Sometimes I have random thoughts like, “I wonder what would happen if I got in the laundry basket and rode it down the stairs like a sled”. And then I remember how lame my health insurance is and I decide perhaps that wouldn’t be the best way to test it.
Klondike also just reminded me that the stairs are pretty steep and the landing zone at the bottom is small and full of walls and corners and things.
I just went to the post office to check my PO Box. I noticed that the car next to me had a number of religious-themed bumper stickers on the back, including one that said, “Thank you, Jesus.” At first I thought the woman in the car was a nun, and I thought “huh, I didn’t realize nuns were bumper sticker people.” I guess I figured being a nun spoke more loudly than a strip of vinyl on the back of the car ever would.
The woman got out of her car the same time I did.
“Excuse me, could you please help me carry this box?”
Drat. I was hoping just to dash in and out. But fine, I would help carry the box.
As I walked around to her side of the car, I noticed several more decals, including some very strongly-worded pro-choice anti-choice* messages. Obviously this woman and I had some philosophical differences, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t help her.
So now that I was next to her, watching her wrestle to get the box out of the car (which p.s., was not heavy at all) I no longer thought she was a nun; now I thought she wanted to resemble a nun. WTF, right? Long skirt, enormous cross, head covering, but not an actual habit.
I picked up the open box, which contained another open box and some lumpy stuff in a trash bag, none of which was contained by the outermost box. No clue how she was going to get this thing closed, because presumably that’s what she was doing, right? Shipping the box to someone?
And because this is how my brain works, I was now convinced I was helping this lady mail a bomb to an abortion clinic.
Perhaps it wasn’t fair to leap to such an outlandish conclusion. Just because a woman was dressed like a fake nun and had lots of propaganda on her car was no reason to judge her in that fashion, right?
I had taken two steps towards the building when she said, “I would really like to invite you to come to church with me.”
Goddammit.
“Well,” I said, “thank you, but I’m not interested.”
That did not deter her. She proceeded to talk about Jesus and I don’t know what because honestly, all I could think about was how to make this entire thing end. And holy CRAP, she was walking slowly.
“I’m Jewish,” I told her. That usually shuts down someone trying to sell me their religion; I don’t share their faith, but at least I’m not a total heathen (ha).
“Oh, we LOVE Jewish people,” she exclaimed. A monologue commenced about all the benefits the Jews provided, like, you know, the Old Testament. I quickened my pace.
We made it to the line inside and I put her probably-a-bomb box on the table, bade her goodbye, and fled. This is what you get for being nice to people.
I really hate that shit. And I really hate that I felt the need to be polite even when she was completely unconcerned that she was making me uncomfortable and totally taking advantage of my helping her.
I could go on at great length about this topic, but it can be summarized pretty easily:
It’s never appropriate to strike up a conversation with a stranger about religion. Especially a stranger who is doing you a favor. But after said stranger has expressed her lack of interest in the topic, SHUT YOUR FUCKING PIE-HOLE. Seriously.
____________________________________________________________________
*Holy crap, I typed the wrong thing. Thanks, Brian L!
Warning: this post contains a lot of f-bombs.
So. It’s that time of year again, apparently.
What time is that, you ask?
Bat season.
Sigh.
Many of you remember my prior episode with an uninvited house guest.
This one began in very similar fashion. I was awakened around 3 a.m. on a random August night (morning) to see the intruder flying into my bedroom, causing instant panic. I once again fled to the backyard to regroup. My traitor dog hadn’t even waited for me to wake up and assess – she was already downstairs in the kitchen waiting by the back door when I got there. Jerk.
A raccoon was hanging out on the fence in my yard when we got outside.
“No,” I yelled at it, shining my flashlight (and by “flashlight” I mean flashlight app on my phone) into his face. “No, I cannot even deal with you right now. Get the fuck out of here.” He acquiesced.
So there I was, once again pacing in my back yard in the middle of the night, thinking if there is ever anything that’s going to motivate me to get married again, this would be it.
I got super brave this time. My panic sweats led me to turn on the a/c, which meant I had to close the windows, which meant I had to walk through the entire house. Which I did. Clutching the tennis racquet that has lived next to my bed since the last encounter two years ago. I didn’t want to hurt it (mostly because the idea of having to then deal with a dead or wounded bat stressed me even more the fuck out), but I needed to have some defense just in case. The tennis racquet was useful for things like pulling back the curtains to check for Batfucker (yep, I named him) before leaning in to close the window. It was useful for things like reaching into a room and flipping a light switch. I went room by room through the entire house. I closed all the windows. And I didn’t see Batfucker anywhere. I left a couple of lights on and settled onto the couch, figuring out what to do next. And it occurred to me that I had only actually seen Batfucker once, when I first woke up. Was it possible that I had dreamt the entire thing? That there was no bat?
No. Ruby had fled the scene. She has never once left my room in the middle of the night, until now. Clearly she had seen it too. And after about an hour of sitting on the couch feeling like I was going to cry or puke from nerves, Batfucker flew into and then out of the living room. I tried not to freak out. I have learned way more than I want to know about bats, and I know that all it wants is to get out. I scurried to the front door and opened it, and opened the screen door, hoping for a repeat performance from last time when the bat showed itself in somewhat timely fashion. Sadly, however, Batfucker had gone into hiding and refused to take advantage of the exit strategy I had prepared. I was a wreck. And moths were coming inside to have a party. I closed the door and sat paralyzed, no clue what to do next.
Morning finally came. My friend Leonard suggested that Animal Care & Control would come if I called; this was news to me! I dialed, and yep, sure enough, they would send a team. An awesome team, who did a very thorough search, and were super apologetic that they weren’t able to find Batfucker. (On a side note, there are a lot of jobs that would suck. Having to go into someone’s house and look in every nook and cranny for a live bat would be the death of me. I just had a full-body tremor just thinking about it.) It was possible the bat had found a way out of the house. It was also possible the bat was in some tiny spot where they hadn’t located him.
Goddammit.
So now I’ve had three hours of sleep, significant emotional trauma, and no closure. (Sounds like most relationship breakups I’ve been through…)
I spent the day walking around my house like some kind of demented tennis junkie, clutching my racquet. I knew it was unlikely Batfucker would make a daytime appearance, but it was my bat security blanket. I poked curtains, towels, clothes in my closet. I held the racquet in front of me, looking up, down, around corners before entering rooms. I was literally scared of my own shadow.
I tried to be rational. Batfucker wasn’t lying in wait for me. He wasn’t trying to sneak up behind me. He wasn’t flying around the house during the day. He might even have been gone.
Except he wasn’t.
I had gone to tap, even though I was so exhausted, both mentally and physically, that I had no idea how I was going to make it through class. I got home just before dusk, trying to psych myself up to behave like a normal human in my own home. I was pissed that I didn’t have a certain resolution. My home is my haven, my favorite place to be, so to be scared of being there was crushing. I took a shower (with the tennis racquet sitting by the tub). I got some dinner ready (with the tennis racquet sitting on the kitchen table). Dinner was in the microwave and I was taking a glass of water into the living room when Batfucker swooped into the room. I am sure this will come as a tremendous shock when I tell you that I freaked the fuck out. However, I did try to keep my head screwed on in the midst of the freak out, and I ran for the front door, shouting at the bat what the plan was: open door wide, go away.
I stood, shaking, on my front porch, when I realized the gravity of the situation: I had gotten separated from both my tennis racquet (kitchen table) and my phone (living room couch). I was completely unarmed, and I couldn’t call for help. But surely it wouldn’t be long before Batfucker would take advantage of the lovely egress I had provided, right?
Ha.
The Dumbest Bat Ever had infiltrated my house. I sat on my porch swing for half an hour watching through the window, as it flew laps around living room, totally missing the WIDE OPEN DOOR IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM. Surely Animal Control would be able to get it, if only I could call them.
And then he disappeared. Crap. Now my fear became what if Animal Control came and he had gone into hiding again. I crept to the door. I peered inside. I saw nothing. I dashed in, grabbed my phone, and ran back to the porch. I waited a few minutes in hopes that he would return to his circles around the front room. Nothing. No bat. Grr.
I called Animal Control. I explained the situation. They said they would send a team. I sat back on the porch swing. Moments later, an apparent miracle happened: the dumb bastard found the door, and flew out into the night. Batradication complete.
I ran inside and slammed the door behind me. I called Animal Control and said never mind, thanks anyway. I told myself over and over again that there had only been one, it was gone, and there was no reason to be shaking like a leaf, or scared of the dark, or still clutching my tennis racquet (which I had retrieved from the kitchen). Logically I knew it was over, but the heeby jeebies weren’t so quick to relinquish their grip.
I have had three bats during my 3.5 years in the house (y’all didn’t hear about the first one, it wasn’t much of a story, although it’s on the list of reasons why Mourtney is such a great friend). So now I will pay a Large Chunk of Money to have my house professionally bat-proofed. And it will be worth every penny. And it better work, goddammit. (They guarantee it will, so there’s that.)
As I write this, 24-ish hours have passed, and I am about 98% back to normal. Normal, of course, means sleeping with a tennis racquet next to my bed.
Things I have learned/observed/gleaned this week:
Please, for the love of god, let this be my last post ever about bats.
Note: If you ever have a middle-of-the-night trauma and need someone to talk to, you can call me. I won’t come help you remove a bat, but I will offer moral support over the phone like nobody’s business.
To: Management
From: The interior house plants
Re: Blatant discrimination
It has come to our attention that there are some serious discrepancies in how plants are being treated in and around Wendy’s House of Whimsy, and we are not going to stand for this gross injustice. It can no longer be ignored that the outdoor plants are being watered almost every single day, sometimes TWICE a day, whereas we, the indoor plants, are being forced to survive on one watering a week, maybe, if we’re lucky.
To which we say, What the Fuck?
Those outdoor plants are here for just a fleeting moment. Even with your constant babying, they frequently turn in a day’s time from something pretty and thriving-ish into a dry, shriveled, mess that you then spend weeks nursing back to health – maybe. You don’t have the greatest success rate with that, you know. Not like with us. We stick with you throughout the abuse you heap upon us, the feast or famine phases where you don’t water us for weeks and then you flood the crap out of us. That poor lonely guy in your office who got all weird and dead looking – didn’t he grow a brand new, healthy base so you could whack off the dead stuff and start over and doesn’t he look fabulous now? And the one in the living room, who got stupidly tall and spindly and couldn’t stand up by himself – same thing – didn’t you chop him down and didn’t he grow back better than ever, through basically no effort on your part? Yes. Yes, they did.
We get it. The outdoor plants are pretty. They have flowers, and we don’t (except for the Christmas cactus, once a year, which didn’t actually start happening until you started WATERING IT ON A QUASI-REGULAR BASIS).
We don’t begrudge you your sensitive little flowering bastards for the patio and the porch. That’s fine. All we want is equal treatment: watering on a regular basis, and maybe pulling the dead leaves off so we look as attractive as possible. Because hi, we will still be here in the winter when those hyper-sensitive outdoor pretty-boys are nothing but distant memories.
Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.
Best regards,
The spider plant on top of the bookshelf
(On behalf of everyone else in the living room – we know you water the plants in the kitchen more often. Grr.)
Note: Feel free to skip this post if you’re not a dog person.
Also note: I am human. I recognize the title might suggest otherwise.
One more note: I’m assuming you already know I’m one of those people who is freakishly attached to her dog. Or I guess I’m not assuming it, since I just spelled it out for you. She’s my best pal and I pity my friends for the aftermath when she goes to doggie heaven someday.
A few weeks ago Ruby Dogwonkafonka got her teeth cleaned, and while they had her knocked out the vet removed a little wart on her side. I was angsty – I get angsty anytime my dog has a procedure requiring general anesthesia – but everything went well. Growth was nothing to worry about, dog came through just fine, improved breath – all good. All we had to do was make it through the healing process and we’d be rocking and rolling.
The first couple of days went great – I could tell a few times she wanted to scratch or nip at the stitches, I could literally see the internal conflict, but catching my eye always brought about the right reaction of leaving the incision alone. Saturday morning I left her alone for the first time. Not unattended for the first time – she’d had plenty of solitude hanging outside in the yard. First time fully alone.
A few hours later when I returned….gack. Stitches were gone. And for the Queen of Squeamish, I thought I was going to pass out when I saw the hole in my dog’s side. (There wasn’t really a hole, exactly. But definitely an open wound.) Gah. I was also terrified of what kind of hideous pools of blood must have been waiting for me inside the house.
I. FREAKED THE FUCK OUT.
Like, really, a lot.
The dog was all, “I know I did something bad but I could not be less concerned about the hole in my side can I go out and play and get away from your crazy?”
Further investigation throughout the house revealed….nothing. I don’t know how she did it, but my dog opened up her wound without getting any blood anywhere in my house. Either that, or she did some serious cleaning. Whichever, good dog.
When I called the vet, they didn’t seem nearly as wigged out – apparently this kind of thing happens. This had a calming effect on me. What did not have a calming effect was taking the dog back to get replacement staples. I had to exit the exam room and rock in the lobby covering my ears while they did it, and I still almost melted down when the sound of Ruby yelping made it past the less-than-effective earhandmuffs.
We left the vet’s office and went straight to PetSmart so we could implement the Zero Freedom Act of 2013, aka the Cone of Shame. Fortunately, my friend Liz had mentioned an alternative to the satellite dish version and I quickly ponied up 3x the money for a more comfy looking style. It basically looks like a neck pillow you would wear on a transatlantic flight, and it was totally worth it.
See how happy she looks? Yeah, reality had not set in yet.
Definitely less amused now.
I have to say, the dog was a trooper, but I was a pretty big stress case for the better part of a week while we established our groove. Week two was better. Then the staples came out (another horrific experience that left me shaking after they made me hold her while they removed them – I mentioned I’m squeamish, right?), we kept the collar on for a few extra days, and then the first time she got the chance, she went for the wound, the little shit. Now almost a month later, we seem to be in the clear. The incision has almost completely healed and fur is growing back.
Phew.
Which brings me to my original thought. How do you people with actual little humans do this shit? Kids must get hurt and/or require medical attention roughly 92 billion times more often than dogs. I don’t want to get so used to blood and grossness that it doesn’t make me freak out, because that means I would be seeing A LOT of blood and grossness and omg just no. But also the watching of the misery and suffering when your wee one is sick or hurt. Gah. I don’t think I could deal.
Please note, this is not to suggest this is the only reason it’s good that I’m not a parent. There are many, and I’m sure we’ll revisit the topic in the future. And there are also maybe four reasons I would have been a rockin’ mom. For now, though, I’m just going to breathe a sigh of relief that this episode is behind us and my fur baby is almost whole again. 🙂
“My bald patch needs to grow back but at least I’m FREE!!!! Except holy crap, why does it look like I have no legs in this picture??”
Here we are mere days into the season, and I am already in the throes of a passionate summer affair. We’re committing all the classic blunders: intense declarations of love, blowing off friends to be together every day, staying up way too late at night for just a few minutes more basking in the glow, dreaming about each other at night, talking incessantly about it to others. And in typical fashion, I’m pretty sure I’m more into it. Sigh…
We’ve flirted before, sure. People whose opinions matter to me have sung your praises. I’ve caught glimpses of you here and there. But it wasn’t until earlier this spring that the time was finally right and good friends brought you to my house. We spent an hour together, then another, and another. Could this intense attraction sustain? But you have it all: wit, charm, intelligent discourse, snappy banter; instantly, I was smitten.
The West Wing, where have you been all my life?
Yep, I’m spending my summer binge-watching a TV show that first came on the air at the end of the last millennium. And it’s soooooooo gooooooood.
It’s not surprising that it I love it. I’m a huge Aaron Sorkin fan. Sports Night, love. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, canceled just as it was about to find its stride. A Few Good Men is one of the most quotable movies of our time. The American President is one of my very favorite movies ever, and The West Wing is cut from the same cloth. In fact, I think I’ve been driving my dad crazy telling him about the many examples of dialogue in The West Wing that are straight out of the movie. I just learned that Sorkin left the show after season four or five, so apparently I need to relish the early seasons, and time will tell where my affections lie later on.
Here’s how much I dote on Aaron Sorkin and The West Wing. I can make a list of flaws, both with the series and with his work in general (um, hi, ALL the people talk exactly the same, pelting each other with rapid-fire word assaults) and I don’t even care. Blinded by love, I am.
(With one exception. Omigod, I fucking hate Donna. She’s so annoying, and her character is implausibly unprofessional and meddling and generally irksome. She never would have made it to that level of employment.)
I have laughed out loud in every episode. Some have left me in tears. It’s kind of soul crushing how relevant the stories still are. They’re wrestling with legislation about Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, gun control, fuel emissions, marriage equality.
Oh, and I want to marry Sam Seaborn. (It’s the first time I’ve ever found Rob Lowe attractive.)
I borrowed season one from the Sunshines and on a Saturday afternoon I was watching a very intense episode, thinking it felt like a cliffhanger finale, but knowing I still had another disc to watch. On the edge of my seat, I popped the final disc in to see what happened next, and IT WAS NOTHING BUT SPECIAL FEATURES – I WAS TRICKED!
I was also in a pickle. Where to get season two? Where to get season two RIGHT THAT SECOND??? I am the one person who doesn’t have Netflix. I started looking for deals on Amazon. But that would take (two) days to arrive. Then I remembered the library! The library had it, and it was, according to their website, available. The only problem was time – I had about an hour and a half to shower, dress, primp and get to a wedding, and the library was closed the next day. Could I squeeze in a quick dash through the library to check out season two, discs 1 & 2?
Answer: Hell yes, I could. And when I got home from the wedding that night I started watching.
I may need a better solution than the library, though – a total of six days (3-day rental plus one renewal max) is not enough time to watch and enjoy sixteen episodes, even for a junkie. The fines are beyond reasonable, but it feels wrong to go into it knowing I have no intention of returning it on time….maybe. Or maybe I just need to look at it as a donation to a community resource versus paying a subscription fee to a corporate entity. We’ll see. 😀
Remember when I used to blog?
Oh May, why are you always so crazy?
I’ll be back in my groove soon.
In the meantime, I subscribe to a bunch of comics via email, including reruns of Calvin & Hobbes, which is still awesome. I’ve never really identified much with Calvin, but this made me giggle and reminded me of this.
Due to my work-from-home pajama lifestyle, I haven’t done much shopping the last few years. I have a pretty solid collection of t-shirts and hoodies and yoga pants and, for dressing up, jeans and hoodie sweaters. So before our recent trip to Chicago, I decided I needed some actual clothes – something that you might not just decide to sleep in because you have it on an it’s comfy. So I went shopping.
I tried on a heap of things, including a blouse/top/shirt thing that was a little more money than I would normally spend on something like that, but it looked like my ideal shirt: cute, comfortable, sleeveless for easy wearing with layers or alone in warm weather, and black – goes with everything. I tried it on. It was perfect. Totally worth the more money than I would usually spend. For a moment I stared at it intently in the bright dressing room lights. Was it actually dark, dark blue? Nope, I compared it to my (black) coat, my (black) tshirt – it was black. Woo hoo! Took it home and it went perfectly with everything I hoped to wear it with.
I took it with me to Chicago. Perfect for getting a little dressed up for the theater. Our hotel room had weirdly bright lights. Goddammit. Is it navy blue? I can’t believe it. I CAN’T BELIEVE IT.
“What color is this shirt?” I asked Klondike.
“Blue.” No hesitation.
GODDAMMIT!
I refuse to accept this. The above incident never happened. My shirt is black. I am going to wear it as if it is black. You probably won’t be able to tell. It was so dim in the restaurant where we had dinner that night that I bet most of the other people at the table couldn’t even tell I was wearing ANY shirt, let alone what color it was. My shirt is black. If you ever see me wearing it and you think it might be blue, you are wrong. WRONG, I say. And I dare you to say otherwise.
My shirt. Is black.
This list is by no means exhaustive. I’m confident I’ll think of five more things as soon as I hit “publish”. 😀 And I promise I’m not really a cranky bitch; I just needed to share. (Plus, Nicki Minaj is dreadful and like nails on a chalkboard.) What’s’ on YOUR list?
Today, January 23, is National Pie Day. Says who? Says the American Pie Council. (I know, right? American Pie Council??) I learned this from the morning newspaper. (Yep, a few of us still read the paper. On paper.)
This is not to be confused with National Cherry Pie Day. (February 20)
Or National Banana Cream Pie Day. (March 2)
Or National Blueberry Pie Day. (April 28 – also, the birthday of our Irish Setter when I was a kid )
Or Pi Day. (March 14 – duh)
Today is a day to celebrate all pie, rather than to discriminate for or against a particular flavor. I’m not even a huge fan of pie – I mean, I like good pie, don’t get me wrong. But I would usually default to a really good cookie or piece of cake versus pie. However, seeing as I am completely susceptible to Jedi and American Pie Council mind tricks, as soon as I saw it was National Pie Day, I knew I had to have some. (I don’t know why the Jedi want me to eat pie, they just do.)
While I could give you a list of places to find outstanding cookies, and some very good cupcakes, I am not aware of any really awesome local options for pie. Please, someone, anyone, enlighten me if I’m missing out. (If coconut is mentioned in your response you will be automatically disqualified, so answer carefully.) So this means I was craving pie, with no pie to be had. Clearly, the only logical solution was….make one. Woo hoo, spontaneous pie!
I don’t always have a well-stocked pantry in terms of throwing together a meal, but when baking is the name of the game I usually have the basics, and today was no exception. A quick Google search for some simple options led me to a butterscotch recipe and the only thing I needed was milk, which I was already planning on picking up on my way home from lunch out. Perfecto. And as long as I had to get milk, I also got a half-pint of whipping cream to top it off.
The recipe origin is Paula Deen, and she annoys the crap out of me, but she’s less irritating on paper than she is on tv. And it didn’t call for lard, so I was willing to give it a go. It called for a pastry shell, however, and I prefer graham crackers crusts both to eat (with the appropriate filling) and to make, so I modified. It was also the only way it was sneaking into my day – no time for full-blown pie crust.
Graham cracker crusts are super easy. It can be fun to smash the hell out of the crackers, but today I had a container of crumbs on hand from some prior baking adventure.
Graham Cracker Crust (thank you allrecipes.com)
1-1/2 cups finely ground graham cracker crumbs
1/3 cup white sugar
6 tablespoons melted butter
Mix everything together. Press mixture into an 8 or 9 inch pie plate. I read a little trick today to use the back of a spoon to press the crumbs into the pie plate, and that worked nicely. Bake at 375 degrees for 7 minutes. Cool.
Butterscotch pie
1-1/2 cups packed brown sugar
½ cup all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon cornstarch
½ teaspoon salt
4 cups milk
2 egg yolks, lightly beaten
2 tablespoons butter
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 9-inch pie crust
Whipped cream
Paula mixes butterscotch chips into her whipped cream, and sprinkles more on top. That seemed unnecessary to me (although I did have some in the pantry) so I ignored that part.
In a large saucepan combine sugar, flour, cornstarch and salt. Slowly stir in milk. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly until it thickens. This is boring, and it takes a while. But keep stirring, otherwise it might get lumpy or scorch on the bottom. Be patient, this is what makes your pie luscious. I would suggest that you download Ruzzle onto your phone and challenge me to a game while you’re stirring, but I found it hard to focus on the game and maintain good stirring motion. 😉 It took maybe 10-15 minutes for it to thicken. And you will just know – oh, look, it’s thickening! When it happens, it happens quickly. I turned the heat very low at this point so I didn’t have to worry about neglecting it for the next minute or two. In a separate bowl temper your 2 egg yolks by whisking in a small amount (a few spoons full) of the hot mixture. Stir in the eggs, butter and vanilla, and allow to cook over low heat for a few minutes. At this point, Paula recommends pouring into a dish and cooling in the fridge. My crust had cooled, so I poured the filling straight into the pie plate. The whole thing is in the fridge now, chillin’ like a villain.
Should you want to make whipped cream to top it:
1 cup heavy cream
¼ cup powdered sugar
Using a hand mixer, whip together the heavy cream and sugar until light and fluffy
(seriously, whipped cream is the easiest thing to make ever)
Um yeah….I’m gonna need to go eat some of that now….the verdict is in….yum!
Happy Pie Day!!
WONKAFONKA 
Written
on August 22, 2013