My Kind Of Party

Just a warning – I’m going to discuss my dogs’ rather unusual diet in this post. Pinky swear you won’t remove me from your Google Reader Feedly? Thanks.

So. My dog’s Rather Unusual Diet is of the raw variety. As in, put down a towel and throw a raw chicken leg quarter in their direction and let them go at it, bones and all.

Actually, only Ernie eats on a towel. Dex refuses to eat this patently uncivilized diet in my decidedly civilized kitchen, so he eats outside in the yard. His choice, not mine. I am not complaining.

Sometimes it’s chicken, sometimes it’s venison. Sometimes it’s meaty meat, and sometimes it’s liver (gross) or kidneys (even grosser). This weekend, although he doesn’t know it yet, Dexter is getting a whole sheep’s head all to himself.

But I digress.

A byproduct of my dog’s diet is that I am constantly trolling for affordable meat. Craigslist has been wonderful –  hunters looking to offload freezer burned venison haunches are my favorite. I do feel a little creepy contacting sellers about rabbits or goats. If you don’t know, there are two camps of rabbit and/or goat breeders and sellers; those who raise their animals for meat, and those who raise their animals for pets. If you accidentally send an email to a pet rabbit breeder inquiring about purchasing their “culls,” be prepared for a nasty reply.

When I can’t get anything else, I stock my freezer with 40 lb. cases of chicken leg quarters that I buy from a local restaurant supply outlet. These chicken legs – which I feed in between goat or duck or sheep head scores – come minimally processed and don’t contain any of the yummy/icky added flavorings you’ll find in most grocery store chicken.

Oh my gosh, I’m talking way too much about raw meat. BUT I CAN’T STOP NOW.

Sometimes I can’t get to the restaurant supply warehouse. Mainly because I am lazy, but also because they close at 6pm during the week and sometimes traffic works against me. So I find myself at the local Food Lion store where they sell 10 lb. bags of low-sodium chicken legs. They usually have boxes of Hot Tamales for $1, so most of the time my cart contains nothing but 40+ lbs. of raw chicken and a few boxes of chewy cinnamon candy.

I am convinced that the cashiers whisper as they see me coming.

Here comes that crazy chicken lady. All she ever buys are chicken and Hot Tamales, Hot Tamales and chicken. What the fuck kind of diet is she on?

Once I tried mentioning (with an airy, we’re-all-friends-here chuckle) that of course all this chicken wasn’t for my own consumption! It was for my dogs! But I’m pretty sure that made me seem even less like a woman who has her shit together.

But one time, about a year and a half ago, I realized that I needed a few additional items. I had recently started entertaining an overnight guest of the male variety, and needed to stock up on…party favors. And then I remembered that I needed to grab some batteries for my Wii remotes (what? We were newly dating and playing a lot of Wii bowling).

It was only as I was unloaded my cart onto the checkout belt that I fully realized the picture I was painting for the unlucky cashier.

40 pounds of raw chicken
4 boxes of Hot Tamales
Box of Ultra Sensitive Spermicide Lubed Trojan Condoms (18 count)
AA batteries (24 count)

Damn, girl. What kind of party are you throwing?

What would you name your cloned neanderthal baby?

Something amazing happened yesterday.

You may not believe me – do amazing things happen to 31 year old women? They certainly don’t happen in their backyard, unless that something is discovering a dinosaur fossil or giving birth to a cloned neanderthal baby.

Maybe I’ve played this up too much. What really happened yesterday is that I ate the first tomato from my garden.

It was delicious! But feel free to throw your old tomatoes at my head, as I know eating a tomato from your garden is hardly amazing, even if that tomato is yellow and delicious and you’ve known that tomato since it was a brave little un-pollinated flower.

But.

I’m pretty sure the 17-year-old Home Depot Garden Center employee who was tasked with watering the plant that yielded The Most Amazing And Delicious Yellow Tomato Ever shared a joint with my young, impressionable plant before I paid $3.88 for her and brought her home. I think this same employee rubbed psychedelic mushrooms on her tender leaflets and maybe even exposed her root buds to acid tablets.

Because I had the craziest dreams last night.

Like, chewing on gumballs while running the wrong way through a crowd during a 10k. But the gumballs turn into your teeth and the race is all uphill, and you’re running on your knees because you forgot your shoes and oh! you have no shirt on.

And you really have to get home because you can hear you sister’s parrot screaming (what? Your sister doesn’t have a parrot? DOESN’T MATTER) and if you don’t get home to feed it it’ll die. And how can you make your sister believe that you are sorry if you don’t even have a shirt on? Plus, your teeth are soggy, chewed-up gumballs and suddenly you’ve forgotten where your house is.

But really, that tomato was exceptionally delicious. Five stars. WOULD EAT AGAIN.

xoxo

Sometimes I miss blogging. The times that I miss blogging are when I’m driving home from work, stuck in traffic, and the local NPR station is running a story on the aging population’s inability to detect increasing levels of iron in their drinking water.

What?

Why does this story make me miss blogging? Because the reporter keeps pronouncing iron “EYE-rin.” Go ahead, say it out loud. Maybe I’m just a hick from Virginia by way of North Carolina, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard anyone in real life pronounce it “EYE-rin.”

Then I get to thinking about how I pronounce iron. IRE-n. EYE-ern. I was starting to go a little crazy. I needed an audience to bounce my break from reality off of.

HOW DO YOU PRONOUNCE ‘IRON,’ INTERNET?

So yes. I gotta get these thoughts out of my head.

Also, I’m a fan of this blog. And I’m grateful to it, as well – I parlayed this little outlet from a place to keep a friend updated on her rehomed dog, to a part-time job writing for a pet  blog, to a job I love with an organization I adore.

So hello, old friends. Hope we can do this again real soon.

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!

Hey, that reminds me…

…so Allie at Hyperbole and a Half posted about sneaky rage cycles recently, and I immediately had a flashback to a recent event.  This was me:

*slightly torn, but nonetheless clean

The first sign of trouble –

Weird.

It appears that the elastic in the mattress pad has melted in the dryer.  I have never, in 28 years of life, heard of this problem.  Perhaps I’ve been living under a rock.  Yet I am still not ready to admit defeat.  I try changing positions; using the bed/wall/anything for leverage.
Ok, this isn’t working.  I’m breaking into a sweat.  The animals have fled to the backyard as I grasp the crinkly, decidedly non-elastic, mattress pad in my teeth in a desperate attempt to bend the universe to my will.

OK, ok.  Calm down.  Breathe in, breathe out.

Oh no, you didn’t.
Finally – VICTORY!

Kinda.

So you think you’re a Slick Rick, huh?

You know what I hate?

Mocking birds.

But I have a new hate in my life, friends.  Slugs.  They haven’t supplanted mocking birds at the top of my list (yet), but as Stephen Colbert would say, they’re on notice.

I was hanging out on the front porch Monday night, talking to my mom on the phone, when I noticed one of the slimey sons of bitches munching on my calibrachoa.
F--- you, slug.Then I spotted another one.  Two slugs = Threat Level Orange.

I can’t allow this.  I won’t live like this!  Those slimey bastards don’t get to treat my plants as an all night buffet.  So I got my gardening shears out and snipped off the branches that the slugs were on, and let the leaves fall to the ground.  I zeroed in on the leaves that the slugs were still clinging to, and stomped on them (slug side down, of course – I’m not an animal).

“Take that, assholes,” I muttered under my breath as I slid my shoes off and returned inside.

The next morning my mom sent me an email with some tips for getting rid of slugs.  Suggestions included salt (of course), beer traps, and sandpaper.  According to the article she sent, slugs won’t crawl across sandpaper for fear of ripping their bellies open.  Oh yeah, that sounds about right.  And I guess they like beer as much as the next guy, and will drown themselves to get a sip.

Stale beer, people.  This makes me hate them more.

So when darkness fell last night, visions of a slug massacre were dancing in my head.  I wasn’t going to waste any beer on those assholes, and I didn’t have any sandpaper.  So salt it was.  I went out to the front porch armed with garden shears and a can of Morton’s.  I spotted the first of the enemy right away.

Snip.  He was on the ground.  Flip.  The leaf was right-side up (no more messing around).  Sprinkle.  Agony for him, glee for me.

I felt a twinge of conscience – was I any better than those horrible boys who pluck the wings off of flies and burn ants with magnifying glasses?  How could I sit there and watch, nay, enjoy the death throes of another living creature?

But then that bastard tried to make a run for it, salt-sprinkled as he was, through a crack in the boards that make up the porch.  So I COVERED him in salt.  I positively mounded it on top of him.

“Not so fast, sucker.  Where do you think you’re going?”

The next 20 minutes are a blur.  I flicked and salted probably 5 more slugs, just off of one container.  I went inside to call my mom and report on my progress.  Basking in the glow of her approval, I ventured back outside to survey the carnage.  Slugs lay writhing in pools of goo and salt.  Life was good.

Then I spotted a particularly long slug making his way up the side of the container.

“Oh, what have we got here?  I bet you think you’re a real Slick Rick, huh?  Take THAT!”

I flung a handful of salt at him, knocking him from the side of the pot.

“How ’bout a little fire, Scarecrow?” – another fistful of salt rained down upon him.

Perhaps by this weekend my blood lust will be sated and I’ll be satisfied with ringing my containers with sandpaper (“the roughest grit you can find, honey” suggested my mom).  Until then – slugs beware.  So help you GOD if I find you in my hostas.