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.

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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.

Mexico tells the French to suck it en Español.

cinco-de-mayo-girl

Is this not the best picture you have ever seen?!? Holy shit the random girl cracks me up every time I look at it.

Apparently Cinco de Mayo is not Mexico’s Independence Day, but the anniversary of the Mexican army’s defeat of French forces in the city of Puebla in 1862. Go figure. It is not even a federal holiday in Mexico, rather a “holiday that can be observed voluntarily,” according to wikipedia. I guess my local El Cerro Grande didn’t get that message because they have a history of leading me to believe that taking 2 or 9 shots of tequila and smashing Corona bottles on my head is mandatory. But who’d complaining? Last year I saw Harry Potter on Cinco de Mayo.

harry-potter-cinco-de-mayo1

Seriously, the dude looked just like Harry Potter. Glasses and all.

ANYWAY, have a great Tuesday! The air conditioning is still broken and I’m too busy hiding my glee at that fact to come up with anything else.

Monday you can fall apart…

liverwurst

You know what sucks?  Paper cuts.  And single socks.  Also world hunger, orphans, and uncontrolled wildfires.  But today we will mainly be talking about paper cuts because I have one.  I also have several match-less socks but that doesn’t bother me too much because I really don’t have a problem wearing one sock with a blue toe and another with a purple toe.  In fact, I kind of like it.  What can I say?  I’m adorably quirky.  Oh, you want some evidence?  Try this on for size: when I was a kid I my favorite sandwiches were peanut butter and butter.

Yeah, I said butter.

I can’t imagine that I came up with that combination on my own, and given my childhood aversion to touching actual food, I’ll have to credit my mother with coming up with that bizarre pairing.  I hope she never tells tips my kids off to this abomination on Wonderbread, because then I will have no choice but to offer my children vomit between two slices of bread.  There is no way I am capable of spreading delicious peanut butter on one slice of bread and delicious butter on another, slapping them together on a plate and serving it to people I will presumably love.  Thinking about it now makes me feel kind of puke-y, although I distinctly remember thinking at the time that it was the bomb.

Of course this is the same woman who loves to tell me that my favorite baby food was liverwurst and cottage cheese, pureed in the blender.  I may have been a gifted baby, but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t advanced enough to swipe the Cheerios off of my high chair tray while clearly enunciating my desire for liverwurst, banging my soft plastic spork on the tables and demanding “brain food.”  Nice try, Mom.  I maintain that my favorite baby foods were mashed bananas and zwieback biscuits, which sound normal and something I would maybe even eat today.

Anyway…

Paper cuts.  I have one and it hurts.

Meet…Curly Sue

I got one of my co-workers to help me take a picture of Curly Sue* for your viewing pleasure. Gaze upon her beauty!

[Pay no attention to my bitten nails or unplucked eyebrows. Trust me. It’s better this way.]

So…jealous much? I would be, too. Isn’t she a thing of beauty? It’s too bad I can’t type and twirl her around my finger, because looking at this picture is seriously making me want to bust out some pomade and style Curly Sue. Right. Now.

I know that some of you requested a Paint portrait, but really, I tried and I couldn’t do her justice.

As a Double Bonus Happiness, I got my birthday present** from my sister Anne and her fiance, Justin, today. I know! Curly Sue and birthday happiness? How lucky can a girl get? I’ll probably go home to dog poop all over the house today, just to balance everything out.

It’s ok, though, because Anne (who reads this blog sometimes) sent me Cake Decorating for Dummies and the Scrabble Word Building Book. I wish it were the weekend so I could spend all day making Scrabble tile cakes and brushing Curly Sue.

—————————————————-
*Thanks to Dr. Zibbs for giving me the idea to name her.
**My birthday is on Sunday. Happy 27th to me!

None of this would apply if I could grow a decent handlebar moustache

About every 3 or 4 months, I grow an extra-long eyebrow hair in my right eyebrow. It goes pretty much unnoticed by everyone except for me, as it is always very blonde and very thin. I’ll just get a feeling one day, and reach up to check, and yes! It’s back!

I love this eyebrow hair, and become obsessed with it as it grows. Every so often my hand will sneak up to stroke it, much like I imagine I’d stroke a beard or a moustache if I had one. I sit in front of the mirror and pull it gently to prove to myself it’s still there and attached.

I made the mistake of pointing it out to my roommates once, who immediately offered to pluck it for me. When I refused, they moved from offering help to threatening to pluck it as I slept. I don’t have to tell you it was a sleepless night.

I got that special feeling today at lunch as I ate my apple and peanut M&M’s (I ate my pb&j at 10:00 because I skipped breakfast). I reached up, hoping for the best but prepared for the worst. My fingers slid across my eyebrow until I was able to detect and wrap my index finger around the renegade hair.

Long, boring budget meeting? Stressfull phone call with my grandmother? It is the MAD Cat to my Dr. Claw. Seriously, this thing is almost better than as good as a cold beer.

I threaten my dogs with knives

I went home yesterday on my lunch break to put some scalloped potatoes in the crock pot so they’d be ready for dinner. The dogs were thrilled; I’m pretty sure they usually spend the day licking each others’ genitals.

Thanks for sharing my shame, mother.

Anytime, baby Ernie.

Even though Dexter has a bum knee and sometimes refuses to get off of the couch for a morning potty break, that little bastard is an escape artist. In his younger days he’d climb over 6 foot fences. So when the dogs are in the backyard, I keep a close eye on them. Every so often I stuck my head out of the back door.

“Is everyone still behaving?”

It wasn’t until about the 3rd or 4th time that I realized I still had my huge potato-slicing knife in hand, giving my neighbors yet another reason to doubt my sanity.