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?

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Missed Connections

I’ll be surprised if anyone shows up today after the cliff-hanger I left you with yesterday.

Breaking news!  My car broke down!  And then it got fixed!

Halt the presses!  I diced a butternut squash!

Jeez louise.  I deserve to lose the first knuckle of my right index finger for that bullshit.  Hopefully it won’t come to that but if it does, rest assured I will accept my punishment with minimal complaint.  Reaching the ‘y’ key will become a more difficult task, but I’m not one to complain.

Right.

Moving along.  Yeah, my car broke down 2 hours into my return trip from MI to NC, but really, other than waiting for the tow truck and the actually paying for the repairs, it was pretty painless.  As my saintly mother paid for the repairs, I really have no room to complain.  Speaking of no room, I did have to ride cross-legged in the back seat of my mom’s Ford Focus with 150+ pounds of pit bull, a cooler, and assorted snacks and Christmas presents, but hey – they are my (remarkably, blessedly well-behaved) dogs, and other than the time I had to reach over my crossed legs to grab a Coke for my sister from afore mentioned cooler (remember when you were in 10th grade and had to pass the Presidential Fitness test?  and you had to sit on the floor with your legs stretched in front of you and see how far you could reach?  It was kind of like that, but I’m 27, not 17) it wasn’t bad at all.

HOWEVER, I did see my old teacher at Food Lion while I was visiting my sister over Christmas break.  You may remember this post where I professed my undying love for my high school History teacher, Mr. Tucker.  Well, I’ve been waiting 10 years for him to realize we are meant to be together but now I know it shall never be.  How do I know this?  Because I am socially inept.

Let me back up, because this story is actually a good one.

All 3 of my sisters and my mom were at my sister Lauren’s house (she of riverboat gambling fame) to celebrate late Christmas together.  My mom sent two of my sisters (Annie and Beth) and I to Food Lion to get a couple of bottles of wine.

Can I stop here to mention that we saw a boy peeing out of the open driver’s side door in the parking lot?  I know, let she who is without sin cast the first stone, and I have peed in my fair share of inappropriate places, but this kid was something else.  I have never before witnessed a daylight, outdoor pee of this magnitude.  Honestly, at first I thought he was filling up water balloons with a hose – and this is not a comment on the size of his hose, which I (thankfully) did not see.  He was peeing in such a way as to arc the stream almost to the height of his head.  Before I realized it was pee I was afraid he would end up soaking his face.  After I realized it was pee I was hoping he’d end up soaking his face.  All I could do was shake my head and curse the small town.  And of course, keep watching.  I’m only human.

So it is in this state of mind that I entered the grimy, small town Food Lion.  As all Food Lions have the same general floor plan, I aim myself toward the beer/wine aisle.  Who do I see rounding the deli counter with a cute redhead on his arm?

Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh I think that’s Mr. Tucker.  Yeah, it’s definitely him.  Annie!  Is that Mr. Tucker?  It is.  It is!  Quick–hide. This I mutter as I fast-walk past Mr. Tucker and crouch behind a display of $2.99 bottles of North Carolina wines.

“Sarah, your face is really red.”  Thanks, Annie.  At least now I know my instinct to flee was a sound one.  So there I am, hyperventilating among the light beers, while Beth is laughing loudly at my predicament.  So help me God if he hears you and comes to investigate, I think.  I peeked around the corner and watched him stroll down the next aisle.

My blood pressure continues to rise as I shadow him around the store, ostensibly looking for a wine tool but really just trying to stay out of his line of sight.  I can’t bring myself to even get behind him in line because I can’t envision a conversation that goes beyond, “Hi, Mr. Tucker.”  I probably wouldn’t even get that much out.

And really?  I’m 27.  I don’t address people who are, at most, 6 years older than me as “Mr.”

The truly sad part of this story is that EVERY SINGLE TIME I return to the town where I graduated high school I fantasize about running into Mr. Tucker, pumping gas or picking up some groceries.  Of course, in these fantasies HE notices ME and strikes up a conversation, which inevitably leads to a romantic motorcycle ride along the coast and ends with…well, not with me crouched behind several cases of muscadine wine.

Confession

bsb3
click to see that shit in all of it’s geocities.com glory

Yes, I used to have a Backstreet Boys Fan page.  I’m not proud of it.  It was 1998 and I was KTBSPA* like whoa.  The view counter is now defunct, but I think it retired at about 500 page views, 475 of which were me checking to see if I’d uploaded the HTML right, 24 were views I directly solicited from friends, and 1 was my friend Cory who logged in to sign the guest book as Howie D. 

Note the title: “Sarah and Lauren’s awesomely cool Backstreet Boys Page!” (the exclamation mark really sells it).  While other teens were chronicling their angst on LiveJournal, I was up all night on ICQ, stealing pictures from other BSB websites, reposting interviews, and thumbing through my copy of ‘HTML for Dummies’.

Some high low lights:

  • My sister Lauren and I’s crowning achievement was “The K Files.”  Combining our two great loves, the X Files and the BSB, we set up a mock investigation into the oppression of Kevin Richardson (Lauren’s favorite BSB).
  • Fan fiction.  OMFG I just threw up in my mouth reading my disgusting attempt at fan fiction.
  • Distracting background images For The Win!

The fact that I was 16 is no excuse.  That time in my life is a blur of TRL and sleep overs.  Also that one time I made a video of me fake marrying my AP History teacher, Mr. Tucker (who, unfortunately, was unable to attend the ceremony but my stuffed Little Foot was kind enough to stand in for him).

Thank goodness for my friend S, who took the BSB pins off of my purse and threw them in a puddle of Mt. Dew in the trash can during senior portraits, and then later took me to my first “barn party” where I consumed my first beer and attempted to impress him by smoking my first cigarette.  I’m not sure if he was impressed**, but the BSB curse was lifted and I moved on to the next phase in my life: a Ben Harper loving, Natty Light swilling, college freshman who hates her women’s college and escapes to Wake Forest to binge drink.

Thankfully I out grew that phase, too.

———————————————-
*Keeping The BackStreet Pride Alive.
**He left the party early, leaving me making out with my asshat of an ex boyfriend on the hood of ex-bf’s Camaro (barf), after which I passed out in the backseat of another friend’s car and woke up the next morning with my very first Hangover From Hell

TMI Thursday (and an apology)

Not to worry; I’ve already slapped myself across the face repeatedly for being an asshole blogger. Work has been crazy, what with the short week (made even shorter by a SNOW DAY on Tuesday and a 2 hour delay on Wednesday–I love working for the county!). I spent the weekend making delicious and not-too-horrible looking red velvet cakes and picking dog hair out of marshmallow fondant (it was more fun that it sounds). Also, I played around on Steve’s drums a little bit.

He broke the news that I couldn’t be the singer in his fake band because he’s heard me at karaoke and he doesn’t think I’m good enough. Bastard.

Moving on. It is once again time for TMI Thursday, and although I’ve talked about pubic hair, rats, and not getting hit on while smelling of baby pee, I have yet to talk about what I think about while sitting on the toilet. Allow me to enlighten you.

Last night I was sitting on the toilet, smack dab in the middle of a satisfying post-work #1, and staring at the empty roll of toilet paper.
Dammit.

Some, when faced with this dilemma, would rail against a spouse or a roommate. As I live alone, I know that I am solely responsible for the predicament I find myself in. I considered my options.

Option 1: Attempt to ‘shake’ or ‘drip’ dry. This seems to work well for guys, but I have never found much success with this method.

Option 2: Waddle, pants bunched around my ankles, to the hall closet to retrieve another roll. This would seem the likeliest course of action, were it not for the cold temperature of the house, the possibility of dripping urine on my pants, and the probability of a cold/wet dog nose making contact with my bare bum.

Option 3: Use a washcloth. Convenient, and, in my desperate reasoning, environmentally friendly. I equate it to the use of cloth diapers.

Ultimately, I went with Option 3. I figured that, with judicious use, I could get 4 to 8 uses (not including number two, obviously–I’m not an animal) out of a single washcloth, folded into quarters, before said washcloth would need to be laundered. This would save both toilet paper and water, as I do subscribe to the “if it’s yellow, let it mellow” school of thought. I can’t really let more than 2 yellows mellow, if you know what I mean, without running the risk of clogging my finicky toilet.

I’m not quite ready to make the permanent switch; I still have some wrinkles to iron out, including:

  • coming up with a system for keeping track of which quarters of the cloth have been used
  • making the distinction between bathing and wiping washcloths
  • tactfully warning guests away from washcloths currently ‘in use;’ and last but not least
  • keeping Ernie from consuming ‘in use’ washcloths

I’ll keep you posted on my progress.