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.

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We have a winner!

hello Hello HELLO to you all!  I hope you had a most excellent Memorial Day weekend – I know I did.  But let’s get some business out of the way, first.

Shelly at Perfectly Shelly, you are our winner!  Whoo hoo!  Check your email for details.

And speaking of business, let’s talk about mullets.  Specifically, that I had one this weekend until my sisters shamed me into sending it to that big trailer park in the sky.

Lest you judge me too harshly, please know that I didn’t intentionally grow a mullet.  It just sort of happened.  My head is a freak of nature and the back of my hair grows much more quickly than the front.  It’s like your backyard lawn – you know, how some patches are lush and green and other patches and kind of bare and thinly covered?  Yeah, that’s my head.

So Sunday morning my sisters broke me down and marched me to Great Clips to have the mullet o’ shame removed.  They dropped me off and went next door to Target, leaving me surrounded by little kids getting their summer hair cuts.  My favorite kid, though, was there with his two brothers (one older, and one younger).  He hopped down from the chair and ran through the shop, trailing his superman cape behind him.  When offered a lollipop, he took two.  He proceeded to unwrap them both and pop them into his mouth.  Retrieving his Nintendo DS from his mom, he asked me if I wanted to watch him play.

Why the hell not?

I was kind of sad when I was called back for my trim.  I had to say goodbye to both my new friend (Superman) and my old friend (Mullet).  20 minutes later I was ready to party.  Best $12 haircut I’ve ever had.

Even my mom expressed her approval upon my return to the house.

“You have to pick one, honey – either all business or all party.  You can’t be business in the front and party in the back.”

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.

Yes, peacocks.

Yup.  You read that correctly.

Peacocks.

I had a peacock encounter recently.  And not your typical, “hey, I’m at the zoo and even though I really came for the elephants, I’ll check out the peacocks because, well, they are here and right next to the snack bar.”  I mean, I was enjoying a day on the water, playing bocce ball on a sand bar, and 20 minutes later – BAM!

Peacocks.

Let me back it up a bit, so I can properly set the stage.  Imagine if you will, two girls riding in the bed of a truck.  Both girls are soaked to the waist as a result of a likely unnecessary but none the less enthusiastic attempt to “help” trailer the boat.  Both girls are a little bit tipsy.

Suddenly –

Kevin?

Kevin?

It was explained to us that a local horse farm had raised some peacocks, but I guess a few got out and now they roam around this coastal neighborhood.  We could hear them calling to each other, and when Kristin took a crack at answering them, they called right back.

They sound like this.

So although we could hear them, nary a peacock could we see.  Amazing, right?  I mean, these animals are known for their flashy plumage, and they are hidden amongst the pine trees.  Julie and I thought we saw one, but it turned out to be a branch.  Disappointment City, Population: me.

So after crashing through some bushes and peering into some neighbors’ yards, we got into the car, not a little disillusioned.  Planet Earth makes it seem as though exotic animals are under every rock!

We drive about 10 yards down the street, Kristin calling to the birds all the while.  Out of the corner of my eye – a flash of turquoise – could it be?

A PEACOCK!  Just chilling on the roof of an abandoned mobile home.  Another perched in a pine tree in the backyard.  It was a surreal moment.  Kristin and the birds exchange a few words.

Her:  “ca-KAW!”

Them:  “ca-KAW!  ca-KAW!”

Me:  “I wish I had my camera – MS Paint will never do this justice.”

Oh, and Kristin – watch your back.  A little internet research has informed me that you were impersonating their mating call.  So…yeah.  Baby Kevins in your very near future?  Perhaps.

She sees you when you’re sleeping…

Attention:  You have been robbed!

Yes, robbed.  All weekend I was busy having adventures and soaking up awesome stories to tell you about this morning.  I saw FERAL PEACOCKS!  I am not even joking about this, friends.  FERAL PEACOCKS.  Just let that sink in.  Oh, one was roosting in a pine tree, while another was prancing on the roof of an abandoned trailer (I am such a tease).

But that’s all you’re gonna get out of me today, because my (thankfully female) coworker pulled me aside after our staff meeting today to inform me that my dress was split up the seam in the back, exposing my flower print underwear and embarrassingly white thighs to whomever chanced to walk behind me.

Holy shit.

So instead of tales of FERAL PEACOCKS (including my friend Kristin, who is apparently a FERAL PEACOCK WHISPERER), I’ll leave you with this:

Imagine the creepiest, most judgmental gargoyle you can think of.  Now imagine it in your backyard.  Now imagine yourself a bit hungover.

BEHOLD!

The media has got it all wrong.  Rabid pit bulls can’t hold a candle to the menace that is Hemo.

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.

TMI Thursday: Are you going to eat that?

TMI Thursday

My TMI’s have been pretty lame lately; maybe I need to go get waxed again or poop my pants. *Sigh* pooping my pants…I haven’t done that since I was in diapers. Not that I’m bragging, but I’ve got that shit under control. Literally. I hope God doesn’t bitch slap me now with the swine flu H1N1 virus, leaving me curled up in my bathtub in a puddle of my own vomit and feces. Now there’s a lovely image…

h1n1

When I was younger, I had a real problem with food. Not that I had an eating disorder (I don’t possess the ability to deny myself anything for too long), but I had very definite likes and dislikes; actual food was kind of disgusting. I could notwash dishes because the thought of touching someone else’s crusty plate made me dry heave. My sister put ketchup on a bologna sandwich once and I threw up. Mayonnaise? Forget about it. I ate my sandwiches turkey sandwiches with mustard or nothing at all(well, after I got out of the peanut butter and butter sandwich phase), and my salads without dressing. And you can forget about cheese. The only foods that were allowed to touch were rice and corn (a delicious mixture–try it sometime!) and the meat/mashed potato/gravy trifecta of awesomeness. Outside of these exceptions–where the fuck do you think you’re going, broccoli? Don’t even think about touching the scalloped potatoes. You don’t want to make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry…

My mother is a saint.

College life changed all of that. I was never a fan of cafeteria food, but a poor college student cannot live on saltines and cranberry juice alone! Well, at least this one couldn’t. Gradually my food repertoire expanded to include all manner of food produced for the masses: I even ate cafeteria fish sticks, which is pretty much the lowest of the low. After watching my suite-mate shamelessly collecting and finishing off other people’s pizza “bones” (crusts), I overcame my aversion to other people’s food and was hard pressed to find anything I couldn’t imagine as edible, given the right condiment.

Fast forward a year; I was living in Wilmington, working as a waitress at a barbecue joint. My mom and her new boyfriend (now husband) were in town on a date, and stopped in my restaurant to have dinner see me. I hadn’t yet met my mom’s boyfriend, Brian, so I was excited to see him and size him up. They came in the door looking like two twin drowned rats, having purchased matching sweat shirts from Bald Head Island after getting rained on. Desperate to impress Brian, I tried to be as jovial and friendly as possible. I walked them through the menu, brought them their food, and made sure they were enjoying everything, all the while running my mouth (probably about stupid and inappropriate things, like how Hemo’s poop had really been stinky lately, or how my neighbors ripped off our balconey railing).

My mom and Brian were slowing down, and Brian still had half a rack of ribs in front of him. “I’d hate for these to go to waste,” he mourned, “but there isn’t any way I could take these with me.”

“Oh they won’t go to waste,” I assured him. “I’ll take them to the back and we’ll eat them. I’m starving!”

“‘We’?” he asked.

“Yeah, you know…myself and the other servers. Technically, they are mine, because you guys are my table, but I don’t mind sharing.” I then went into a long disertation about the complex rules of what food was considered “safe” to eat, and what food we just dumped.

“You know, like if you could imagine yourself making out with that person, you could totally eat their leftovers. Not that I would make out with you [insert nervous laughter], but you know, you look pretty disease-free, so maybe even if I didn’t know you I’d eat these ribs. If you had, like, sores all over your lips or chewed with your mouth open–no way. That’s gross. But especially if you know the person…we have a couple of regulars, and they always leave one or two wings on a plate. We fight over them!”

It wasn’t until I saw the look on his face–a mixture of shock and disgust–that I realized that I had said too much. I had managed to gross out a man who had 3 teenage sons at home.