Jazz Hands at Dinner

So, Richy has drawn a line in the sand, and unfortunately I have crossed it… with Musicals.

He has mentioned before that he hated Cats (The Broadway show, not the animal), but I just thought furries weren’t his thing and left it at that. I did notice that he abruptly left the room on urgent business when I played Mama Mia! but I chalked that up to a busy schedule. I mean it’s not like he’s ever asked to watch my copy of Moulin Rouge either, but maybe watching Nicole Kidman in lingerie is unsettling. He might be avoiding all that upset. You never know what drives a person, so I didn’t really think much about him avoiding every musical I’ve ever wanted to play including Grease, Phantom of the Opera, and Sweeny Todd. Maybe epic dance numbers aren’t his thing, but I never realized his pure hatred of this type of cinematic experience until he told me “NO.”

Let me explain. This man has never really told me no about anything. I mean, we will discuss things and compromise and generally we come to some satisfactory conclusion to anything we run across. Also, he knows if he tells me “no” on anything right out of the bucket, I’ll do it or die trying. As a general rule though, “No” is not something I am used to hearing. Until I tried to play The Greatest Showman during dinner. I have to say, that the emphatic, half pleading request to not inflict this movie on him sort of melted my heart a little. I mean how often do you hear a man who has fought in war, been shot, stabbed, and snake bitten plead “no” like a child about to be spanked? The look in his eyes was part sheer terror and part desperate begging. You could tell he was kind of resigned to his fate as he saw the movie pop up on the screen. He looked at the TV screen and looked at me; then he looked back at the television and I saw a part of his soul leave his body and escape through the window.

I have to admit, there was this little moment where I realized I had this phenominal cosmic power. My absolute control over this man’s day. I could force a musical on him or grant him amnesty and let him watch something involving guns and explosions. Yes, I was drunk with power for a split second. I  suddenly understood the terrible yet awesome way I could wield a singing Hugh Jackman at this man, and much like David taking down the mighty Goliath, I could fell this man with one swing of a chorus line if I chose to. The power was intoxicating.

But, I am a merciful lord, and after the surge of power finished coursing through my veins, I took a deep breath and granted him a reprieve. So instead of watching The Greatest Showman, we dined over Battlestar Galactica and too much wine.

Alas, Hugh Jackman did not get the chance to sing me through my dinner, but I did get to see some space battles and hot Cylons, so overall, dinner was a success, and no hard feelings, but I now know where the entertainment line is drawn. For Richy, musicals are that line. He will watch romantic comedies, he will watch sitcoms, he will even watch The Simpsons with me if I ask him to. Richy however, will not watch musicals. I can ask for any other genre, but musicals are off limits. In this, the season of giving, I suppose I will be kind and give him the gift that never stops giving - every season of Glee ever made. Muwahahahaha!

Author’s note: As Richy was editing this I was informed that he does not hate ALL musicals. He doesn’t mind Moulin Rouge, Phantom, and Grease. Now you all know - he doesn’t hate them all. (Somehow this revelation is funnier to me than the sheer terror I saw at the mention of a musical for dinner).

Whoopie! It's Christmas Eve

Things didn't go as planned.

Making whoopie is one of my favorite things about being in a healthy, committed relationship. It’s fun and you can do it (almost) anytime. It’s free entertainment, it’s a free workout without the gym membership. You can whoopie when it’s raining or snowing, in bad weather or good, you can whoopie during a power outage. Baby, it’s cold outside? Well, come here, and let me warm you up and touch your butt.

However, I’ve recently had a hysterectomy and haven’t been allowed to have any sort of sexy time for the last six weeks. It has been a long six weeks but it ends the day after Christmas, assuming my doctor says I am healed, at which point I will be unavailable for at least twenty-four hours, but I digress.

Today being Christmas Eve, I decided that it was time to at least fool around. Maybe I can’t go “all the way”, but surely things can be done to ensure Richy and I both have a nice time, right? Right. The thing is, I had this randy little idea while lying in bed during the middle of the night. I couldn’t sleep and I started feeling sexy, not paying attention to the fact that it was four in the morning and Richy was in a deep, deep sleep. (This is called foreshadowing, kids).

Things started out just fine. I began kissing him, touching him, and gently waking him up, etc… but somewhere in there I forgot that I was actually the one that was feeling lustful in the first place. I lost sight of the fact that the point to all of this was that I wanted to feel good, and I sabotaged my own orgasm.  I wasn’t thinking about the fact that 1. Sexy time with a man will make him immediately fall asleep afterwards and, 2. That Richy was already in a deep sleep when I decided to initiate Operation Orgasm.

Being the spontaneous person that I am, I jumped that poor, sleeping man like a starving animal who had finally been given a bone. And in all honesty, I rocked his world! I was feeling pretty proud of myself, so I kissed him, hopped out of bed to wash up a little and promised him I’d be right back. I forgot, never leave a spent man alone. Alas, I bounced back to the bedroom only to find him wrapped up like a burrito and sleeping so soundly and deeply that I check his pulse just to make sure I hadn’t killed him.

But now what? I had blown out of any hope of my own sexy time! I sat on the side of the bed and blinked a few times realizing that I had cheated my own self, and there was nothing I could do about it (well, nothing I could get Richy to do about it). Now I was all worked up and I had put my partner in a coma. Brilliant.

So,that is where today’s blog comes in. Yes, today’s blog is brought to you by six weeks of pent up sexual energy and an inability to sleep during normal sleeping hours. It is 5:45 in the morning on Christmas Eve and I am typing these words because what else can I do? I can laugh at myself and patiently wait for Richy to rejoin the land of the living.

So, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you all. Here’s to having someone to canoodle with during these cold winter months. Richy, thank you for just being you. I am really, scandalously in love with you.

Happy Holiday, Everyone!

I love Christmas! Ho, Ho, Ho, Jingle bells, deck the halls, and joy to the world. It’s just such a fun time of year. Honestly, humans probably just invented it to get through the drudgery of winter, with its longer nights and grey skies, but whether you believe in the Bible version, the pagan version, or something in between, it’s a good time. It doesn’t even have to be Christmas to celebrate. I am willing to raise a toast to a happy Kwanzaa, spin the dreidel for a merry Hanukkah, or toss a log on for a delightful Yuletide. My mom is celebrating the winter solstice this year instead of Christmas, and I’m down for that too. I think a glass of wine can definitely be had to celebrate whatever the sun is doing this time of year, no problem.

It isn’t just about the presents, which are definitely fun, but for me, it’s about laughing with people, putting that extra little thought into something for someone, and sharing food and drink with people we love (or tolerate a couple times a year). But let’s be honest here, gifts are exciting whether you are getting them or giving them. I love the excitement of giving someone a gift I just know they will love or that will make them laugh. Case in point, the year my dying father told my brother he wanted a bigger cock for Christmas… and my brother promptly delivered him a robust three-foot tall plaster-cast rooster as a gift. Welcome to my family.

I received an early Christmas present today from a friend of mine that has known me for twenty-five years. This lady delivered several items! Eyeshadow that smells of sugar cookies, mascara that makes me look like I should be modeling eyelash extensions and lipstick that looks so good on me that it’s like I invented it. Not to mention a giant bottle of Hempz lotion that smells of spun sugar and vanilla bean which leaves a hint of shimmer on my skin that makes me glow like a healthy person.

I love receiving gifts, and I absolutely adore giving them. I’m super excited to give gifts to Richy, which I can’t discuss here, as he will probably edit this later, but I hope he likes them. I got a silly little extra thing for my baby girl; it isn’t a big gift, in fact, it’s small and funny, but I think she will really like it. I never thought gifts had to be expensive or lavish to be meaningful, and I still feel that way. We are hand making most of the gifts we are giving to people. Hopefully they will turn out well and not looking like something you’d find hanging on the walls of a kindergarten classroom wall.

So whatever you are celebrating this time of year, I hope it’s a happy one. Personally, I am celebrating Christmas with Santas and snowmen, nutcrackers and tinsel and loads of wine!

Please be kind to one another and remember to spread some love this season!

Here's to a Not So Bright Future

The future is stupid!

 I have contributed to this and now I feel completely ridiculous. I had a moment where I could have shown like a Gen-X beacon in a night of Millennials but I simply burnt out and extinguished any hope of a bright future.

The other day, I was helping a friend out at her store that she and her mother co-own. It’s an antiques store and sometimes, especially during busy special events,  I will help them out for a few hours. The work gets me out of the house and they let me leave anytime I start to feel exhausted, which is nice for both parties involved,  and so that’s what I do. Now, in this store they use a phone app called Square, which comes with a handy credit card reader.  Anytime someone wants to use a credit card for a transaction, we swipe the card, have them sign the phone screen and ask if they want a text or email receipt; that’s all we have to do.  For cash transactions, we still ring it up on the phone’s Square app, and it tells us how much change to give and everything is fine with the option of a text or email receipt.We give them change from the cash till and everyone goes home happy. I’ve never seen this process fail to work, so I’ve never asked any other questions about it. Now I know, I probably should have.

Two older ladies came into the store (during a short period of time when I had been left there alone, of course) and they made their way to the counter with their various items. I rang them up, they paid with cash, I made their change and then asked if they would like a text or email receipt. One of the sweet ladies looked at me and said, no, could she please just have a paper receipt.

Y’all, I was not ready. I looked at her and then looked down at the cash register and then looked back at her. It was like that dilating hallway effect in horror movies. What she didn't know was that in my head, I was frantically looking for any clue on this cash register about how to actually use it. I knew the silence was getting awkward because the ticking of the wall clock became progressively louder. All I could do was be honest. I looked at this older, Baby- Boomer generation woman and just told her “I’m so sorry, I don’t have any idea how to actually work this register. I have no idea how to give you a paper receipt”.  She looked at me the way older people look at younger people when they wish they could spank you for being stupid and she just smiled. I felt ridiculous!. I honestly had no idea how to hand someone a piece of paper with numbers on it. I couldn’t do that transaction without a cell phone. I was totally unprepared to do anything with a customer that wasn't in some way connected to the internet. I was lost without technology.

Well, the poor woman, laughed (not in an amused way) and shook her head and left without any receipt at all. I felt bad, but I also had a huge laugh at my own expense. I’m a big fan of being 39 and talking about “kids these days”, just as my mother and her mother and her mother before her had done. It makes me feel like I’m somehow a better person for drinking from water hoses as a child and  never once wearing bike helmets. However, I have never felt more dependent on technology than when I could not give this woman a four- inch paper receipt.

 I have slowly evolved into “kids these days”... I am one of these kids. I have no idea how to do anything by hand anymore. If it doesn’t require a charge, I don’t know how to use it. Honestly, I even have to charge my cigarette now, which I think is stupid. I stopped smoking regular tobacco cigarettes and now smoke a “Vape” which is filled with CBD oil and a little bit of nicotine oil with a strawberry flavor. This apparatus must be charged and has a screen on it to tell you all of the settings on it, and if you let this bad boy die, you must wait until your battery recharges before you can smoke again. The future is so, very stupid. Because of this, I have nearly quit smoking altogether because I never plug anything in, including this vape, and it's never charged enough to actually use it. So, I really have to give it to kids these days,  I mean at least they have enough sense to carry portable chargers with them and to keep their electronics charged. Not me. My phone is never charged, my cigarette is never charged, my portable charger is never charged up, nor are either one of my tablets charged. My computer has a bad battery, so must stay plugged in, and cannot be charged. I simply cannot be trusted to keep up with and maintain my personal technology, but apparently I can’t live without it either because the future is just so stupid.

Sheesh. Kids these days.

The Keys to Life

I can’t find my keys. I really can’t find them, and it’s ridiculous because my keys are huge. I have things I needed to do today, and I am totally stranded at home. I have no house keys, no car keys, and no keys to the place I was going today. This doesn’t happen to me often. I’m not one of those people who needs a spare key in every room or tracking devices on their keychains because I am always very diligent about putting my keys back in my purse. However, today, my keys have walked off the planet, and I’m becoming concerned. Growing up, my mom was constantly misplacing her keys. As a kid I thought it was funny, you know, silly mom, everyone playing the Find-the-Key game. I remember she had this ginormous safety pin that she used as a keychain just so that she could always find them. That eight inch safety pin may have been useful in finding them once she DID lose them, but she always would manage to lose them, no matter what kind of keychain she had. As a self-centered and impatient teenager however, mom losing her keys was less and less funny. I wanted to be at the mall five minutes ago, and there we were, looking for keys. I was a brat, but a brat that firmly vowed to keep up with my keys. I lost my keys one time when my kids were babies. Once. That was all it took. I had to break into my house, and it was funny and terrible and I was way too fat to be climbing in windows. So, in the tradition of the absent minded women before me, I obtained a very large keychain, and kept adding to it. My keychains got so out of control that Richy forced me to remove just the car key so I wouldn’t break the ignition switch in the car. I can take it on and off of a carabiner that is also attached to my keychain collection. I say all of this to say it is damn near impossible to lose this wad of keys, but here we are. I have torn this house apart. I have uncushioned the couch, I’ve looked under things, looked in every room, checked the fridge (I did lose a cell phone in the fridge once, so it wasn’t that odd). I’ve looked in the dish drainer, on all the flat surfaces, I even looked in the dog kennel. Those damn keys are nowhere to be found. I checked in the car, I checked on the train, and on a plane, I checked in the rain, and checked in the drain, I checked everywhere, Sam I Am. It’s not that I think they won’t turn up, I know they probably will, but I needed to leave the house today. I had things to do and responsibilities (people insist on giving me responsibilities under the delusion that I am a grown up). I am mostly just absolutely bamboozled by the idea that these keys can’t be seen from space, much less by the idea that I can’t find them in a loft apartment that’s smaller than a thousand square feet. For now, I suppose I will ransack my house again in the hopes of finding my lost keys but at this point I really don’t know where else to look. Maybe I’ll try summoning them. A five point star in the middle of the floor should suffice, but what does one add to the points to summon keys? UPDATE: The keys have been summoned from the depths of couch hell. They had been locked away under the couch, back against the wall and inside the lining. I don’t know what they did to deserve such a spot in couch hell, but it took me fifteen minutes, two canes and a headlamp to retrieve them from their seclusion. 

Thoughts From the Couch

Today’s blog is brought to you by sudden inspiration and short term ambition. A writer friend of mine was taking me through Google Docs and showing me how to use it. I didn’t know how to use it because I was born in the time of the dinosaurs and I am easily frightened by technology; I will scamper back into the forest at the mere thought of having to Tumble a Tweet on my YouTube app. However, Google Docs is easy enough for even me to use it, so I have decided to crawl out of my Girl-cave and write today. Of course, this is always with the firmest of intentions to write again in the near future. I have no idea if this sudden drive to write will blossom into writing full time again, or if it'll be a one-off like I seem to do lately. Either way, I will be just as surprised as you are when this is done, because I honestly started writing this with no direction in mind.

I have spent today wrapping presents, since I only have fifteen more days until Christmas and I still have to make four more gifts and buy one more. I’m pretty happy with our decision to make gifts this year. We are, of course, still buying toys for the kids, because honestly it’s just easier, but for the adults in our lives, we are making something that I think is really nice.  I can’t share what that is on here because my mom reads my blog, and that would spoil the surprise. (Hi Mom). But making these gifts requires power tools and that means I have to wait for Richy because I have no intention on sawing my hand off, and that's exactly what would happen.

I bought Richy’s gifts because I suck at crafts and I want to spoil him. He really deserves it. He works so hard everyday and treats me like I’m a princess, so I want him to know how wonderful I think he is and how much I appreciate him. I’m not sure I’ve shown him the proper appreciation though. I only recently had doubts about this since my sister in law bought my brother’s gift.  She presented him with a heated toilet seat. My brother mentioned one day that he’d know he’d really made it in life when he could afford heated toilet seats. Of course one had to be found, and my sister in law absolutely delivered. She got excited and gave it to him the other day instead of at Christmas and he posted it on Facebook. There it sits, an electronic, back-lit, heated toilet seat. She bought my brother a throne. I wonder if this is something I should get Richy. Like, do all men want a heated toilet seat? Can you imagine how long they’d be in there if they are warm and comfortable? I wonder if we’d ever see them again? I think for my man, I’ll just stick to the more traditional gifts, like underwear, a bad tie, and fruitcake.  

Well, our halls are decked, our TV fire is crackling behind the screen and the stockings are hung by the bookcase with care. Our tree is cheerful and we are cozy and comfortable. Please try to remember not everyone has these basic creature comforts, and just be a little kinder to one another. I hope you all have a happy holiday, no matter what you are celebrating this time of year.

Rage Against the Machine

Today's blog isn't funny, and I apologize, but I must rant for a minute. So, if you know me in real life, you know that I am not wealthy or even remotely anything more than broke most of the time. I got sick, which left me with no choice but to go on disability. You don't make any money on disability, I can promise you that. As a result, my car, which is broken, is still broken because I haven't got $1,500 to sink into it. As a result of not having a car right now, my Richy is facing problems at work. This pisses me off.

Richy has a Bachelor's degree and a Master’s degree, so no one can claim that we are struggling due to a lack of education. He chooses to work as a mason on restorations because he makes more money doing that than he would teaching college courses. However, the company he works for is penalizing him for not having a car. They won’t give him a raise or promote him since he doesn't have a car. I am so angry about this that I could spit nails.

Through no fault of his own, he is being penalized for lacking transportation. Well, God bless America! Is this really what this country is about? Is this where we are now?    There is no way to hurry this car repair process along without getting more money, i.e. a raise, however, he cant have a raise because he needs a car! He depends on his own two legs to get to work. This is a literal-Catch’22! I’m not making this up, this man WALKS to work every single day or walks to a bus stop to get to jobs farther afield. He never, and I mean never calls in. He had a hematoma in his leg that was so painful the doctor put him in a boot and gave him pain meds to help with the pain (It didnt really help much. We found that 800 miligram ibuprophen worked better). He walked to work every day except one that I forced him to call in because his leg was so swollen and sore that he could hardly put pressure on his leg. No, I was not going to let him climb scaffolding all day with a leg that couldnt bear weight. Call me crazy, but that seemed like a bad idea.

No one cared. No one bothered to ask “Hey, could you use a ride to work?”  He just did what he had to do and never asked for anything. But now… now he cant even get a raise to help him get to work. And no, I dont think anyone owes us a thing for our situation but when Richy is the only- ONLY person to pass a drug test when they tested a large portion of the company, and the only person not to call in on a regular basis, when he has to fix the errors of the “Master Masons” who make double what he does… Yes, I beilieve he is owed something for that. But he doesnt have a car, so he doesnt deserve what he has worked for. God, I’m angry right now.

I won’t continue this rant any longer, but I had to get it out. I will only say this, and its something my daughter said; it costs a lot of money to be poor. This man is a vet of both the Air Force and the Army. He was shot in Bosnia. He has a purple heart. He has two degrees. He can’t afford a car repair and therefore is not deserving of compensation for his hard work and time. I could choke the life out of his boss. I really am seeing red right now. I’m half of a mind to get his bosses number and call him and chew him a new ass-hole. Not that that would help, and would probably only make things worse, but it would make me feel a hell of a lot better. Just knowing someone out there is walking around with two anuses, partly because of my masticulaory skills, brings a smile to my face.

Okay, rant over. I’m out, but I never want to hear that hard work and determination will get you ahead in life…..EVER!!

It Takes A Village, and A Lot of Wine

As most of us know, when on Facebook, our “friends” can add us to any group they want to. One day you'll be minding your own business scrolling through your timeline and BAM! All of a sudden you are getting posts from Death Metal Ninja Monkeys because some well meaning friend thought it was a group you just had to be a part of. I am normally not amused when I find myself joined up with groups like this. I’m sorry, but I don't support Killing Kittens For The Dark Side, or whatever group someone else thinks I might like. My ideal group would be something along the lines of Golden Girls Salty Guide To Life, or People Who Like Their Dog Better Than Other People, something like that.

Well, I got added to a group. Oh joy.

When I realized a good friend of mine had added me to a mommy group on Facebook. It didn't really bother me since I had been an active Mommy to two children, although my kids have all grown up and are making their own lives outside of my grasp. It stung just a little, as I had only recently lost my children to adulthood, but I didn't bother un-joining, I just left it alone. I'm really glad I did. These women are the funniest, most real moms I have ever met in cyberspace. Best of all, there are no Sancti-mommies. No one blinks when someone calls their toddler an asshole, because let's face it, they are. We laugh at ourselves and at our idiot teenagers, bitch about our partners and send glitter dicks to people who are undeserving of the oxygen it takes to keep them alive.

I have come to see that the group mascot seems to be the elusive Mermaid Caticorn, because we all deserve to have a majestic spirit-animal cheering us on when the kids are acting like tiny sociopaths. Which reminds me that I just found out today, through this group of informed members that Target is now selling glitter-filled unicorn ice-cream. This is the fulfillment of all of my inner ten year old dreams. I will be purchasing this ice-cream in the near future, but back to the moms (and lets not leave out the few dads we have).

A few posts really stuck with me. For example one mommy’s toddler discovered his *weewee (*technically called the gomer). That in itself wasn't all that funny, however when he asked her “Mom, can you tell me why my penis isn't squishy?” I lost it.

Another mom let us all know how her week was going by posting a picture of her adorable infant (more commonly known as a tiny terror). He was covered nearly to his chest in runny baby poo that had blasted its way up and out of the diaper. I had to laugh because my son never pooped a diaper that it didn't go straight up, out of the diaper waist and straight up his back to his hairline. I wish I were making that up. I am not.

For Easter, I have seen so many chocolate dicks in bright plastic eggs that I am inspired to try to find one of my own. I’d probably send one to my mom because that's the kind of thoughtful person she raised.

Someone’s grandpa bought a toy microphone off the internet for the grandkid. Turned out to be a big black vibrator. Both grandpa and the kid have been using it to sing into.

Vibrators are a big deal with this group. For instance there is a sign one lady posted that she is going to make for her home. it reads: “Please don't knock on my door to talk about God… I don't knock on your door to talk about wine and vibrators, do I?” She has a point.

So, for whatever reason, these ladies have accepted me as one of their own. I don't sew diapers, and have no one to diaper if i did. I have no children currently living with me, though I do have a one year old niece who poops in my tub everytime I give her a bath, so maybe that counts. They make me remember the good times I had raising my kids and they make me laugh about all the jerky stuff and insane crap my kids did over the years. I will say this; I wish there had been a group around like this when I was raising my tinys. They say it takes a village, and as I learned, it does.  

Ladies and gents, thank you for all the laughs and caring. Thank you for supporting each other and not being judgemental when a mommy hides in the bathroom to pee and sneak a glass of wine. Thank you for building each other up and caring about one another. There's a lot of laughs and there's some heartbreak too. Either way, these women make my day.

Thanks for reading. I’m off to find unicorn glitter ice-cream!

The Corpse in My Fridge

A corpse was in my refrigerator. At least that's the way it smelled.

For the last few days, when anyone opened the fridge door, a small whiff of something unpleasant would waft up my nose. Nothing horrible, just a slight smell that made me think, hmmm. I knew some leftover or something must have gotten pushed to the back but I wasn't terribly concerned about it. I figured I’d run across it in the next day or two and throw out the offending item. I never ran across it.

Yesterday, my darling Richy sent me a text that he had cleaned out the entire fridge looking for the smell. He cleaned out all the leftovers, checked all the produce, and threw away anything expired. I was so happy that he had done this distasteful chore for me, I was saved by my knight in shining armor. Richy had conquered the Fridge Beast and all was right with the world again.

Except that it wasn't all right in the world again. This morning, Richy and I woke up, figured out what planet we were on and what year it was as our hearts started to gradually beat in our chests. We cleaned the sleep crust from our eyes and began to raid the fridge for Diet Coke and breakfast food.  Oh Jaysus, Mary and Joseph! What was that smell? It made my eyes water! It was like someone had hidden a body in my refrigerator in the middle of summer during a power outage. I had had enough.

Then it dawned on me what i had seen last weekend when we bought groceries. Two bags of frozen vegetables had, for whatever reason, been relegated to the crisper drawer in the fridge. I avoid confrontation like the plague so when I saw them there, I just left them in lieu of moving the veggies back to the freezer and possibly having to explain why I did it. Turns out this was a bad idea.

I opened that drawer and picked up a bag of unfrozen lima beans. I reluctantly sniffed the bag and it didn't have a smell, so I thought maybe I was wrong about it being the frozen vegetables. This led me to be less cautious when smelling bag number two. I picked up the second bag and took a big strong smell, accidentally touching the bag to my nose.

I nearly died. My gag reflex went into overdrive and I nearly threw up. In fact I gagged so hard that I peed just a little. Not to mention I had touched this bag to my nose, so now the stench was actually cold and wet and up my nostrils. Now Im gagging and peeing on myself and having a true drama queen moment while Richy looked at me like I was crazy. I wasn't crazy. This particular veggie bag wasn't simply vegetables like the lima beans had been. This was one of those frozen vegetables with some sort of sauce in it. Apparently that sauce is made out of dead panda assholes and pickled possum feet and if you let it get warmer than freezing it will put off an odor that would kill a horse.

We were finally able to bag and seal both bags of mushy vegetables and get them to the outside garbage. They put up a good fight, but in the end we conquered the rogue produce and evicted them from the house.

They say you learn something new everyday. Well, this time, they were right. I learned two important lessons: 1. NEVER put frozen items in the fridge unless you are going to use them immediately, and 2. Sometimes confrontation is necessary especially if it involves improperly stored food.   

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.

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. 

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!

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.  

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.