I don’t always turn 11…

…but when I do, I get a big bone.

This picture was taken after 40 minutes of Dex trudging around the yard, trying to find the best spot to hide his birthday bone (NOT a euphemism). Even with all of the other dogs inside, poor Dex couldn’t just settle down and enjoy his bone until he’d found and discarded no less than 4 perfectly good hiding spots for his prize.

Just stopping by to say hello, dust some cobwebs off, and wish my best old man Dexter a happy 11th birthday. It’s not every day your dog turns 11, so we had a Birthday Blowout Week which included Dex’s first minor league baseball game, where he barked at the hot dog vendor.

And the t-shirt gun.

And the crack of the bat.

And pretty much everything else.

But you know? Fuck it. Bark your head off, old man. You’ve earned it.

Listen. Stop following me. Seriously. I gotta hide this thing.

 

 

 

Guess who had a birthday?

Hey guys – I’m back! There have been some exciting goings-on around the Bad Mutha Fudruckin’ household, not the least of which being that somebody celebrated a big birthday. On September 1, Dexter turned a 10 years old. Quite a milestone! And to celebrate, CSN Stores (you know, the folks with over 200 stores where you can find anything from a coffee table to a Halloween costume for your dog) has offered to let him do his first product review!

So stay tuned! He’s getting something he’s been yearning for his entire life, and I can’t wait to share with you guys his reaction.

Happy Birthday, Dex! I love you!

She’s baaack!

Guess who I saw this morning in the bathroom – Curly Sue!

Curly Sue, aka my long eyebrow hair

This picture does not really do her justice, since I had to take it by myself in my abominably-lit bathroom.  You’ll have to trust me when I tell you that she is a thing of beauty.  Me, trying to get a picture of an eyebrow hair in the bathroom mirror without accidentally pulling it out – not so much.

Other things I’d like to talk about today:
Harvest – The harvest has begun! This weekend I picked my first cucumber, along with a handful of green beans and a small-ish yellow squash. I may have jumped the gun a little on the squash, but I’m nothing if not impatient.

If you happened to be peeking out of my neighbor’s upstairs window last Saturday around 9am, you would have seen one ecstatic pajama-clad girl skipping around the garden clutching beans in both hands and pausing periodically to shake aforementioned beans in her dog’s face, singing (in the style of the Go-Gos), “We  got the beans, we got the Beans, we got the BEANS, YEAH! We got the BEANS!”

Um, yeah.  We got some mutha fudrucking beans.

The cucumber became part of a delicious mango salad, but the squash and beans are still on the counter, taunting me. Joke’s on you, veggies, ’cause you’ll both be a stir fry tonight!

– You may have a distinct noticed lack of Dexter up in this piece as of late. He is in South Carolina, getting some one-on-one time with his former mommy, Danielle. It’s pretty obvious from the pictures she’s been sending me pining away for us, right?  Right?

[Cue weeping]

Apparently he’s having such a good time he’s already on his third chew toy. No squeaker in SC is safe.

Dex on vacation

He’ll be back in a couple of weeks.

And yes, that is a hand-crocheted afghan he is wrapped up in.  Hand-crocheted by moi, no less.  I’ll be happy to start taking orders if, by some chance, you don’t have the time or the inclination to waste spend 12+ hours of your life looping yarn around a hook while watching the first four seasons of Lost.

Call me!

Breaking news – dog celebrates birthday (owner almost forgets)

A fifth birthday, to be exact.  My little baby Ernie turned 5 on Saturday.

I knew it was coming up; Ernie and I have met a lot of new people in the past few months and when asked, I’ve been telling them that he’ll be 5 “later this summer.” On Saturday, wedged between coolers and beach chairs on our way out to the dog-friendly north end of Carolina Beach, the words were half-way out of my mouth before I stopped.

“Wait – what’s today?  Is it the 5th?”

(fellow passenger) “Um…yes?”

“Today is your birthday, Ernie!  You are five!”

So…sorry, baby Ernie.  No birthday cake.  But you did get some delicious birthday ice cream.

Om nom nom birthday ice cream

Ernie turns 5

I love you, little one! I hope we get to celebrate many more together.

Shit, now I’m crying.

Badminton – not for the faint of heart

(Psst – have you heard I’m trying to give some Rachel Ray cookware?  No?  Well check out this post for the deets, man.  You know, details?  Get with the times, Grandma!)

So.  Wednesday.  You know how your mom always told you that if you didn’t have anything nice to say, then not to say anything at all?

Nothing against you personally, Wednesday.  I enjoy a hump day as much as the next girl, but honestly I’m just marking time until Friday.  Not only is it a payday (whammy!) but it is a holiday weekend (double whammy!) and I am heading to my aunt’s house in Richmond, VA to meet up with my mom and her siblings for our annual mini-reunion (ding ding ding JACKPOT!).

It’ll be a haze of swimming and badminton and a frozen drink my Aunt Lisa simply calls a concoction; the recipe varies from year to year and from bartender to bartender, but it’s basically some kind of frozen fruit + alcohol + juice (ratios vary dependent upon the bartender, and tend to skew heavy on the vodka as the day goes on).  Enjoy at your own risk, or you may end up spilling details of your life to your uncle that, upon reflection, you’d rather you’d kept to yourself.  Or taking a game of Wii bowling way too seriously.  As in, weighing the satisfaction of launching the Wii remote into the tv versus the cost of having to replace said tv.

Ultimately, you will come down on the side of not putting a hole in the tv, but it will be close.

And don’t even get me started on badminton…

I love my family, but we are neither good winners nor good losers.  I think we’ve had to replace the set every year due to raquet, um, fatigue.  Maybe they aren’t designed to last for more than a year, or maybe it’s that they aren’t rated to withstand being pounded against the ground in frustration after every botched serve.  You might not consider a shuttlecock a lethal weapon, but then again, you have never met my uncles’ murderous cross-court gaze.

So yes.  I’m phoning it in this week – I’m busy working on my game face.

P.S. Giveaway runs through the weekend!

Homeward Bound: The not-so-incredible journey

Old Business:

hemo ransom

Hemo is home!  After a month and a half without the pleasure of her company, Hemo has returned to the Mutha Fudruckin’ household, none the worse for her absence, other than a slightly more pronounced independent streak.  I was just about to buy some space in the local paper declaring her legally dead at the end of 90 business days and the official end of Hemo Watch, when, by chance, Ernie and I were on our way to the house around the corner to take some passion flower clippings*, and as we turned the corner, I saw a tiny gray cat perched on a similarly-colored cinderblock wall.

“That cat looks just like–OMG HEMO!  HEMO!  WTF ARE YOU DOING?!?”

Hemo was straight chilling on a garden wall, hanging with all of her stray cat friends.  I called her name and she lazily stretched and started yelling at me.

Me: Oh my gosh, Hemo!  I’ve been so worried?  What are you doing here?  Did you want to give me a heart attack?  Couldn’t you have at least called?!?
Hemo: Dude, chill.  You are embarassing me in front of my crew.  What’s for dinner?  Tuna?  I thought I hear you say ‘tuna,’ because if you didn’t say ‘tuna’ then you can forget all about ever seeing me again.  Ever.

Abandoning my quest for invasive vines, I scooped Hemo up and carried her home.  She was literally 50 feet (50 FEET) from home the entire time.  I’m not sure if she was truly lost or just being an asshole.  I’m leaning towards asshole, but either way I’m glad she’s home.  Of course I was out of cat food, having long since used the last of it to top off the dogs’ breakfast one hectic morning when I was running low (again? shocking!) on dog food, so I hand-fed her pieces of American cheese until she promised never to run away again.

Or at least leave a note next time.

On deck for tomorrow:  New Business. 
Oh yes, and there is a lot of it.

————————————————————————–
*
Correction: I was getting passion flower clippings and Ernie was searching for the perfect bush in which to take a dump.  He would want me to make this clear.

A man in a linen suit and flip flops, calling people turds. Yup…these are my kind of people.*

Today the air conditioning is broken on my floor at work.  When confronted with this news, I pretended to be sad and commiserated with my co-workers, but on the inside I am celebrating.  Working with menopausal ladies can be hard on us young folks who are still capable of maintaining regular body temperatures.  It is  ridiculous that I sit shivering in my office wrapped like a monk in my Slanket** while the matriarchs of the office waddle around in their sleeveless tunics and {shudder} open-toed sandals, fanning themselves with their TPS reports as they adjust the thermostat and complain about the humidity.  WTF, ladies, this is North Carolina in the summer.  Get a clue.  If I have to hear one more time about some one’s “personal summer” or “power surge,” I’m going to start slapping some bitches right across their sweaty, jowly faces.

Wow, can you tell it’s Monday?

I am full of hate.

Moving on…this Saturday I attended a Kentucky Derby party.  I know, I know, madras and seersucker and debutantes, on my!  While not typically a Bad Mutha Fudrucker-friendly event, my girlfriend Julie was catering the event and scored a pair of VIP tickets, which she waved in front of my face and said the magic words, ‘bottomless mint juleps.’  A $17 sundress and a borrowed straw hat later, I was eating fondue and throwing back Makers’ and water with the best of ’em.

I realized several hours in to the event that my dress was not, in fact, the black that I thought it was in the dressing room, but in the sun proved to be rather a dull brown color, which did not exactly match with the black hat and heels I had chosen to complete my look.  Another julep and I was care-free, too busy people judging watching to pay much attention to myself.  I asked a couple of older gentlemen in matching suits and straw hats if they took requests, but alas, they were not, in fact, one half of a barber shop quartet, but two elderly southern gentlemen sporting their Huckleberry Finn attire in earnest.  The twisted, sarcastic part of me was at a loss when faced with this much sincerity.  Grabbing a glass of wine and kicking off my shoes, I joined some stogey-smoking good ol’ boys in a friendly game of cornhole, which was more fun and not as gross as you would think.
———————————
*Credit: Kristin Hains, 5/2/2009, re:Mint Julep Jubilee
**“It’s not product placement, I just like it!”

Twig and berries

balls

Balls.

Those are totally balls.

Let me back up and start from the beginning.

The morning of my sister’s bridal shower, my mom’s house was in total chaos. Chicken salad was still being made and frantically chilled, butter chips were defrosting, a complicated showering/blow drying schedule was being ignored, and there were still errands to be run. Since my step-dad had already claimed the coveted (at least, by comparison) job of removing the dog poop from the backyard, I gladly volunteered to run last minutes errands. Grabbing punch supplies from the local grocery store and picking up some balloons? Check and double check.

After throwing a couple of liters of ginger ale and frozen juice in to the trunk, I was off to the balloon shop. I was greeted by the sweetest old lady you can imagine.

Go ahead, imagine her.

Short, wrinkled, slightly hunched, arthritic fingers clutching balloons by their brightly covered ribbons. Can’t you just see her? She sent her equally old and equally adorable husband to the back to get the balloons my mom had already ordered, and I asked her if it were possible to get a couple more plain, white balloons for us to attach to the mailbox at the house.

It would be her pleasure, she informed me. As she turned her attention away from me and towards the task of filling a couple of balloons with helium, I took a minute to check out the merchandise. Even though the candies were marked  .99 cents (usually my pet peeve–it’s .99 DOLLARS, not .99 CENTS, unless you are feeling extremely generous), I wasn’t even upset. Old people are so cute, I sighed.

Mr. Ballo0ns came out with two big clear bags filled with balloons.  He instructed me to take them out of the bag ASAP to prevent them from deflating prematurely.  Roger that.

After I paid Mrs. Balloons, she handed me the two additional balloons I’d requested for the mailbox.  She said a lot of something about how to adjust the height on the balloons using the complicated knot she’d tied in the ribbons, but all I could focus on was her wrinkled old hand holding, nay, cupping, a delicate ball sack she had fashioned from extra balloons to serve as a balloon weight. 

Here, let me refresh your memory:

twig-and-berries2

I think she was playing a trick on me. Either that, or I was on Candid Camera.

Later that night my 4 year old niece was running around the house, rubbing the balloon weights all over her face and unwittingly teabagging herself. I may have peed my pants a little a lot.

In which I dream about calling the maintenance man, or Julie Gets a Microwave

Sitting at a friend’s house eating pancakes and sausage for dinner recently, I announced that I thought Julie had gotten a microwave for Christmas, but I wasn’t sure and maybe I just dreamed that. I’m not 100% sure what prompted me to make this announcement; Julie wasn’t even present at dinner. Perhaps it was the wish that I had taken the time to microwave the syrup before I poured it over my pancakes, or maybe it was a random brain synapse firing. I guess it doesn’t really matter.

What matters is that I have boring dreams. I have dreams about regular, everyday things. For example, about 5 years ago when I shared an apartment with 2 girlfriends, I was supposed to call the front office to get someone to come out and look at the fan in our laundry room which wasn’t working. A couple days pass and one of my roommates, A, asked me if I had called, to which I replied that I hadn’t called because our other roomate, D, had called. A few more days pass and no one comes to look at our fan. Why? Because D hadn’t called; I had just dreamed that she did. WTF? Get an imagination, you freak.

I’ve been reading Cake Wrecks for a couple of months now, and I’ve started having dreams about decorating cakes and I now believe I have the skills to appear on an episode of Ace of Cakes. How hard could it be to sculpt the Backyardigans out of fondant? Never having baked or decorated a cake in my life without the aid of my pals Duncan Hines or Betty Crocker, I bragged to my sister Lauren about my imaginary new-found skill with a pastry bag. She, in turn, told my sister Anne, who is getting married this May, about my new calling in life.

Anne and her fiance have very set ideas about how they want their wedding to go down, and are both working at least 2 jobs to finance it. I’m extremely proud of her for being so responsible, even if her job as a manager at a children’s clothing store did prompt her to send me the following email:

To: badmuthafudrucker@gmail.com

Re: Retail rules

Rule Number 1:
I AM NOT A BABYSITTER —
in fact you probably don’twant to just let your kids run around wild in hopes that I’ll watch them. I’d probably let them put a dirty penny in their mouth and watch as you are mortified because you weren’t watching them and they decided to suck on a penny – why not? It’s shiny, they have nothing better to do. I know those evil glances you’re giving as you yell at your child and force them to spit out their shiny metal snack are meant for me, but unfortunatly for you, you cannot place the blame on me in front of the 3 other sets of parents who are looking at you as though you were reading Britany Spears’ memoirs of motherhood (hopefully she doesn’t really write memoirs of her experience as a mother, it may cause further and irreversible damange to her boys as they grow old enough and some stranger teaches them how to read).

Besides, if you leave your kids to me, how am I supposed to pull all the sizes you want to try on in all the colors and outfits you came in here for in the first place?

Oh and if you ask me to put in a movie for them to watch I will probably be more interested
in that (no matter how many times I’ve seen Ella Enchanted in the past week) than catering to your every need.

well i hope you enjoy this and it makes you pee your pants a little bit.

————————————————-

Ah, the pleasures of working in retail.
Anyway, a recent phone call between myself and Anne goes down like this:
Me: Hey Anne!
Her: Hey. Lauren said you wanted to make my wedding cake?
Me: Well, what I said was that I have mad dream skills at decorating cakes.
Her: So you’ll make my wedding cake? We just want something simple. All white. With roses.
Me: What if it comes out looking like vomit on a plate? But it still tastes good? Will you hate me forever?
Her: Probably. We want red velvet. I’ll send you a picture. [click] dial tone
Me: Wait…

So she wants this:

[image credit: http://www.uniquecake.co.uk/]

But I’m afraid she’ll get this:

[image credit: http://cakewrecks.blogspot.com]

Looks delicious. Anyone have a good Red Velvet cake recipe?

6 saltines in 60 seconds, you say?

I’ve mentioned before that I am fascinated by competitive eating. Last night I was over at Julie’s for Friends’ Christmas, which was a ton of fun and I scored some awesome gifts. Like this scarf (thanks, Kristin!):


But this post is not about how awesome my new scarf is, or how delicious the crab legs, shrimp, and oysters were, or even how delicious my Sailor Sarahs are. This post is about slamming saltines.

C challenged K to eat 6 saltines in 60 seconds. Sounds easy, right? I mean, I regularly hoover a whole sleeve in what feels like no time at all. The rules are simple: 6 saltines, chewed and swallowed, with nothing to drink, in 1 minute.


K stepped up to the plate. Around cracker 4, though, it became evident that she wasn’t going to make it.

It was sad, my friends. I offered to coach K in the fine art of competitive eating, so that next year she can redeem her good name.

I’m not-so-secretly wondering if I am up to the challenge. I’ll get back to you on that one…