Did you hear that joke about the guy who dines with an old hermit friend who says the dishes and things are only as clean as Coldwater'll get 'em, and the guest grins and bears the meal? Then after dinner, the hermit calls over his dog, Coldwater...
Himself grandly cooked me a lovely steak dinner with mushrooms. Was delicious. I left the dishes until the next day. "Ahh!" I thought to myself as I approached the aftermath, impressed that he took trouble to at least clean out the electric skillet. The lid was sparkling clean and there didn't appear to be anything remaining in the pan. Was sweet of him to at least take care of washing the largest vessel used to prepare the meal, and one that's a bit unwieldy in even a large sink.
Finishing up the dishes, I lifted the lid on the electric skillet and thought "hmm, that's oddly redolent of mushrooms, for a clean skillet..." Further investigation yielded evidence that my dearest delight had ill-used my wee pups as slave-labour for kitchen help. No doubt they were kicking and screaming the whole way. Some sort of pack behaviour, I'd reckon. So that's how he stole Alpha- status right out from under me... *snerk*
I don't drink often, but when I do, I want my drink to be a nice drink. No crap wine, and certainly no "beer" that should have been left in the horse, thank you very much.
For quite some time, I've been harboring a hankering for a Bloody Mary but I don't want to go to a bar to get one. A few weeks back, I found a cute lucite shaker in a store and I nearly bought it but didn't. I have, I reasoned, the most grand shaker I've ever seen, (yeah, I'm waiting for the comments on that one - I'll set 'em up-- you knock 'em down) but it was in one of dozens of boxes in the storage unit I've had here in town since I moved out of Dallas, and I reasoned I'd not find it for many moons.
Well, see what happens to people who get motivated?
My lovely etched-glass shaker was in one of the first two boxes I brought out of storage on Tuesday night. *squeeeeee!*
I've been saving the pickle juice from FarmMom pickles for my martinis, too. Yep. Gonna put some pickle juice in me BloodyMary as well. Drinkie-noms!
Burgess. Burgess. Burgess. What were you thinking? (I know: paycheck, but still.) Way to represent with the cornballery! This makes your turn in Magic look like high art. But I forgive you. It's not as though you're Harry Hamlin.
A word on Harry Hamlin-- so much of the film was focused on lovingly showing Our Harry's freshly glossed lips and bouffy 'do that they didn't have much time left over for actual clashing. Did he even get a nick or a scratch when he was wallerin' around in that swamp with Calibos? Way too clean, in my book.
[aside from Himself as Harry again has to fight Calibos, having shown mercy by just lopping off one of his appendages during their first encounter: "that wouldn't happen to your boyfriend." I replied "Of course not. Boyfriend would have kilt Calibos ded the first time he was begging for it." He's a gentleman that way - don't make someone ask you twice.]
I'll spare you the bulk of my reflections on this film, but suffice to say its Velveeta Quotient goes to 11. What I wonder is if Medusa's blood is so caustic that it melts a shield produced by a goddess, then how's come her still-oozing melon doesn't etch its way through the cape in which it's carried to the film's denouement?
Oh, silly me. What was I thinking?
Can't wait to see the update. Come to that, here's a treatment of the original with sounds from the later version. I call this a vast improvement, but the first is definitely worth seeing. Once.
Okay, on this video I sound like the biggest dork in the world, but I forgive myself. Just turn the sound down.
Driving home Sunday afternoon I swung the car by Chez Muffin and saw to my dismay that her family was loading their household goods into a trailer. She was there in the back, so Himself and I drove back home (me, sobbing all the way), got some treats for my pocket and walked over to see her again. She's an incredibly sweet, lovely little dog. I filmed this video then with my phone. You can tell she's a little happy to see me, too.
When I posted about her a few weeks back, I scraped up my courage and went by and knocked on the door to Muffin's house. A man opened the door, I introduced myself and said that I loved seeing the little dog when I went for walks and was sorry they were moving. I handed him a card with my cell number and I said if he ever needs a home for her, be it soon or in 5or 10 years, to please call me. He said his daughter would be very upset if the dog went away, but he seemed like a nice guy and at least that made me feel better about who was caretaker for that little darling.
That's all I can do, I suppose. And considering how blessed I am for puppies, this really could have been one of those be-careful-what-you-wish-for things, with a new dog coming in and the grab-bag of behavioral problems they can bring. I just thought Muffin would have been such a good fit with this little menagerie.
I'm happy she's okay and not leaving my life because of a tragedy, but I am really sad she's going. Scratching her ears through the fence was a high spot in our evening walks, and now I'll wonder how she is and if anyone's sweet talking her properly every day.
This I address not to my regular lovely readers. You are sexy, beautiful people and probably good at everything. Oh, no. This goes out to one particular person. You know who you are.
Dear Syphillitic Piece of Loosely Organized Dung:
How frelling dare you deface my mailbox.
I did not invite your sorry ass to my house, nor do I ever anticipate doing so. I do not care that your sorry OCD arse is maddened by the lack of numbering on my house or mailbox. Who the hell do you think you are to take a Sharpie and write numbers on my melon-farming property like some apocalyptic white-trash wastrel???
That the lack of numbering drives you nuts matters naught to me. This is not your home and you do not rate here. Again I say I don't want you here and I'm fine with other random undesireable people not knowing what my street number is, either. Somehow, my bills manage to find their way to my mailbox. My friends and family have no difficulty finding my house. If you're not my friend or family member and you are not my mailman, then kindly bugger yourself running elsewhere forthwith and forget my house exists.
Now I have re-painted my lowly little mailbox and I realize this will be sorely tempting for you, but I want you to think long and hard before you act on your inane, no-life impulses: be aware that all my neighbors are elderly, retired and keep a pretty good eyeball on the goings-on around here. Disposable cameras are cheap, and even if all others fail me, I know I can rely on Mrs. Kravitz. When I catch you vandalizing my property, there will be a reckoning.
Here's Jennifer's comely little dog, Heidi, who is a chihuahua/dog-next-door mix. She looks quite the adventuress in her Mutt Muffs and she's certainly ready for all kinds of noisy action. Ms. Jennifer looks hawt in her red Docs, too, btw. ;)
I complimented the perfect avocado slices on a dish Mom made once and she showed me a tool she'd gotten for just such purpose. I *squeee*ed and she said she'd pick one up for me, which she did. the loop end helps you pop the pit out of the center, and the little harp end is strung with taut wire for slicing perfect wedges of the soft fruit.
...that with all the profound proestations of the media over the British Petroleum spill down to the very sackcloth-and-ashes and gnashing-of-teeth routine, that there's very little news out there at all about the oil well's leak having effectively been stopped. I saw a teaser about this on msn.com, but it's not a top story, apparently.
Can this be because the bad puddy-tat BP proved effective underscoring of the MSM's perennial drumbeat of environmentalism/gubmint oversight into private business/go green partylines, but for BP to be able to affect a stemming of the flow of oil does not dovetail with their message?
Whatever the reason, I feel offended on many levels. I'm offended there is a heavy-handed delivery of a story which I'm sure was sickening to BP execs, employees and investors as it was to the rest of us, and I'm offended that when BP finally was able to correct the situation, the media seem to be very light-touched about getting the word out.
Am I mis-perceiving this? Would I feel differently if I owned a television? Correct me if the MSM are ballyhooing the closure of the well, please.
Sunday, Puppy Sunday: Jack Russell Terriers are misunderstood
While it's true that my JRTs have at moments channeled speed demons, I know these little dogs are all heart and are capable of a dazzling ability to focus. I think a lot of people were charmed by the dogs used on Wishbone or other TV shows and ran out and got a Jack Russell without really researching whether this breed was a good fit for their family or not, and JRTs got a bit of a reputation as being difficult. This is a pity, and it's not the dogs' fault at all.
They are smart and can get up to mischief, but they are lionhearted little dogs and given the proper socialization, a JRT can be a devoted companion and fierce defender. I'll never forget the how my heart was stirred by the little Jack Russell who saved his family's children by giving his life defending them from two attacking pit bulls. Then there's the little dog in the video above named Spice who is acting as mother to two little orphans of another species. Yeah, I know JRTs aren't the only ones who do that, but I think this must be a very special little dog, just the same. Look how placid she is? I see that all the time with mine [unless there's a bunny in pack territory].
Anyway, if you just get occasional glimpses of them, you may not have the full picture. Sometimes you have to work very hard to be worthy of the nobility of your pet. I'm trying every day, and sometimes I fail, but it's important to have goals. I want to be like that thing on that email that went around - I want to be worthy of what my dogs think of me. :)
One more thing-- from the penetrating mind of the lovely LabRat I once heard a bit of wisdom about irritating dog breeds: they are what they were bred to be so it's really not fair to blame the dog for being annoying. Jack Russels were bred for the purpose of going to ground-- running down holes to hold or extract foxes, groundhogs and other critters their masters are hunting, for whatever reason. They zero in on fur-bearing critters something fierce, and woe betide the squirrel or rabbit they get hold of. JRTs were made to work, they want to work, and all working breeds need a purpose in their lives or they will be bored and will exasperate all around them. Just be sure you take into account what the purpose of the breed is you're getting and what personality traits tend to accompany that purpose, and make sure those quirks will fit with your family. In my humble opinion, if you could even consider having a family portrait without your doggie in it, then you should either have a different dog, or have no dog at all.
I was chatting with breda, alan, Weerd and some other friends Thursday night, saying I was about to go paint the dining room. They asked what color and I described it as a color most oft found in a baby diaper. I think the color is called honey apple butter or some such, but baby doodie d'or seems most fitting. Truly it's not as vile as it must appear in the picture.
The first coat was laid on a few months ago, and then in the throes of too much overtime at work, finishing the paintjob took a back seat to preserving one's sanity. The first picture is how it's been since the Spring, and the second photo is after the second coat which I laid on Thursday night.
Yup, that's plastic on the ceiling. This weekend hopefully I'll get the beadboard prepped and ready to go up in the dining room, and then the cove moulding can go up. I'm getting excited. *squee!* Will be nice to have the dining room and living room all tidied up and looking as I always imagined since I first laid eyes on this house. :)
I'd gotten home from work, silently changed into my grubbies and went out in the waning light to shear the last segment of the yard with the reel mower. I was marveling over the fact that I smeared one after another mosquito on my bare arms, sweat stinging my eyes. Hmph. Funny. I suppose humans buzz about when one of our lot dies, too, but we don't generally take up the same activity wot got our brethren or sistren dead. Undaunted, very phalanxes of skeeters took up the blood-thievery, and one after another they died where they drank. I would enter the house later with my arms freckled with skeeter corpses. So be it.
Back of the yard, by the fence. I hear another register of buzz, more a voice, really, above the din of my insect tormentors. Across the street, the older lady, Johnnie, is prattling at me, merrily, as though I can hear her clearly. She's smiling and I smile back. I push my little mower streetward as she talks on, scarcely drawing a breath.
She says she's wanted to talk to me but I'm always so busy. Shadows lean longer but I toil in her direction, my step quicker behind the spinning blades. I fight the urge to look back wistfully at the unmowed portion of the yard, thinking I should take a moment to talk to this neighbor. I look into her smiling eyes. I quickly surmise she's chattering excitedly about the prison mower- not having seen one of those in decades since her second husband had one of the infernal things. I gave up thinking of the task of mowing, the prospect of a good story looming.
She was wearing a butter-yellow tank top with a little white lace dickey for modesty. I'm thinking she's probably late 70s. Damned adorable, for all that. A short, pixieish cut of her straight white hair belies the absolute cuteness of the woman. Here, I think, is someone who-- like me (if I flatter myself)-- defies what society would say is seemly for a woman her age. She has a lovely, warm way about her. Why should she succumb to matronly or elderly if she doesn't feel that way? I could see what an old goat would be smart to chase in her.
She said she was glad to see this house occupied, porchlight on every night. That it comforted her to see someone planting things and fussing over the place. Her piano teacher lived here and she took lessons in this house when she was a girl...
She said there'd been a boy she was quite taken with in high school. Loved him, really. He'd gone off overseas and she got married. He was in the armed forces in Alaska-- well, it was overseas at the time, she'd said. Her first marriage didn't work out and she soon remarried. They were very happy for 21 years, had several children, and the youngest was 12 when he died. Then one day a friend told her that the high school beau was back in the county. They ran into each other, he took her out and seemed to pick up where they'd left off. He'd never married, but soon was talking to her about marrying. She said no, no, had been married twice, it was enough. He said "we'll see..." She said they started dating in October and married in January. Married for 30 years. Her laugh was free, delighted at the way life surprised her into betraying her protestations of twice having been enough.
It was funny and oh-so-fetching, the way she spoke of the getting of love, the re-emergence of the thwarted romance of youth, and that he'd died was not the important part of the story to tell. No. Death was a non-event. He had been here, they'd had a second chance, and they had loved.
Fall is a great time to put in hardy perennials. The cooler temperatures coupled with moister soil than the usual arid Texas summer fare makes for the fine establisment of a healthy root system in anticipation of winter and then a harsh summer to come.
I did some container gardening a few months back, but I'm ashamed to say that a spate of 12 hour days at work killed my watering habit and most of my potted plants died. Anyway, baby steps, right?
I tucked into clearing the weeds away from the front flowerbed a week ago Saturday, and then I set in a handful of new plants. I really want to find an Oak Leaf Hydrangea for that bare middle patch. These are some salvia mostly, and a fern. The salvia should fill out and pretty much cover the area by this time next year. I really don't need the hydrangea, but they're some of my favorite whether blooming or not.
At the rock in the lawn, my reel mower really can't get up to the edge of the rock, so I needed to do something different that I could mow right to the edge with. The hairy sprays of grass/weed around the rock made for an untidy look that drew my eye in an unpleasant way every time I pulled into my nice little dirt driveway. My lawn needed a bikini wax. Thus I set in these heat-hardy perennials this past weekend. Digging around that rock was some of the hardest gardening I've ever done-- it took hours just to prep the soil. There are two thymes (regular and wooly), one skullcap, a creeping silver germander, a dark blue salvia, a rock rose and a red butterfly weed. Yeah, they look a little puny just yet, but they'll fill out quickly enough. :)
I bought two bags of mulch at home despot and was too wrung out later when I realized they were color-treated pieces of bark, which pretty much makes them the fake-tits of the gardening world. I think faded-out mulch is just fine, actually, so this sort of sticks in my craw, but, *LAZY!* Sweat-drenched and covered in garden muck, I couldn't drag my tail back to the store for the other stuff, and as hot as it still is here, I didn't want to leave the freshly turned earth exposed. That said, I do have some nice, lovely earthworms in my garden. :)
24 shopping days until my birthday, version .45 -- I think this lovely thing would definitely fill a gap in my collection. Hyuk! ...actually, this may be more an income tax refund dividend... I need to gift myself.
There was a bunny outside the window and the little dogs were all agog. Chuy and Praline were losing their minds over the rabbit in what is clearly pack territory. This will not be tolerated. I laughed and laughed.
Watch for Praline's MASSIVE yawn in the first frames as the Chuycabra settles in for a little nap on Friday night. More puppeh mewvies to follow, possibly with squirrelses and former squirrelses. Night time, and all is well.
My friend and I were talking about someone who blathered endlessly about the country they came from and how everything was back home, [so much better (why did he immigrate here???)] and she said "I had a neighbor from there. Those people are worse than Texans for bragging."
I giggled and giggled. Couldn't stop laughing. I'm still laughing. Anyway, I'll tell you this: Texas is a friendly place. I'm really proud of the Ozarks and I love the landscape where I come from, but I'm glad I'm here. You oughta come and visit. You may decide to stay, too. Or if not, you can wallow in the sweet relief of heading home afterwards.
One of the nicest people you could ever be privileged to meet-- Farmmom-- [Tractor Tracks] is having knee replacement surgery. Please say a prayer for her and her lovely family today, or if you're not of the praying persuasion, send a warm thought her way.
My lovely niece C was about 10 and had been taking piano lessons four or five years and had reached an impressive level of proficiency, in my estimation. C was playing the very elegant Hungarian Rhapsody by Franz Liszt with its distinctive and ear-catching prelude.
Nephew F had just begun taking lessons a few months earlier, and Dad said "now you play something for us, F!" F proceeded to sit down and played that opening passage with the artistry of a seasoned performer. Then he turned and grinned at us all. How precocious!!!
Even C recognized the cleverness and smiled good-naturedly as baby brother delighted all in the house. C is a class act, and F will have to work for many moons to catch up to her skill with the piano. Still, F has a sense of style and showmanship that will carry him far with the piano and elsewhere.
F followed up that grandiose intro with the decidedly simpler, usual workman-like pieces piano students plod through in their early days of training. It's taken him a great deal of discipline to overcome that natural talent enough to allow his hands to be trained. You may not realize, but there is a very specific pedagogy for how ones hands travel across the keys, and that method is meant to make the fingers move smoothly through the registers and dextrously between spans of octaves or greater, fingers positioned to make that next leap.
F is a talented boy and I'm tremendously proud of him. He's a very handsome little boy (no bias here, scout's honor!), but that fairness of aspect is easily lost in the radiance of the bright sweetness of his personality.
No auntie was ever prouder of a niece and nephew than I am of mine, and today he's a birthday boy. Happy birthday, sweetie! *HUGS TO THEM BOTH*
Lin had friends traveling in the area for hunting, and the first photo of the post is of their HisNHers birch toybox for the stowage of firing irons. The post goes on to celebrate the ingenuity of a creative mind given free rein. Tinkertown is now on my list of must-see places. Be sure to click on the photos to embiggenate-- I think you'll be delighted by the things you see. :) My favorite so far besides the red wagon in the garden wall or the walls made of cement and green glass bottles would have to be the gate with the old bed frame embedded. Charming!
Chicken Fried Bacon is not the only good reason to visit the State Fair of Texas
They also have Fried Beer. [The beer is in a dumpling and not all the alcohol is burned off, so you must be 21 to ride this ride.]
Also, you should go because like all the best other places in Texas, if you have a CHL, you may carry it onto the fairgrounds. I didn't know this until Rabbit commented thusly on my post a few days back about the mayhem at the Iowa State Fair.
Honestly, she's an adorable little soul. I keep driving by, hoping to catch the homeowner at home, and I keep missing him. Wish I could take her home and start working on pruning her little bearclaws.
***NOTE - Sunday afternoon I went by the house and the owner was home. I knocked on the door and he came to the door. I smiled and introduced myself, shook his hand and said I adored his little dog and that I was sad they are moving and if he ever needs a home for her, be it soon or 10 years from now, to please call me. He said he has her for his little girl and couldn't part with her. Fair enough. Maybe he'll call me someday, but I feel better knowing that he seemed like a nice guy. Until then, I'll make the most of seeing her on my nightly walks, scratching her ears through the fence and cooing at her sweet little self. *le sigh*
Several years ago, I started using a yoga ball at home for my computer chair. It's actually quite comfortable, and that makes it much easier to fritter away internet hours bouncing and giggling. A couple weeks ago I snuck a yoga ball into the office, uninflated and at the end of the day when almost everyone was gone, I did the little hand pump thingie to inflate same. Now on those 12 hour days when the herd starts thinning out at the office and I'm feeling absolutely sick of my chair, I switch to my yoga ball. The puns have been atrocious. Yes, I'm on the ball. Clearly.
Fridays are theme days at work and we have a set of about 10 buttons with little slogans and things like that to help us remember the company's guiding principles. If this were a big corporation, I'd find that pukey, but the company is a decent bunch of wonderful people, and it's hard to feel bitter about that. Anyway, they give a success award once a week and last week I won it [not the first time since my hire, either-- toot your own horn or someone may take the opportunity to use it as a funnel, right?]. Anyway, Friday the HR director came up to me and gave me guff for accidentally pinning on the wrong button that day. I said "Perception is reality. I'm very successful. I need you to perceive that I'm wearing the right button, dear." He laughed in spite of himself. Anyway, it's obviously a good company-- right? I mean, I get to sit on my yoga ball instead of a conventional chair. YAYS!
I love these guys goofing off with yoga balls. Someday they'll be stoved-up old farts and when their grandkids ask them why they move so slow and creaky, well, they can direct said sproglings to this video. For now, though, it's funny.