wasn't cool. I was 14 years old and awkward, and I'm pretty sure I left everyone there - including people who have known me for years - believing I'm a resident of  the spectrum.

So, as long as I had reverted back to my 14 year-old self, what do you think I did this weekend?
1. Looked up Raywasik in old yearbooks, to verify that this guy does, indeed, look exactly like him
2. Google-stalked Raywasik

The worst part of this dysfuncational tale is that he has no online presence. None. On the Internet, where nobody knows your a dog, he doesn't exist.

There is an actor out there, named Ray Wasik, but he isn't THE Raywasik.

Raywasik isn't on Facebook, Google +, Twitter, LinkedIn or Tumblr.

So he must be dead, right?


Poor Raywasik.

Friday Profound Yet Offensive

I can't post this on FaceBook...the villagers would take it out on Hubster. :o/

Look what I did! *beam.beam*

I don't have anything to say about it because my arms, my hands, my shoulders, my chest, my back, my hips, my legs and my feet hurt too bad to type. But in the near future it will be a fire pit!

Being married on a Friday night...

There are two versions of marriage.

One is the delusional version, the version teenage girls have. You meet a good looking guy who dresses well. He likes you. He’s funny. He has a cool car. He has money to take you to dinner and a movie and then to the coffee shop. He jokes with your mom and is respectful to your dad. He knows the difference between a Phillips and a flathead. He eats mushrooms and blue cheese, and when your family cooks out at the farm he knows how to build the fire.

Then, there’s reality. Your good-looking guy weighs 100 pounds more than when you married him. He doesn’t tan anymore because of the skin cancers and when he comes downstairs on Sunday mornings while the kids are at church and cooks his breakfast naked, wearing a pair of sandals, you go get a root canal.

You plan…A Night.

The Plan…The Not Nice Kid is spending the night at a party. The Nice Kid is going to a football game. You will buy wine, and steaks. There will be real fettucine and sour dough bread. You will make the night worth his while, and the next day he will help you clean up the kids’ rooms, and paint their furniture.

The Reality:…The Nice Kid stays home. The Big Boy calls and says he’s going to the football game with his buddy. The steaks are $14.99 a pound and all fat. You have to take your dad to pick up his car at the dealership.

Nine o’clock?

You’re home by yourself. The Nice Kid got hungry and went to eat. The game is still going on and TBB is two hours out.

You and the cat go to bed.

Slam ass tickled to death ;-)

Day Two: I was trying to be nice so I scheduled TBB a massage for three o'clock today. Turns out, the second most important football game of his life comes on at 2:30, and of course I did this on purpose. Then TNK had a flat tire on her way to take her ACT.

Bourbon for breakfast is a good thing....

Friday Funny

If you like the Venn diagram....

You'll LOVE the Venn Pie-a-gram!

Image Credit: Tastefullyoffensive

Sometimes things just work out...

...and sometimes you should have stayed in bed.

I am...not sure what the word is. Not minimalist, but that's close. Not purist, by any stretch of the imagination but...when it comes to cooking, I tend to stay with basic ingredients and do the mixing and blending myself...there's a word. Somewhere. (Different post in here. City Girl and I were just talking about...where the words went.)

Not to say I'm averse to short cuts...my most famous and requested recipe has a cake mix and a box of jello in it. And I've already carried on about the frozen biscuits in a bag....they are some good eatin'.

But what in the world possessed me...I am clueless. Totally lost my mind tonight. Have you found Pinterest? If you haven't, well...to paraphrase City Girl...it's "cybercrack." At first I couldn't figure out the draw but once I realized it doesn't jive with AOL (I know! I know!) and started exploring in Gmail, I was hooked. ALL the best ideas I'll never do but still...just looking and dreaming makes for points. Right? Jewels in my crown?

And right there, posted by otherwise sane, talented and knowledgeable people, was a recipe I've been seeing for years. Apple Dumplings. Apple slices, rolled in pastry and baked. Old favorite, I'm sure. EXCEPT...this recipe...and as I said, I've been seeing it for years, called for crescent roll dough and...

...brace yourself...

Mountain Dew. Mtn Dew. The yellow stuff in a bottle. Mountain Dew.

I have no idea what the hell I was thinking. I don't eat sweets. I seldom cook them. There was a great pot of chili on the stove, I had all the extras. Good crackers. APPLES IN MOUNTAIN DEW??? That doesn't even sound like me. But I tried it anyway.

Y'all...this may be the nastiest stuff I have ever seen in my life. You cut the apple into eighths, wrap each slice in crescent roll dough and line them up in a baking dish. Pour TWO STICKS of melted butter with 1-1/2 CUPS sugar over the little packages and then...as if there wasn't enough sin in that pan already, you pour 12 ounces of Mountain Dew over it. And bake it.

AND THEN, you're supposed to serve it with a scoop of ice cream!!

I fixed a dish for The Not Nice Kid. She said it was nasty, but she ate the entire dish. If The Nice Kid has tasted it, I didn't hear. I finally took a fork and picked off a piece of the pastry.

Never in my life have I tasted so much vile sweetness in one place. It might not actually be that bad, underneath the sweet, but I have no idea how you're supposed to get past the sugar. Y'all? I cannot understand normal people deliberately sitting down and eating such...

Usually I'd send the leftovers to someone...the neighbors, my sister, the teachers. This stuff? I'm kind of thinking there might be divine retribution for...well, I'm still sort of worried about having to answer to the Cooking Gods about the Mountain Dew. I know the dogs don't need it, and the hummingbirds have already headed south. This may actually make it to the garbage disposal.

If blogs had color, this one would be red. I am THAT embarrassed. Justifiably so...MOUNTAIN DEW.

I think I'll skulk away now....

Out with the Old

I just dropped by to change the template.

"Hi!" by the way. :o)

I do have stories to share with you.

One involves myself and a transvestite in a ladies room.

Another concerns a local Big Fish who apparently is stalking me. Which isn't nearly as sexy as it sounds considering the stalker in question is a woman. And she's a skinny blonde - which does nothing for me, regardless of gender.

BUT, I think I'll save those stories for NaBloPoMo.

Na...Wait, what????

Are you game, Country Girl?

Also, the image? Apropos of nothing. Except that this (jerk thumb north), this is my happy place.

Oohhhmmmmm.

For our friends in the UK: The king is dead. Long live the king!

A rant against Facebook haters...;-(

A while back someone wrote something in the local paper, criticizing Facebook. I sounded off, pointing out that...wait. Let me see if I can find it.

You know what I'm tired off? People bitching about Facebook. You don't like it? GO AWAY! We didn't invite you to our party anyway ;-( If my friend posts she's at Restaurant Du Jour? She's either telling it because we were there yesterday and we're still laughing, or she's giving good press to a worthy establishment. Or someone tells what's for dinner? It involves personal favorites or local produce or something special from the area. EVERY POST ISN'T DIRECTED TO YOU! Ass.

So today, I was doing something and I thought...wonder what my day looked like? (Because, see, I was SUPPOSED to spend the day watching tennis and playing with my friends. But SOME thoughtless spouse neglected to mention until HE WAS WALKING OUT THE DOOR that he was going to Nashville tomorrow to pick up his car. Which totally threw a monkey wrench into the entire workings so I SAT here BY MYSELF all day. Different post.)

ANYWAY. Went back and checked and sure enough...posts for the planet. Yes, I posted a picture of an awesome little girls coat and hat ensemble, with the comment that it looked JUST like something The Nice Kid would have worn. (She of the matching hat/socks/shoes/hairbow outfits.) You know why? Local, home-owned shop. Lovely stuff. Owned by the relative of a friend of mine and YES...you should buy your cute kid cute stuff from the cute shop owned by the cute niece of my friend.

Another post was a link to Tabasco's recipe site, because Tabasco is a very old, very revered, VERY important-in-this-house, business. And you should be clicking on their links so that they stay happy and keep bottling peppers. (For The Big Boy and my SIL's birthdays, I paid $25 for five ounces of Tabasco Family Reserve. TBB is an ass and rolled his eyes, but there's a really nice medallion on the bottle. So there.)

Another link was to a food blog and if you know ANYTHING about us, City Girl and I would be all ABOUT some food.

Fourth post was a picture of The Not Nice Kid, with her boot and crutches, sitting in a chair watching the high school homecoming parade with two friends. Said friends being the most well-mannered, erudite, functional kids ever. Anywhere. They're pretty, too. Kudos to the parents.

Okay...fifth post was a picture of my parents dog. Eight-week-old German Shepherd puppy the size of a large laundry basket. All feet and crooked ears. I'm babysitting him while they are in the mountains. He is TOO cute...I figure if you un-friend me because of a post of a super-cute puppy, you didn't need to be here anyway. (This is particularly apt because I currently own/feed four dogs no one else wanted, and a running count of cats. Supposed to be six, but Groucho hasn't been around so I'm not sure.)

All of which brings me back to my point...it's a social site, meant to please a myriad of people. Roughly 100 of my friends know those well-mannered children, and smiled when they saw the picture. Roughly 100 PERCENT of my friends went immediately to the food blog...then to the Tabasco site. The children's shop site? If just two people with young children walk through that door, I've done my deed for the day.

So. Dear Ass: None of it was directed at you. Wasn't MEANT to be, and I'm guessing if you had seen any of it, the picture of the puppy would have given you fodder for foolishness. Because that's what you're spouting and NOW I remember why no one I know reads you.

So there.

She sez, as she tries to pick a cat hair out from under the the Caps Lock key, so it will work again ;-)

The Lord works in mysterious ways...

...unfortunately, I think he's talking to me in cat poop. 

There's a radar animals have...it hones in on "suckers." I have this on my forehead: S.U.C.K.E.R. Humans can't see it, but animals are right on the signal. Apparently, I have it on my car, too, because that's how Red Dog (so named because he is such a purebred that it never crossed my mind I wouldn't find his owner) picked me up in the parking lot at the liquor store. Luckiest I ever got in an establishment selling booze ;-) And there wasn't even a band.... 

There are four dogs here. Two I unwittingly took in, two had no where else to go. There are...six cats. I think. Two I brought home over a ten year period. Four were...born here to a stray mama cat and I got rid of what I could and...kept the others. I KNOW.

Red Dog is a full-blooded Golden Retriever, the ultimate Southern gentleman, and has allergies. I've tried everything but the best I can do is...he scratches at night. He doesn't hurt his skin and he isn't in pain so...scratch. It works.

Tupelo (so-named because he's a Hound Dog and if you don't get that, go away) chases cars. I've hit him twice...the first time he peed blood for a week and couldn't walk for three days without crying but...he chases cars. He is a savant...believe it or not, this is a really smart dog.

Copper had a full-blooded basset hound mother and an unknown scoundrel for a father. He is ALL attitude...does not move, blink or acknowledge. He's mean, if need be.

And then there's Spike. I found him by my parent's farm, in 100+ heat with no water within a quarter mile. Brought him home SURE he had an owner. The kids named him Buddy, the neighbors took one look at him and pronounced him Spike. All short spiky feisty black&white movie dog.

And the cats. 

The Big Boy doesn't do animals. I don't know why; haven't asked. Doesn't really matter...the way this works we don't adopt animals, they adopt us. But even I will admit...four dogs, six cats. 

That's a lot.

Apparently somewhere in the vicinity is some more slut dog. After three years of well-mannered habitating, Red Dog has decided to get up at 2 a.m. every morning and...leave. He doesn't get pushy, he just stands on my side of the bed and....looks at me. Until I wake up and let him out. No problem...I'll use it for a bathroom break. Except the other night he didn't come home until seven in the morning.

Did I mention the allergies? At first, listening to a dog scratch at night was annoying. Now, it's what's there. So when it WASN'T there? I laid there all damn night waiting on that dog to come home. 7:30? He showed up. He was happy; me, not so much. This sort of tried to turn into a trend....depends on whether or not I can ignore him before he gives up and goes back to sleep. But it's still been at the expense of several nights sleep.

The car chasing? When Spike joined the menagerie, he met Tupelo. Who chases cars. After being hit twice, he still chases them but he knows how to dodge the tires. Spike? Not so much. So when I heard the screaming and yelping from the road, I knew what had happened. Result: one puppy with a broken leg. One absolutely hysterical driver. The dog? I took to the vet and got the okay. The driver? Is still crying. TOTALLY ruined my morning since I had to hit the ground running to wash off the vet/dog smell, get a haircut and meet my best bud for lunch. Luckily, she took a table outside so maybe the smell of old dog urine didn't permeate lunch.

Today? The housekeeper came. She didn't feel well, and as we're working on the...piles...I hit "touch up" on the dryer. Turns out? One of the younger cats, litter box trained, had been in the house and since there's no litter box? Because you don't live in here anymore? He. Pooped. IN THE DRYER. On the clean clothes.

Know what happens when you turn on the dryer, heat up some cat shit and then let it harden? The solution involves disposable gloves, most of a bottle of Clorox, a fan and a LOT of profanity. More profanity than Clorox.

All of which MIGHT say...over the top. No one needs four dogs and a running count of cats. (Don't you love that? "Running count of cats." It's what it is.) But...except for Red Dog, and maybe Spike (who needs a boy), no one wants these dogs. More personality than appearance. LOTS of personality...the lady across the street even wrote a story about them...unfortunately, she's not feeding them.

Cat poop in the dryer. Y'all, this ain't lookin' good ;-(

I finally succumbed...

...wait. I did not succumb (although what a perfectly nasty word to fit the situation,) I fell. I toppled. I lapsed. I busted my ass in the mud.

After 25 years of driving what amounted to essentially the same Volvo, same make different year, I bought an SUV. I SWORE I would never drive such. I ridiculed women who plodded around in my mother's station wagon reinvented. I zipped around in my super-safe lightweight foreign car, secure in my superiority.

And then I fell off the wagon.

Bought a Honda Pilot. LOVE this car, like...LOVELOVELLOVE this car. Extra L in there for emphasis. I love this car.

Which is all fine and dandy. I've gone from me and one kid to...two large kids, a large me and a large Big Boy. We are officially The Large Family. This car is much better for Large Soccer Trips and Large Tennis Trips. I can live with this.

Except, y'all. Oh, y'all. Yesterday? I'm riding down the road, all Large and everything and pull up to a red light next to another mid-size SUV and I glance out the window and without missing a BEAT, thought to myself, "Mine's bigger than your's." Thought it rather smugly, too, I might add.

I am ashamed. So ashamed. It took me less than a week to fall and people...I'm still scrabbling down the hillside. Just make sure? I ever mention getting a C...what is that license? CLV or something like that? For driving big trucks? Someone just slap me. I KNOW my limitations ;-)