Monday, March 5, 2018

Gimli the Giant

Today's blog is dedicated to a most faithful companion, a distinguished friend, and soldier through life. This honor belongs to one, Gimli; a black miniature schnauzer with the personality of a giant. He was my mother’s best friend and consistent love for the last fifteen years. Gimli crossed into his next big adventure on Sunday at about ten in the morning. He was surrounded by all the love and gratitude anyone, person or fur-person, could ever ask for.

There isnt much to say, after all, Gimli was stoic and silent most of his dignified life. So I thought I would let pictures of this amazing friend tell his story.

Gimli, you were a giant among us.

Now those words, those shouts and that face faded away, far away, until they were lost in the wind... Now he saw before himself a limitless plain, a flower-filled meadow, and he heard a dog barking, but this was not the dark howling of Cererus the watchdog - it was Peritas! He was running toward him, mad with joy just like the day when he had returned from exile, and then across the endless prairie came a thunderous gallop and suddenly an echoing neigh. It was Bucephalus running toward him with his mane blowing in the wind, and he climed astride him just as he had done that day in Mieza. And he shouted, "Go, Bucephalus!" And the steed set off, like some burning Pegasus, in a reckless gallop toward the final horizon, toward the infinite light.

Sunday, February 18, 2018

That Damn Ice Cream Truck

Today's blog comes as a direct request from my darling dearest, aka my editing department, aka Richy. His request came to me in his usual gentle manner. He said,  and I quote, “Why don't you write about that damn ice-cream truck on your blog? Since he asked so nicely, I thought, maybe I’d oblige him. So, here we go.

That Damned Ice Cream Truck-

Richy moved into the apartment we now share about two years ago. He moved in about March and the sounds of the neighborhood sang through his ears as he hauled his belongings up the stairs to the loft apartment. Suddenly, in the distance, he heard the familiar tinny music of an ice-cream truck driving through the neighborhood. He listened as it dinged its mechanical version of “Pop-Goes-The-Weasel” along the streets North of the house. Perfect! Enough time to run in and grab some change. He waited in the yard as The Weasel finished Popping its run and now “Mary Had A Little Lamb” chimed its way closer, oh so closer to the street.

Then, as if by magic, it was no longer north of the apartment, it was now south of the apartment. No longer was his delicious cold treat coming towards him, it was now taunting him from the street behind his current location. What fresh Hell was this? He had been so patient and all for nothing, the Ice-Cream Man had completely forgotten to come down his street.

Not willing to take this sort of injustice lying down, this 48 year old man ran through the backyard, hopped a fence, ran through his neighbors back yard and sprinted two blocks to chase down this Damned Ice-Cream Truck. All for an orange cream push-up popsicle. He was 48. Fortunately, the small children that he plowed down in order to get his elusive creamsicle, all blacked out as they hit the pavement, so no one can give the police an accurate description of the 6 foot 2 inch German lunatic running cross country, screaming at an ice-cream truck.

It turns out, the ice-cream truck really, truly…literally does not, will not come down our street... for whatever reason. This is the ONLY street in the whole neighborhood it doesn't come down. Richy finds this highly unfair and regularly uses colorful language whenever that ding-dong music starts playing “Old MacDonald”. Today, as he saw it pass on the street behind us, he cocked an imaginary gun and did a little pretend target practice, on That Damned-Ice-cream Truck.

I don't know which Congressman I have to write, or what federal authority I can get on this, but please, if anyone has any connections, let me know how I go about changing an ice-cream truck route. We find this exclusionary, and personally, I am not going to rest until my dearest darling can have a Rocket-sicle every day of the week if he wants.

According to a good five minute Google search, I found at least three sources that say it takes about 50 licks to finish an ice-cream cone. I say those people haven't reached their full potential. 

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

The Twilight Zone or The Fugue State

You are now entering the fugue state..

I got a kidney stone along with a UTI. The laughs never stop around here. I went to the doctor and she was very helpful and nice and gave me some sort of antibiotic from hell called Alvogen and a narcotic pain- killer for my kidney.  I remember leaving the doctors office and filling both prescriptions at the pharmacy, and I remember coming home and taking both pills. That's where my stream of consciousness ends for the last few days.

My friend was at my house and I was telling her a very funny story about a conversation I overheard while at the pharmacy. We laughed because I am a very funny person. I mentioned to her that I felt ridiculously tired. She asked if I had taken any new medication. I told her I had the painkillers but I hadn’t taken any that day nor the day before and other than that, the antibiotic was the only other new medicine I had taken. She told me some antibiotics can make a person sleepy. I had never heard of such a thing, but to humor her, I grabbed the bottle and read the warning label on the side. “May Cause Drowsiness: Use Care When Operating A Car or Dangerous Machinery”.                               You don’t say!

Seriously, I have never been this groggy, this sedated in my life. I mean I have a lot of health problems and am frequently on medication, even strong pain medication. But the pain- killer I was prescribed was only 5mg and as bad as it sounds, I have a tolerance to much stronger pain medication than that. Even if I hadn't taken the narcotic along with this stuporous antibiotic, I still wouldn't have considered the pain medicine as the source of my extreme lethargy. So, whatever was in this antibiotic it was strong enough to fell a horse. I am losing hours, dare I say days, to this damn medication. So for the next few days I will probably be out of commission. Just another typical day in the fugue state.

I have lost touch with friends and family. It's been nearly twenty-four hours since I was on Facebook. I have slept an entire day away while my editing department was sweetly buying and setting up a Valentines day surprise for me. My dog no longer recognizes me. I would try to do something about all of this, but honestly, I need a nap.

Oh, the funny story: While at the pharmacy, I was at the photo kiosk printing some pictures. The soda coolers are right next to this kiosk and a young man came in and looked through the soda selections for a minute before beeping on his walkie-talkie device. He called an unseen buddy and told him that there was no root beer and no cherry coke, so what did he want. The gentleman on the other end, without missing a beat replied “I WANT answers. I want to know WHY I cant have a root beer or a cherry coke. I WANT to know why they don't have these things.”

Now for a nap and once again, thank you for visiting the fugue state!

Sunday, February 11, 2018

To Good Dogs Everywhere

Today was a sad day in the Ward\Ledford household. We buried someone’s dog.

While Richy and a friend of ours were out going to the pharmacy today, they ran upon a small dog, a terrier breed possibly, running around in a bank parking lot and getting dangerously close to the main road. The two of them tried for what seemed like forever trying to get the little dog to come to them. They fed it bits of chicken sandwich and tantalized it with anything they could think of, all to no avail. Eventually they had to give up and carry on mainly because their efforts were scaring the little girl closer to a dangerous thoroughfare.

A small time later, as they finished shopping at the nearby Dollar Tree and pulled out onto the busy road, they spotted what Richy hoped was a trash bag lying on the pavement. He asked my friend to pull over quickly, knowing that this was no garbage bag, but in fact, was the little dog they had tried to save just a short time ago.

Two other people pulled over to help by this time. One, a nurse, checked for the dog’s pulse, but it was only faint. Richy held the sweet little girl puppy in his arms as she bled and her heart beat its last three beats. She died in his arms.

The man who hit her sped off after hitting her. He didn't even check to see if she was hurt.

Richy couldn't just leave her there on the side of the road. He told the ladies that stopped that he would bring her home and bury her. They put her in a crate and Richy drove her to our home.

Richy dug a deep grave while I wrapped the little body of the dog, who we affectionately named Zero. We lined the grave with mulch and laid Zero, wrapped warm in her towel in her final resting place. We laid some Blue Juniper evergreen over her and and we returned her to the earth. We placed a large stone marking her grave and we planted some Creeping Sedum, Tiger Lily bulbs and Daffodils in the soil covering her.  As long as we live here, she will always have flowers on her grave.

So, here's to all the dogs. Thank you loyal friends for all of the puppy kisses and cold, wet noses. You, our best friends, our fur kids, our babies, deserve treats everyday for putting up with us flawed humans. Our species does not deserve your species’ love and affection. Yours is truly an unconditional love that humans just cannot replicate. And even when humans are unbelievably cruel to you, you forgive. Zero, this is for you buddy. I'm sorry your life was cut so short. It seems that you probably had a nice life, and I hope you did. You will be missed.  

Sunday, January 28, 2018

Love Hurts When You Wear a Watch

The movies and television portray lovemaking in a way that makes it look sexy and smooth. Everyone is made up nicely and no one's hair ever falls out of place and both people writhe and moan in a way that lets you know they are having the time of their lives. This is generally not the case in real life, and last night I had a crushing reminder that I do not live in a movie, at least not a serious one.

My editing department, aka Richy, and I decided to get romantic last night. Friday night has been our standing date-night and we had been looking forward to some alone time that evening. We had a fun night of delivery pizza and cheese sticks, Breaking Bad on Netflix, and a bottle of wine. We finished Breaking Bad, (How insane is that show?) and decided to call it a night. Then we made our way to the bedroom.

Being a healthy, committed couple in a relationship, we began to engage in romantic behavior. Richy gave me a backrub, then a leg massage. I sportingly let him. This kind of hanky- panky continued until we were in a state of undress and he gently began to kiss me. I continued to encourage this behavior. He kissed my shoulder, and my arm as I moved my leg (this is important, not just a play by play of my sex life), anyway, I moved my leg over his upturned arm.

Now, I have his wrist and hand basically sandwiched between my upper thighs, right in that super tender flesh just before you reach the holy land. Things were beginning to heat up as he nibbled at me and I moaned as he bit at my neck and HOLY SWEET JESUS, MOTHER OF GOD! In our heated state, he had suddenly jerked his hand out from between my legs, in a passionate move, but his watch clasp had caught a piece of my tender, oh so tender, inner thigh and ripped a four inch gash across my leg.

You know the pain that happens where you can't say anything or even make a noise because all of the air has left your body, and frankly, a piece of your soul has left too? You are just left open-mouthed, gasping for air like a goldfish out of water? Yes, that is the pain I felt go searing up my leg. God knows I tried to be sporting about it. At first, for maybe thirty seconds, I didn't say anything. I thought I could carry on like nothing happened. Then all those pain receptors in my brain finally caught up with my rationale. In a moment of panic, I pictured other tender parts getting caught in Time’s Clasp of Doom and being ripped off of my body. I immediately decided that the watch had to go.

In the squeaky voice I managed to eek out of my body, I asked Richy to please take his watch off. He said okay, but asked why. Well, now I had to tell him that it had scratched me. He asked if I was okay, and still, not having moved, I tried to lighten the mood by telling him I was fine, but just going to lie still and bleed to death. I could hear his eyes rolling from where I was laying because I do tend toward the dramatic. He stopped what he was doing and reached over and turned on the lamp to see the damage.

“Oh god, baby” was the first thing he said as his eyes saw the slash in my thigh. Richy felt just awful, and I tried to assure him I would be fine in the morning, but the mood was definitely off for me. Then, once I moved my leg, that scratch felt like it was on fire! Richy ran to the bathroom and came back with a cool washcloth and some Neosporin. That helped a little, but the scratch still stung so badly, he went back and got the burn cream that has lidocaine in it. He tenderly applied it to my leg and the pain got better after the instant searing pain of lidocaine in an open wound. He gave me a pair of his boxers to wear so it could get some air. He really did his best to get me comfortable again, which I appreciated so much.

After the laughter and streak of lava on my leg died down, Richy tried to get things started again. But at that point it really was over. Somehow the words “Do I need to get the gauze?” didn't rekindle the flames of passion.

Tuesday, January 23, 2018

And in This Corner....

Fighting as an adult is rarely a dignified affair. It's a bit ridiculous really and not very satisfying. By the time you reach adulthood, you have more than likely had at least one basic psychology class, so you know just enough about fighting to be obnoxious. Trying to remember to use phrases such as: “I need…, I want…, I feel…”, and “In the future…” is the psychologically responsible thing to do. However, my inner two-year old wants to have more of a conversation like “I need you to stop being a doo-doo head. I want to stick a dull pencil up your nose. I feel like running you over with my car. Twice. In the future, please remember that I know people who will help me dispose of your body.  The previous conversation is SO much more satisfying than having a responsible, adult conversation. However, as grown-ups, we aren't allowed to say these things, so we move on to Communicating Like Adults.

This is where it gets interesting. By the time we reach the age of maturity, which for me should happen any day now, we have been in enough arguments to draw on our experience. We know how other people can hurt us and therefore we have our fortified walls in place. We learn how we can best hurt other people and we become nasty and vindictive. We have traveled through this passive-aggressive world, have embraced the sarcasm and fine-tuned it to our particular brand of anger to be shot at one another like bullets from a gun. We use social media to post vague yet pointed insults at one another “without naming names”. Communicating Like Adults takes you out of amateur hour and flings you into the pros of arguing, so you better be ready.

I can say with confidence that I am no good in an argument. I dislike confrontation and try to avoid arguing by being pretty easy going in the first place. Sometimes I will get riled up over something and my partner and I will fight, but if I can see the argument is going nowhere, I generally just try to placate whoever I’m having the useless conversation with and move on. Here is where the mature part comes in. After I have placated them and moved on I will then think of all of the things that I should have said and still need to say, and I will send them a text. Yes, Text Message Arguments. God, that's a good idea! An ethereal novella sent through the coldness of cyberspace-a text with no way to determine tone of voice and every possibility of misinterpreting inflection and meaning. Absolutely brilliant!

My reasoning is that I am not able to gather my thoughts while someone is actively confronting me. But after I can cool down and think things through, I regroup and am able to write down a coherent argument and/or apology. I need time to clear my head, think over all of the points we both made and make a decision about my stance on the subject. This makes me sound mature and logical, so I roll with this. But I sometimes wonder if it's not just me having to have the last word.

Next issue, the launching of insults with your partner as an adult. Get ready for the burn unit. We will insult your mother, your dog, and your priest. We will let you know in no uncertain terms that if you grandmother actually KNEW how to cook, there wouldn't have BEEN any lumps in her mashed potatoes. (Oh, even Nana isn't safe). The insults get creative too. Because, you can't just come out and call someone names, can you? Just calling someone an “asshole” or a “bitch” is very pedestrian and not terribly imaginative. So, you have to make swiping passes at insulting your partner.
  • “Aw, your mother would be so proud of you right now”
  • “It must be time for your period”
What these actually mean is:
  • “Asshole”
  • “Bitch”
Adults seem to have the upper hand on this type of insult trebuchet. When you called your friend Poop-Face as a kid, you didn't mean it,I mean not really, because thirty minutes later, the two of you were making mud-pies again anyway.  Personally I would feel so much better if I could just be two years old once again. I’d drop my whole body on the floor, hold my breath and kick my feet. I’d call everyone within an earshot a Doody-Head and when I felt myself getting tired, I’d scream just to get myself worked up again.

Overall, I don't find myself in many arguments, but I think next time I do, I'm just going to have a full blown toddler-level melt-down. It may not stop anything, but I bet it will at least stave off the inevitable for a minute or two. Displays of insanity tends to put things on hold for a little bit!

Quote of the Day:
If you can't say something nice, say it in French.
  • Anonymous

Friday, January 19, 2018

Go Wash Your Mouth Out

***TRIGGER WARNING: Naughty language***

So, I've had far too much to drink tonight, and by far too much, I mean three shots of rum mixed into diet Coke. I am a cheap drunk.I have decided to write tonight’s post because I am just curious what will come out of my head. I'd like to think that tomorrow I will read this tomorrow and be amused, but I'm pretty sure I'll just feel like “What the hell?” Nevertheless, in the interest of science, I am conducting this experiment. I will have my editor, more commonly known as my boyfriend, only edit my spelling for basic grammar and ease of reading. Everything else will be organically grown from rum and random neural firings.

The first thing that comes to mind is the conversation that my best friend and i had today about how we address each other. Most friends address each other in friendly terms such as sweetheart, honey, sister, beautiful lady, babe, darling, etc…
This is not the case with my best friend of 27 years. No, this is not the case at all. Here is a list of our most recent terms of endearment in no particular order. These words have been addressed to both of us by both of us:
  • Free-base slut
  • Hooker
  • Lint licker
  • Hoe
  • Cuntsneeze
  • Twat waffle
  • Heifer
  • My favorite moldy clit
  • Trash
  • Punk ass hoe
  • Rotten crotch
These loving words are usually followed up by a sentence of love and encouragement, such as:
  • I love you and your whore mouth.
  • I like it when you call me daddy.
  • I made it home, Trash.
  • You are my favorite douche canoe.
  • Happy new year, slut!
  • I'll be your bubbly twat.
  • Hey hooker, I love you more than cake!
  • I will smack that ass if you open your slut mouth again. I’m warming up the pimp hand.
These sophisticated and adult conversations were taken directly from texts on my phone. I think these healthy expressions of admiration and love are what we should all strive for; goals we can all attain if we try hard enough. I’m hoping to encourage this kind of friendly banter in everyday life. For instance, your boss storms into your office demanding the WENIS (Friends reference for 10 bonus points) and you don't have it ready yet. You look your boss right in the eye and say “Listen here douche canoe, you'll have it when it smacks you in your sweet ass”. Your boss laughs. You laugh. Security laughs as they escort you out. It's a good time had by all involved. Or perhaps you are at a local trendy coffee shop and they get your 14 step coffee order wrong. You take the hipster barista by the hand and say “My pimp hand is all warmed up. Don't make me use it on your hooker face, Trash”. Barista giggles, you burst into laughter, everyone agrees you are their favorite customer.
I see this trend going places.

So, at this point, I’m more shots in, but I don't know how many, as I am not the one making my drinks, my editing department, more commonly known as Richy, is. I'd like to say I can still hold my drink like I could at twenty-something, but I don't think I can anymore. Still, I managed to write this blog post, so that's something and something is better than nothing.

Thank you for reading this trashy post and I hope you enjoyed it, you dirty pirate hooker!

Fun fact: Lady Ching Shih, once a prostitute became one of the most powerful pirates ever, commanding one of the most formidable pirate fleets in China with hundreds of ships under her command.
Awesome dirty pirate hooker!