Some stuff I want to tell you about

Wow – how has it been a week already?  Time is flying friends, and not in a good way.  Some updates:

Had a blast this weekend – more camping, more hanging out with family, more watermelon eating.  Ran into Steve at the Downtown Sundown Guns ‘n’ Roses cover band concert.  It was…awkward? It was nice to see him, but I was sweaty and already irritated by other things, and not feeling pretty. I felt surprised/sad/nervous/glad I wasn’t drinking.  I’m guessing this is normal?

More on camping – Dex is an escape artist and kept creeping out of the tent.  And by creeping, I mean that sonovabitch kept UNZIPPING the tent and chilling by the campfire.  What an asshole.

Ernie continues to be fascinated by the kittens.Ernie and the kittensThe kittens continue to be fascinated by eating and pooping.  Oh, and biting (they are teething).  They are much bigger now:

GirlieBoy kittenThe little calico girl is perfecting the Hemo stink-eye.

Dammit Hemo, you are a bad influence!

They are not photographing as well now as they used to – I think it’s because they are actually moving around, getting into shit (literally) and needing lots of baths/wipe downs. Their little faces always look a little gaunt because I am constantly wiping food/milk/eye gunk out of them, and smearing eye medicine in them.

Work is crazy – we are working 4 10 hours days, which on the one hand is awesome because hey – 3 day weekend every weekend!  But it is not awesome, because hey – 10 hour work day Monday – Thursday.

I’ll see you around!

[Edited to add] – VIDEO! Of the KITTENS!

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.

Hemo is judging you.

Oh, so you thought you’d make some healthy and delicious oatmeal pancakes for breakfast?  Sounds like a great idea – make a big batch, freeze’em, and pop them in the toaster in the morning for a quick on-the-go breakfast.

You do know that oatmeal pancakes ≠ oatmeal cookies, right?You know oatmeal pancakes =/= oatmeal cookies, right?

Yeah, Heem, I know, but I’ve got this whole canister of oatmeal – I might as well use it.  In fact, let’s double the recipe; I gotta get rid of this stuff.

*sigh* Don’t say I didn’t warn you…
*sigh* Don't say I didn't warn you.

(original recipe – Heart-Healthy Oatmeal Pancakes)

Okay:
milk – strike one.  Substitute coconut milk.  check.
oatmeal – check.
oatmeal flour – wha?  *drags out food processor* check.
baking powder – nope. But it’s optional, so…
salt – check.
egg whites – check.
cinnamon – check. Scratch that.  I had cinnamon – at Steve’s house.  So…cocoa powder? check.

45 minutes later:Dang pancakes - looking good!

Dang, pancakes, you’re looking GOOD.  Let’s have a taste test!

*blech*

*sad face*

Shoot, these taste like oatmeal.  Plain oatmeal.  I need some sweetness in my life!

*rummages in the fridge* How about some blueberries?

Taste test No. 2

Verdict: These things still taste like coconut-flavored cardboard.  With blueberries mixed in.  W.T.F.

*breaks down and adds some brown sugar and vanilla*

I didn’t even try the rest of the batch.  I just cooked them all and threw them in the freezer.  This morning I popped two in the toaster and…

Do yourself a favor – next time just open a can of tun.  At least that won’t go to waste.What did I tell you?

In which Dexter discovers he loves the taste of deer poop.

Work sucks.

There, I said it.  Coming back to work after 16 days off blows.  As I’m sure this is news to no one, we’ll be moving right along.

We had a surprisingly uneventful road trip up to Michigan.  I packed my baby sister and the dogs into the car and, leaving Hemo at home to be looked after by my neighbor/co-worker, started the 15 hour trek to the outer suburbs of Detroit.

Why, you may ask, did Hemo get to stay home, most likely licking her kitty vagina on  my pillows and gorging herself on treats I bought in a fit of guilt?  It is not because she is a poor road tripper – on the contrary, she is an excellent road tripper.  On one trip from NC to MI she sat stoically in her (soft-sided, collapsible) car carrier while Ernie sat on her for who knows how long until I happened to glance in the backseat and shoo him off.  No, Hemo is just a horrible, horrible house guest.  Hissing at babies, scratching couches, peeing in inappropriate places — she has long since worn out her welcome at my mom’s house.

Our ride up was uneventful.  After Dexter stopped mouth-breathing all over my sister and followed Ernie’s example by falling asleep in the backseat, it was clear sailing.  We did have to listen to Jason DeRulo’s “Whatcha Say” about a million times, but the song kind of grew on me and it ended up being not so bad.

The week and a half I spent in Michigan with my mom and her family went by too, too fast.  It was a blur of snow, food, sleeping in, Harry Potter yarn, hot chocolate, food, wine, and delicious food.  Ernie and Dex had a grand time playing in the snow.  It’s a shame the only picture I have of my time up there is the following, in which I tried to get a family portrait of my dogs along with my mom’s pit bull, Callie.  Well, she’s not actually my mom’s dog, she’s my stepbrother’s, but after he bought her and had her ears clipped, his drug habit caught up with him and he spent several years in and out of shady rental homes with no-pets policies before finally ending up in jail (he’s out now).  So Callie lives with my mom and stepdad, and protects my sister from chipmunks.


Wow.  What a photogenic bunch.

Callie (left) Poor Callie, she looks like she is losing a piece of her soul to the camera.  Honestly, for all her 100+ pounds (my sister steadfastly claims that Callie is 90 pounds, but come on…she makes Dexter look slim), she is the sweetest, most insecure sensitive dog I have ever met.  And she smells like Doritos.

Dexter (middle) looks like he just suffered a stroke.  I love you Dex, but you are out of the running to become America’s Next Top Model.

Ernie (right) has not, to my knowledge at least, been taking any steroids, nor was his father a giraffe.  This picture, however, argues otherwise.

I guess they come by it honest, as I have not taken a decent picture since approximately 1983.

Coming up, I have a lot of stuff to tell you, including how my car gave me the middle finger on the Ohio Turnpike and my adventures converting a monstrous butternut squash to monstrous mound of cubed butternut squash.  Stay tuned!

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.

Sorry, internets, I’ve been an asshole blogger.

Posting on Monday?** Who does that? Certainly not any cool people…

I have a serious case of holiday induced I-don’t-feel-like-doing-shit-itis. Actually, I do feel like doing something. Namely, sitting on my couch, reading Breaking Dawn and sipping on some dark hot chocolate spiked with peppermint schnapps. Unfortunately, that is not a paying gig and if I want to continue to heat the house and keep dog food in Ernie and Dex’s bowls, I’m going to have to do some actual work around here.*

This morning I got stuck behind a school bus. Crappy, I know, but it was made even more crappy because not one but two creepy kids stared at me the entire time. We’re talking 5 miles with at least 7 stop lights. At first I pretended I didn’t see them, but I kept making accidental eye contact when I’d check to see if they were still looking at me. Then I pretended to be singing along to the radio, but my car stereo was stolen and I haven’t replaced it yet. I haven’t been able to get Britney Spears out of my head since this weekend, and I felt a little weird mouthing “wo-man-izer wo-man wo-man-izer you’re a wo-man-izer” to elementary school kids. At the next stoplight I pretended to be engrossed in the Christmas card my friend Julie had sent me.

Oh, Julie, how nice of you to include Hemo in the card, even though Hemo is a bitch and doesn’t celebrate Christmas or any other holiday other than Breakfast and Dinner.

Even though the card was glittery, it wasn’t enough to hold my attention for much more than 20 seconds at a time.

Why am I so desperate to put on a show for these kids? Jeez, shouldn’t they be picking their noses and wiping boogers on each other? Speaking of picking noses…

*slaps hand away from nose*

No, Sarah, don’t set a bad example.

Oh, Swiss Miss and peppermint schnapps, knowing you are waiting for me at the end of the day is hopefully enough to keep me from pulling a George Costanza and napping under my desk for most of today…
——————————————————
*Not here here, because unfortunately blogging is not a paying gig. It is cheaper than therapy and it makes me sound busy at work, though.
**Proofreading? The cool kids aren’t doing this, either, are they? I mean, I know this one isn’t.