29 December 2011
23 December 2011
13 December 2011
10 December 2011
08 December 2011
More things I'll go to hell for...
Did you know that if you pour some spaghetti/pasta/marinara sauce, from a jar, into a dish and put a log of goat cheese on it, and heat it up...
...and then open a can of crescent rolls and cut them into strips and bake them...
...your children will love you? For real.
...and then open a can of crescent rolls and cut them into strips and bake them...
...your children will love you? For real.
07 December 2011
Don't be hatin' on my swag
Saturday night, I'm headed to a gathering. I'm pissed off already. What to do, what to do?
We all know, I'm all about the kids. Had you asked in high school? My best friend, she who is childless, would have been the parent of at least six kids, with a couple more foster/neighbor kids thrown in for good measure? Me? Maybe one kid. Lots of schooling. Teaching and traveling.
What's that old saying? Life is God laughing when you make plans? Or something. Not only did I have three kid, I had them 20 years apart which means every time I got ready to do something...I had another kid. The last time, at 44, pretty much convinced me this is full-time. Last night was the elementary school Christmas program, the last one we'll ever participate in, and WE DIDN'T GO. The Not Nice Kid didn't try out for a part because she didn't want to learn the lines or be there at 7 am for a month, and I've been tired of these things for...about the last 10 years. So we didn't go. Didn't bother us, either. First thing this morning I have a text..."Where the hell WERE you? We stood in the back and bitched about being there and sure did miss you."
I told them...you're the next generation. I'm done! But then, because I have trained them well, we made a date for margaritas after the final basketball game of the season Saturday ;-) Women with kids are special like that ;-)
But I digress.
My point...I spent my life raising my kids, and I happen to think that, accident or no, it has been an awesome ride. They are three totally different, totally cool in each way, people. Some good some bad in each...lots of wonderfulness in all three. Do I think my way is the only way? HELL NO...it's not the way I CHOSE! And it never has seemed an issue...City Girl has no kids. She laughs at mine when they're there, and then sends them on their way. It never occurred to me...that she cares if I have kids. Never occurred to me to care she doesn't have kids. Just the way things are.
I grew up with a group of five boys, born the year before I was. Parents grew up together. We have a history. I spend five important holidays a year with them and their wives...about the only place left in my life I can let my hair down. Last gathering? Sitting outside, late at night, and I told something about someone and her job and her kid and Childless Wife A said, "I get so tired of women using their kids as excuses to get out of work."
Did you get that? CHILDLESS Wife A?
Should have kept my mouth shut. Didn't.
Brought up my college roommate, who has a degree in engineering and literally...took it to the house. By choice. Conversation deteriorated and Childless Wife B said, "You can always hire someone to look after your kids."
Repeat there...CHILDLESS Wife B.
There was a change of subject.
A week or so later, because it was bothering me so much, I asked City Girl...am I being unreasonable? I am seriously OFFENDED...I consider them IDIOTS, and selfish idiots at that. But I was willing to discuss the fact that maybe, just maybe, my outlook was scewed. (Spell check says that's not a word. It is around here, a version of "askew," so I'm wondering if I spelled it wrong. Damn.)
City Girl, God love her, immediately backed me up..."I get so tired of women who DON'T think that women with kids have it harder." (I would like to point out here that City Girl does more work in half a day than the two of them do together in a week. So there.)
So here I sit...it's Wednesday. I can either get over it, which isn't likely, or get madder and madder and end up causing an uproar at the last place on the planet I want to cause an uproar.
Or...I could bake the cake I said I'd bake, send it with The Big Boy along with my regrets and explain: I have something to do WITH MY CHILDREN. Which comes before time unwillingly spent with selfish hypochondriac bitchy witches.
Or witchy bitches.
Ho's can't cook, anyway.
We all know, I'm all about the kids. Had you asked in high school? My best friend, she who is childless, would have been the parent of at least six kids, with a couple more foster/neighbor kids thrown in for good measure? Me? Maybe one kid. Lots of schooling. Teaching and traveling.
What's that old saying? Life is God laughing when you make plans? Or something. Not only did I have three kid, I had them 20 years apart which means every time I got ready to do something...I had another kid. The last time, at 44, pretty much convinced me this is full-time. Last night was the elementary school Christmas program, the last one we'll ever participate in, and WE DIDN'T GO. The Not Nice Kid didn't try out for a part because she didn't want to learn the lines or be there at 7 am for a month, and I've been tired of these things for...about the last 10 years. So we didn't go. Didn't bother us, either. First thing this morning I have a text..."Where the hell WERE you? We stood in the back and bitched about being there and sure did miss you."
I told them...you're the next generation. I'm done! But then, because I have trained them well, we made a date for margaritas after the final basketball game of the season Saturday ;-) Women with kids are special like that ;-)
But I digress.
My point...I spent my life raising my kids, and I happen to think that, accident or no, it has been an awesome ride. They are three totally different, totally cool in each way, people. Some good some bad in each...lots of wonderfulness in all three. Do I think my way is the only way? HELL NO...it's not the way I CHOSE! And it never has seemed an issue...City Girl has no kids. She laughs at mine when they're there, and then sends them on their way. It never occurred to me...that she cares if I have kids. Never occurred to me to care she doesn't have kids. Just the way things are.
I grew up with a group of five boys, born the year before I was. Parents grew up together. We have a history. I spend five important holidays a year with them and their wives...about the only place left in my life I can let my hair down. Last gathering? Sitting outside, late at night, and I told something about someone and her job and her kid and Childless Wife A said, "I get so tired of women using their kids as excuses to get out of work."
Did you get that? CHILDLESS Wife A?
Should have kept my mouth shut. Didn't.
Brought up my college roommate, who has a degree in engineering and literally...took it to the house. By choice. Conversation deteriorated and Childless Wife B said, "You can always hire someone to look after your kids."
Repeat there...CHILDLESS Wife B.
There was a change of subject.
A week or so later, because it was bothering me so much, I asked City Girl...am I being unreasonable? I am seriously OFFENDED...I consider them IDIOTS, and selfish idiots at that. But I was willing to discuss the fact that maybe, just maybe, my outlook was scewed. (Spell check says that's not a word. It is around here, a version of "askew," so I'm wondering if I spelled it wrong. Damn.)
City Girl, God love her, immediately backed me up..."I get so tired of women who DON'T think that women with kids have it harder." (I would like to point out here that City Girl does more work in half a day than the two of them do together in a week. So there.)
So here I sit...it's Wednesday. I can either get over it, which isn't likely, or get madder and madder and end up causing an uproar at the last place on the planet I want to cause an uproar.
Or...I could bake the cake I said I'd bake, send it with The Big Boy along with my regrets and explain: I have something to do WITH MY CHILDREN. Which comes before time unwillingly spent with selfish hypochondriac bitchy witches.
Or witchy bitches.
Ho's can't cook, anyway.
05 December 2011
FOUND!!!!
04 December 2011
If you have four legs, fins or feathers...
...you should probably leave. I have apparently invoked some severely pissed off spirit...possibly Bambi's mother vying for screen credits. Or something. And that bitch be PISSED!
I have, tattooed across my forehead in letters that humans can't see, "S.U.C.K.E.R." If you are an animal, it is neon and flashing. This has had The Institution at four dogs and six cats for the past year.
Picked up a small stray this summer, temps over 100 and no water within a quarter-mile...neighbors promptly named him Spike. Cute little mutt, but he quickly picked up a bad car-chasing habit and we came home one afternoon to a sobbing neighbor and a grease spot in the road. Damn.
Oreo, my oldest cat, finally reached the point about three weeks ago where he couldn't fight the infections the feline leukemia kept setting him up for. Trip to the vet, in and out. Oreo currently resides in the deep freeze, waiting on me to get down to the farm and bury him.
Thanksgiving night my sister drove home in the rain to find Not My Cat, the stray she has refused to claim (but feeds and tends to) for the past four years, flattened in the road. We commiserated over our bad luck.
We had NO idea.
My parents elderly German Shepherd, Sackett, died last year. They finally found an awesome puppy, and two months ago Tell joined The Institution. Beautiful chunk of a Shepherd; smart, funny and more personality than should be legal.
Tuesday morning my mother ran over his head. I wrapped him in my jacket and sat at the vet's while they evaluated the situation. I probably should have explained the track record right then... We'll have to put him down Monday morning...we've put it off "one more day" for a week now. He may be blind. He may be brain damaged. He IS pitiful. I'll go hold him while he falls asleep.
I hate this.
Yesterday The Nice Kid, who is currently under review for a name reevaluation, decided she would take Red Dog with her into town for a picnic at the park and to pick up The Not Nice Kid. And then come home. Short simple day.
Red Dog is the luckiest I've ever gotten in a bar. Three years ago...maybe four?...I pulled into the parking lot of the liquor store (liquor store...bar...same difference) and there was a beautiful Golden Retriever, wandering in and out of the speeding cars on a Friday afternoon. Beside a six-lane highway. When I asked, turned out he had been there almost two weeks. Left the store, walked out to my car and...there sat the dog. In my car. Drove through the two adjoining neighborhoods until it got dark, stopping every block or so and opening the car door, expecting him to jump out and go home. Didn't happen. Ads in the papers. Nothing. Signs on the front door of every business within reason. Nada. He is the ultimate gentleman, well-trained, while still being the only dog on the street who has taken down the pit bull next door. Once. Didn't need twice. Red Dog must have belonged to an older person...he loves the kids but he favors older people. He lived with someone who drove a small truck, and he sat in the passenger seat. He and I have an understanding and we function well.
For some reason, known only to the brain of a 16-year-old, She-Who-Needs-A-New-Name decided to go visit her friend. They put Red Dog...WHO LIVES IN THE HOUSE...in the fenced-in back yard and promptly proceeded to forget about him. Some time later, apparently several hours later...it couldn't have been a matter of minutes because it takes a 100-pound dog a bit of time to dig out from under a fence...they realized Red Dog was gone. Lost in a neighborhood adjacent to the local university and downtown. My country dog was...lost. In town. Had been for several hours.
He still is.
The story I have is that a university cop saw a woman in a burgundy Pilot pick him up. I have already placed ads everywhere feasible...the paper, Craigslist, websites. Called the police, the pound, the university.
My dog is missing.
I have sat in the vet's office every day for five days and held a severely injured dog, dreading the day we have to admit he's not getting better. That was bad.
This sucks.
She Who Needs A New Classification texted me when it got dark last night and said, "I'm sort of afraid to come home."
I texted her back, "If you're only SORT OF afraid to come home? You're in for a big surprise."
Lord, please protect my dog.
I have, tattooed across my forehead in letters that humans can't see, "S.U.C.K.E.R." If you are an animal, it is neon and flashing. This has had The Institution at four dogs and six cats for the past year.
Picked up a small stray this summer, temps over 100 and no water within a quarter-mile...neighbors promptly named him Spike. Cute little mutt, but he quickly picked up a bad car-chasing habit and we came home one afternoon to a sobbing neighbor and a grease spot in the road. Damn.
Oreo, my oldest cat, finally reached the point about three weeks ago where he couldn't fight the infections the feline leukemia kept setting him up for. Trip to the vet, in and out. Oreo currently resides in the deep freeze, waiting on me to get down to the farm and bury him.
Thanksgiving night my sister drove home in the rain to find Not My Cat, the stray she has refused to claim (but feeds and tends to) for the past four years, flattened in the road. We commiserated over our bad luck.
We had NO idea.
My parents elderly German Shepherd, Sackett, died last year. They finally found an awesome puppy, and two months ago Tell joined The Institution. Beautiful chunk of a Shepherd; smart, funny and more personality than should be legal.
Tuesday morning my mother ran over his head. I wrapped him in my jacket and sat at the vet's while they evaluated the situation. I probably should have explained the track record right then... We'll have to put him down Monday morning...we've put it off "one more day" for a week now. He may be blind. He may be brain damaged. He IS pitiful. I'll go hold him while he falls asleep.
I hate this.
Yesterday The Nice Kid, who is currently under review for a name reevaluation, decided she would take Red Dog with her into town for a picnic at the park and to pick up The Not Nice Kid. And then come home. Short simple day.
Red Dog is the luckiest I've ever gotten in a bar. Three years ago...maybe four?...I pulled into the parking lot of the liquor store (liquor store...bar...same difference) and there was a beautiful Golden Retriever, wandering in and out of the speeding cars on a Friday afternoon. Beside a six-lane highway. When I asked, turned out he had been there almost two weeks. Left the store, walked out to my car and...there sat the dog. In my car. Drove through the two adjoining neighborhoods until it got dark, stopping every block or so and opening the car door, expecting him to jump out and go home. Didn't happen. Ads in the papers. Nothing. Signs on the front door of every business within reason. Nada. He is the ultimate gentleman, well-trained, while still being the only dog on the street who has taken down the pit bull next door. Once. Didn't need twice. Red Dog must have belonged to an older person...he loves the kids but he favors older people. He lived with someone who drove a small truck, and he sat in the passenger seat. He and I have an understanding and we function well.
For some reason, known only to the brain of a 16-year-old, She-Who-Needs-A-New-Name decided to go visit her friend. They put Red Dog...WHO LIVES IN THE HOUSE...in the fenced-in back yard and promptly proceeded to forget about him. Some time later, apparently several hours later...it couldn't have been a matter of minutes because it takes a 100-pound dog a bit of time to dig out from under a fence...they realized Red Dog was gone. Lost in a neighborhood adjacent to the local university and downtown. My country dog was...lost. In town. Had been for several hours.
He still is.
The story I have is that a university cop saw a woman in a burgundy Pilot pick him up. I have already placed ads everywhere feasible...the paper, Craigslist, websites. Called the police, the pound, the university.
My dog is missing.
I have sat in the vet's office every day for five days and held a severely injured dog, dreading the day we have to admit he's not getting better. That was bad.
This sucks.
She Who Needs A New Classification texted me when it got dark last night and said, "I'm sort of afraid to come home."
I texted her back, "If you're only SORT OF afraid to come home? You're in for a big surprise."
02 December 2011
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