SPT: What part…

May 1, 2006 at 4:38 pm (Sock Puppet Theater, The Enlightening Ones)

…of "Mind your own fucking business," does H'sMa NOT understand? I'll tell you about the afternoon before she blessedly tottered out of the house, and perhaps you can tell me.

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FOADT #1

April 27, 2006 at 1:18 pm (Fuck off and Die Thursday, The Enlightening Ones)

I know the saying goes, "Don't hate the player–hate the game" but sometimes the players need slapping. This first "Fuck off and Die Thursday" post is for a player I've ranted about plenty, H'sMa. This past week has been annoying and smelly and haven't had a decent shower in a month, topped off with no shower at all since Sunday. Ew, ew and ew.

The last few showers I've had have been all too brief–within a minute of starting the hot water, it began to run cooler, until within 5 minutes my shivering fat ass was cussing the cold water required to rinse my long-assed hair. "You don't need to be in there forever," was her first judgement on the matter. Forever? Who the fuck said anything about forever–there isn't even time to wash and condition my HAIR, let alone tend to items on the bonus plan, like snootch-washing and pit-shaving…rolling eyes. This oh-so-productive horseshit went on for a month, lasting until the old bat finally took a shower herself.

Yep, a full month later. I don't want to think about it.

She emerged from her shower late last week musing, "Hm, I guess there might be something wrong–I didn't get a full shower either." Riiiiiiight. I had nothing better to bitch about than a hot water source because why? Are we forgetting the fact that I desperately need to get a car back on the road, but you won't let me work my only source of fucking income? Well, one of us hasn't forgotten and will be paying your sorry ass back very soon.

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N-V-T-S Nuts

April 10, 2006 at 8:04 am (The Enlightening Ones)

Well, it’s been a weird week.

The Inquisition (Let’s begin)
The Inquisition (Look out sin)
We have a mission to convert the Jews (Jew, Jew, Jew, Jew, Jew, Jew, Jew)

It’s been tense here at home–HsMa doing strange things like, “Here’s a romance novel–you should like this.” Uh, I’d rather sodomize myself with a rose bush than read a romance novel, so I politely turned it down (yes, it’s possible for me to be polite–piss off!). This resulted in a snit lasting two days, from HER. Hello? Dictating my reading choices means I should be the pissy one.

Confess, don’t be boring.
Say yes, don’t be dull.
A fact you’re ignoring:
It’s better to lose your skull cap than your skull (Oye Gevalt!)

Let’s see, she dictates that I should read something I haven’t touched ever since I found the Harold Robbins section at the library when I was 11 and SHE’s pissed? It didn’t help that I’m craving red meat and salt while my teeth give me another case of the fits (PMS blows), meaning I couldn’t chew anything she’s cooked in three days, adding to both her snit and my deep desire to check into a hotel.

Hell, there’s an old AirStream trailer in the backyard–if I didn’t already know that it has enough wildlife living in it to earn it a designation as a rodent sanctuary I’d be tempted to hook up a propane tank and move the hell in. It even has a kitchenette, so with some cleaning and a nice extension cord to the house I could probably soap out there if it weren’t for the critters. Granted that it’s packed with excess stuff as only a pack rat can stuff it, but the lawn’s big and I’m desperate for some soaping time.

Will you convert? “No, no, no, no.”
Will you confess? “No, no, no, no.”
Will you revert? “No, no, no, no.”
Will you say yes? “No, no, no, no!”

Speaking of which, is it me or is it just mean to walk in and announce, “Serra, I got an order for you for something you can’t make because there’s no room, and it’s something you make quite a lot of money from!”

I think it’s mean. Honey doesn’t get it.

Maybe he would if I sewed him into his bedsheets and beat him with a cast iron skillet.

Chorus: Hey, Torquemada, whadaya say?
Torq: I just got back from the auto-da-fe.
Chorus: Auto-da-fey, what’s an auto-da-fe?
Torq: It’s what you oughtn’t to do but you do anyway.

All this weekend I had the weirdest song stuck in my head, giving the insanity surrounding me a surreal soundtrack. Having “The Inquisition” from History of the World Part I as background music was just enough to make me hunt for the number for this county’s Community Mental Health office.

We know you’re wishin’ that we’d go away.
But the Inquisition’s here and it’s here to stay!

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FAQ

March 21, 2006 at 10:23 am (Hellos and Goodbyes, Other Bloggers, The Enlightening Ones)

It’s occurred to me that there’s a lot of readers that are relatively new here, so I think it might be time for a quick FAQ.

Who the hell is Serra anyhow?

Well, Serra’s a soapmaker living in Southeastern Michigan who currently shares space with several people, two great dogs and a snobby kittycat. The animals are great; the people are really, uh, what’s the word Beo used to use when discussing a total pain in the ass at work? Oh–enlightening! Yes, they’re…enlightening.

What is a Serra anyhow? Why’s this silly bitch using the nickname?

Serra’s short for the name of a crack-coated–I mean, gorgeous collectible game card called Serra Angel. Since the angel’s not really appropriate for me, I shorten it to Serra. Here’s the card:

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Pretty, right? Well, I’m not blonde and I have a rapier, not a broadsword, but I’ve got a better rack than the card too, so I guess it evens out.

Who are the Enlightening Ones?

Here’s a quick cast of characters:

Honey: Serra’s long-suffering fiance, an out-of-work automotive engineer (Hear that, Ford? Your outsourcing your design shit HURTS here at HOME–knock it the fuck off already! You have to keep getting everything redone anyhow, so why even do it?) who’s currently woefully underemployed. There’s always hope tho and any serious inquiries into hiring this skilled engineer can email moi and I’ll be happy to send it along.

H’sMa: Honey’s mom and my future Mother-In-Law. Before having to live with her the relationship was mild and mellow and liveable. After nine months under the same roof I’ve learned to watch what I eat, say what I have to say loudly and repeatedly, and to fully expect to be gossiped about in my own living space and misquoted out the wazoo. Have I mentioned that I highly dislike yelling, repeating myself, gossipmongers and idiots who don’t get the facts straight when they’re just unable to behave like normal folk and just MUST talk behind someone’s back?

Garand: Resident future brother-in-law and King of Porno, SE Michigan region. This is the guy the movie “The 40 Year Old Virgin” was based on, and he has no chance of changing it even if he should walk down 8 Mile with $500 in one hand and a bag of crack in the other. His habits are slovenly, his money all goes to feed his collections of books, DVDs and porn, and he’s not very nice to his mom. I’ve considered fixing this guy up with friends, but there’s no one I dislike that much.

Your Psychic Fiend: She’s the uber-bitch that lives in my head. She’s a seer whose gift has turned her into a seriously intolerant, non-PC, stubborn, nasty individual. I don’t let her out to play much; when I do, she usually winds up squelched in some elegantly nasty manner as punishment for insulting my friends and family.

Why does Serra blog?

Because it saves the lives of those around her. I’m 600 miles away from my nearest family, have no car, my hobbies taken because I have so little room to work (after being promised that I’d be able to), I’m not currently on medication (perhaps I should be but it’s so hard to tell who the nuts are in this house that I think it’s crap that I’d have to take pills because THEY’RE the whackos) and blogging is cheaper than psychotherapy.

Why all the profanity?

Life is profane at times, whether or not four-letter words are used. While I do have an excellent vocabulary, there are times where one just MUST say, “Fuck you, the horse you rode in on, the brother who looks like you and your little fucking kick-me dog too!”

I think that’s enough for now–do feel free to check the archives out and comment anytime. I as always reserve the right to tell you you’re full of shit, and if you’re full of shit in a very annoying manner I’ll delete and ban your comment. This doesn’t mean I’ll ban those who disagree. It does mean I’ll ban those who are tedious, annoying, inaccurate or otherwise abusing the privilege I pay for when I provide a nifty comment medium to go with the blog.

Thanks for stopping by!

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February 21, 2006 at 9:30 am (The Enlightening Ones)

Yeah, there’s another one chapping my ass–what else is new?

Lesson #3: If it has four legs, YOU are higher on the food chain than it is.

This is a dog:
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This is a cat:

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While I’m completely convinced that they’re the smartest and cutest pets in the world and have the sweetest, softest fur, I am under no illusions. I know that the Beagle is stubborn, chubby, a chowhound and a master con artist. I am fully aware that Miss CottonFurFuzzyPants the cat is haughty, ill-mannered, demanding, cranky, and a walking Van de Graaf generator. The humongous critter not shown is a love machine on four legs, sheds more than a dog really ought to, and will be the first dog headlining the newspaper for licking a burglar to death. These creatures have done their level best to convince me that they are Gods and Goddesses and should be treated as such. I have identified this concept as the pure bovine excrement that it is and quit falling for it shortly after the first time I had to clean up their bodily outputs.

Certain other members of my household, however, think they should be waited on hand and foot, fed whenever they demand it, cosseted, coddled, and generally worshipped. While all the four-legged things in the house do require certain types of handling, that handling isn’t always pleasing to them. Here’s a list of what they’ll demand and what the reaction should be:

1. Feed me. Now.

The only time this should net a response other than, “Nice try. Go play,” is when the grey thing’s dish is dead empty and, in the case of the barking variety of critter, just after their morning walk. The dogs get fed once a day. That’s it. Does that Beagle truly look starved? No–she’s about 25% over what she should weigh in spite of a tight diet and long exercise daily. The big boy’s not starving either. While he’s not overweight, we don’t call him Lummox for nothing.

Since you won’t allow me the pleasure of actually feeding my own fucking dogs, you get to have me telling you how to (and how NOT to) do it. Once the creatures have been fed, there is no need to tell them how hard their life is that I don’t let you give them table scraps 24/7. You don’t get to whine with them when you have food and they don’t. All the “Oh, poor puppies! But your Mommy (gagging a I type this) won’t let me give you treats from my plate. Isn’t she mean?”

You truly need to shut the fuck up about how hard their life is before I barf on your shoes. Truly.

2. Take us out. NOW.

The cat does not go out. EVER. Should you decide again that she does, YOU get to pay the vet bill when she makes the kitties with some lucky feral cat from the neighborhood. YOU also get the extreme joy of watching her birth them, and I sincerely hope it’s on your fucking down pillows. YOU also get the gag-producing pleasure derived from watching a mama cat eat its offsprings’ placentas. And, need I mention the long, desperate process of finding all these fuzzyassed bundles of delight new homes when they’re weaned? Hells no, I’m not doing that–YOU get to go beg everyone you know to take one of them.

The dogs go out on a schedule. Your interfering bullshit has already decided that schedule, so more whining that the poor puppies don’t go every hour on the fucking hour will produce the results detailed in #1, and I’m certain you’ll run out of shoes in short order. If you think I’m going to put up with THAT smell while you spend a week figuring out how to salvage them and then just throw them into a corner, you’re out of your elderly mind, because if you don’t clean them within two hours I’m tossing the fuckers.

3. What’s that on your plate? Give it to me. NOW.

This applies to the dogs mostly, not the cat. She only begs from me, and only ice cream and yogurt. The dogs, on the other hand, will smell a sucker a mile away, and they have GPS on your old butt. If you even look like you’re about to reach for food, they’re on you. Why is that? It’s because of #1 and your actions when you have food. Instead of playing the “Serra’s a meanie” card, instruct them in a firm voice not to beg food and make them go elsewhere. Honey and I have trained them to respond. We spent a long time training them to do this so they won’t act like little Olivers with empty bowls in the orphanage. I do not thank you for fucking (yet again) with things you really should not.

There are many other items in this list, but it can all be summed up thus:

These are not your animals. They are not your animals. You don’t own these furry things. Since you do not own either Zeke, Dani or Desdemona, Honey and I are the law on rules for them.

Not you. Not on a bet.

Start acting like you’re the human and they’re the animals, because that’s the way it really is in the really real world that we live in. I don’t care what world your inner mind lives in, so long as it doesn’t raise my blood pressure. When it comes to my dogs, however, it’s time to wake up and smell the coffee.

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February 17, 2006 at 1:27 pm (The Enlightening Ones, WTF)

I sincerely do not want to know why this was in the bathroom after Garand's shower this morning. I just don't want to think about it. You don't either.

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Short Note to H’sMa

February 13, 2006 at 11:28 am (The Enlightening Ones)

Dear H'sMa,

I'm as helpful as the next girl, and I'm more helpful than a son of yours I could name *coughgarandcough* so it's not a problem for me to do an extra thing or two when I've borrowed your car and am going to bug Honey at work. However, a few issues did present themselves yesterday.

1. Just because I called you on Honey's cell to tell you I was bringing home fish, that wasn't me trolling for you to pay for same, or to pay for anything else that happened to get listed. I only called so you wouldn't put something out to thaw, then promptly leave it out for a week or two once you realized I had supper covered.

2. By the time I picked up the mega-list you socked me with on the phone, I felt like someone had beaten my lumbar spine with a baseball bat. This isn't your fault–people at Meijer's were absolute assbags yesterday. However, when you're fully aware that I'd kill for a Vicodin and no jury would convict me, it's wise to find out who's cooking LONG before 8:00 pm. If I'd known a couple of hours before that, I might have actually been able to EAT that meal I spent $20 to pick up for us. As it stood, however, I got very little potato-crusted cod goodness, because by the time I got done cooking it, I hurt so bad I couldn't sit there and hold the fucking plate.

3. Bitching about the cost of fish you were never asked to pay for after you ate it and sang hosannas about how good it was is horrible form. Again, no one said you were paying for it, you're the one who OFFERED to do so, and I don't think you have a fuck of a lot of room to bitch about it in hindsight.

4. It is especially bad form to do so when I'm upstairs, unable to go back down due to aformentioned pain. Doing so loudly enough for me to hear you in the bathroom over three TVs and a flushing toilet is just plain shitty manners.

5. Have the grace to at least:
a. Have this conversation with me.
b. Put your brain in gear before you open your mouth. Then, when I pimpslap your clueless ass, you'll know how you earned such an honor.

Once more, since you seem to keep forgetting, Honey is not my keeper or my mommy. If you don't like the way I act, there isn't shit he can do about it. For further notes, see January 7th's blog entry, subtitled "Telling your Mommy on me doesn't change anything."

6. Most importantly, if you're just dead-assed set on giving me a list that subjects me to an extra half hour of running around the mosh pit known as Meijer's, give me the whole damned list. There's nothing more frustrating than wishing for a crane to pull your ass from a car because moving feels like a ten-year-old is sitting on your back and kicking your kidneys, only to find you saying, "Oh, good, you're back. I have some groceries to get at Hel*Mouth."

When you say that, I think, "Ah! How wonderful to know that fucking myself out of sex tonight was all worth it! I'm giving Honey a Valentine's Day present that will make him worship the snootch I sit on and I won't be able to let him thank me because you couldn't be arsed to make this eternal pain worthwhile by telling me to get Snacky Cakes and Cheezy Poofs for Garand's lunch! I just love thinking I've saved you a trip out in the cold only to find out I'm not good enough to score Little Debbies for a guy who should have got off his dead ass during the last three days off he had and gotten his own shit."

Perhaps I sound harsh. Perhaps you're feeling wounded by reading this letter. Let me tell you, "wounded" doesn't begin to describe walking out of the bathroom to the sound of you bitching behind my back over things no one asked you to do in the first place, after waiting until after I was in near-unbearable pain to decide to let me know that I was also cooking that food I bought. It sucked. It sucked syphilitic donkey penis.

I don't want it to happen again, so here's what I'm going to do. The next time you start getting bright ideas on the fly, I'm out of it. I won't be shopping, I won't be buying, and I sure as fuck will not be cooking. If you want something like this to happen, it's your baby.

Oh, and one more thing. Fuck you and your offers to pay for the food. I would have appreciated the offers to pay had there been no whining afterwards. You have easily ten times the income I do, and I think your offer to help with it was great. However, the backbiting whining bullshit earns you a hearty FUCK YOU and a sincere wish that you keep your money. Take it in your hands, fold it until it is all sharp corners, and shove it up your candy ass.

Sincerely (oh, you have NO idea how sincerely),
Serra

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I am in Hell

January 17, 2006 at 9:26 pm (The Enlightening Ones, WTF)

H'sMa broke the flask on my press pot–the one present sent to me by my family this past Christmas. When I heard the crash, she told me it was "just a bowl."

I'm in Hell. I'm so furious that I'm nearly speechless.

———–

UPDATE: This might seem pretty minor to some readers, but it's not to me. I treasure gifts, especially ones so well-suited to my needs (in this case, the need for drinkable coffee without having to listen to bitching). Those who know Beo know how much thought he puts into gifts, and with the disappearance of my espresso machine in the move (after asking SPECIFICALLY for it to be one of the first things unpacked and handy) it was especially welcome.

It made matters worse to be told lies about what was broken. Sure, I'd have been mad about being told my press pot's flask was busted, but being told, "Oh, it's just a bowl" and knowing it was a lie immediately just boiled my blood more. I know I must sound like a freakin' two-year-old. My days are filled with dealing with piles of other people's bullshit, and having their malfunctions fuck me over like this is pushing the limits of what I can take.

I have ordered a replacement flask (which HONEY is paying for–he says he'll "get it out of Ma") from the maker, so I'll have it working again in 6-8 days.

The topper here? She has not even said she was sorry for wrecking my gift from my brother.

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SPT: Don’t eat the soup

January 17, 2006 at 10:22 am (Funny Shit, Sock Puppet Theater, The Enlightening Ones)

As we begin Sock Puppet Theatre, once again H'sMa has again taken it upon herself to see how long it will take to piss me off. Yesterday's topic: You need to eat. Keep in mind that anyone who has seen the size of my ass is certain this should never need to be a topic.

H'sMa: So, Serra, whatdayawant for lunch?
Me: Uh, I'm not hungry Ma.
H'sMa: But you need to eat.
Me: Sighs…I'm not hungry.
H'sMa: How about some of the vegetable beef soup I made yesterday?
Me: You mean the stuff in the crock pot?
H'sMa: Yes, certainly–it sure smelled good yesterday, didn't it?

Me contemplates the fact that not only did it smell like ASS yesterday but that the ass soup sat in the crock pot on the counter from the time she turned it off until now, sans refrigeration. Me shudders.

Me: Stepping up the bitch factor in my voice…I said I wasn't hungry Ma.
H'sMa: But you need to eat.

Me gives up. Just sounding bitchy about the subject of food isn't going to work. Me is going to have to 'splain to Loosey why she can't be in the show at the club.

Me: Ma, did you ever put that soup away yesterday?
H'sMa: No, of course not, it's in the crock pot on the counter.
Me: Then it's no good anymore. Things like that need to be refrigerated.
H'sMa: Heavy on the scorn…No it does NOT! It's BEEN cooked, you know.
Me: Yes, Ma, it does. Between the protein and the water, it's a perfect place to grow things that cause food poisoning.
H'sMa: Oh, no it's not, you're just not thinking…
Me: Fine. Eat all you want, but I'm not touching it.
H'sMa: Well! Huffy and dramatic…I make nice food and you…
Me: Refuse to get sick again just to be nice and avoid fighting with you. I'm going upstairs.

Aaaand, scene.

The soup is still sitting on the counter. The guys, notorious for eating anything, have not braved opening the lid. That shit's three days old now. I'm not even lifting that lid to throw it out, at least not without a cattle prod and a cage handy. It's H'sMa's monster; SHE can tame it enough to make it go away.

I'm sticking with things I see come out of cans JUST before I eat them from now on! Fortunately Honey brought home six cans of Campbell's Tomato so I'm good for a week.

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Lessons I wish Had Been Learned #2

January 7, 2006 at 12:36 pm (The Enlightening Ones)

Lesson #2:

Telling your Mommy on me doesn't change anything.

Corollary: Neither does tattling to Honey.

I've done my best to get this one through your (Garand's) head. If you have an issue with something I do or don't do around here you should tell me about it. Don't go running to Mommy when you think I'm not around. This only does two things.

1. It distresses your mother. Perhaps you don't think she has enough to micromanage when she's spending hours staring at me and trying to think of new things for me to refuse to eat , but your assessment is inaccurate. She's kept plenty busy worrying that my plus-sized ass is starving to death in her house, telling the dogs things they simply don't understand, bitching about you when you're not around, and watching Home Shopping Network (so she can ship back what she buys as soon as it gets here). Your inability to discuss your issues except when it will do the least amount of good just gives her more to fuss about. Instead of discussing them with me during the 20 hours a week you spend at work, she waits until Honey gets home and discusses them with HIM. Hence, the corollary to the lesson.

2. You're lousy at actually doing the "Behind Serra's Back" thing. Every time you start in with the, "Don't tell Serra, but.." bullshit you're getting famous for, I'm actually within earshot, even before the 200-decibel whine starts. Yep, that's right, I can hear you throughout most of the house. The loud whining is even easier to hear when your voice's pitch climbs up near that range where only the dogs can hear you.

HINT: When the Beagle starts howling every time you open your mouth, you sound even less like a man than usual.

Grow a pair and talk to ME when shit bugs you–your blood pressure will take a nosedive and perhaps you can quit stuttering every time I talk to you. You know my name too, Garand. Use it once in awhile. Referring to me as "her" while you try to stealth-bitch doesn't raise your stock with me one point. There's people I like a whole lot better than I like you (yep, that'd be you folk who read here) who don't know my name but they've got the nerve to tell me when they disagree.

Side note: Folks, I've tried actually talking to these people about the issues contained in these lessons. The result is a whole lot of fingers in ears and singing "Lalalalala" as they walk thru life. Posting here may not change matters (unless I've got a subconscious desire to be found out posting here, which I suspect may be true), but it does let me vent. Thanks for putting up with it.

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Instant Karma

January 4, 2006 at 11:43 am (The Enlightening Ones, WTF)

I should have known I'd be paid back for gloating over someone else's upset. I should have expected it–after all, I'm the one who wound up the target for discussion in group therapy sessions because I believe heartily in the concept. I had the facilitator pissed for three days. She claimed it was arrogant to believe in karma; I held that the believe that "what goes around comes around" was a basic tenet in most religions and believing in karma was no more arrogant than believing that a Supreme Being exists and He/She/It/They are on the side of their true believers. She gave up, so I took that to mean that I won. She wasn't getting much backup from the group, aside from her normal sycophants, so I was likely right.

Anyhow, my adventures in rehab are another blog's worth of posts, so I'll move on to the point for a change.

WARNING: ICK ALERT. If you've got a weak stomach, simply hit "Next Blog" up there in the corner. I purposely did not make graphic descriptions, but some may consider the post below this oversharing.

Ah, good, you stayed. Proceed.

When last you visited, my two dogs had scarfed FAR more fresh meat than I eat in a month in the space of half an hour. Anyone who has dogs can guess how their bodies reacted. The big dog's body was more pissed off than my Beagle's–she managed to hold it all in until time for walkies while Zeke just couldn't swing it. Honey had told me he'd left a little pile outside the bedroom door. I wasn't upset about it, since I expected at least one accident while their fuzzy forms dealt with the meat they'd snarfed down.

I wasn't prepared for my bedroom last night, not even a little bit. I worked in nursing homes for 8 years, and even that training didn't prepare me for the inside of my bedchamber. I don't know of anything that could.

When I walked in to crash last night, I was greeted by what has to be the worst odor I've ever had the misfortune to encounter. I won't describe it–I'm mean, but I'm not that mad at anyone who reads here, so I'll say it was worse than the time Honey turned a room's air green and leave it at that. I quickly located the source of the stench–seems that little pile in the hall wasn't the only one he'd left.

I'm proud of the boy, though. He landed his huge accident squarely in the middle of the sheet Honey threw on the bedroom floor yesterday morning. If I didn't know better I'd swear the dog aimed it there in retribution for the screaming he had to endure (that wasn't his fault), because the little lardass didn't get a single bit on the bedroom floor. That aroma, however, kicked my veteran-poop-remover's ass in no time flat–I had to yell for Honey to come get it out of there between steps in my mad rush for the upstairs bathroom.

Honey's a little slow on the draw for being such a smart guy–I not only had to yell for him to come up, I had to say "NOW, Honey–I (bleh) can't deal (ick) with…oh, shit EW!" While I exiled myself for some meditation in the presence of the Porcelain God, he dealt with his bedsheet. Surprisingly enough, he didn't yell at the dog, me or anyone else–he just sucked it up and bundled the offending mess for transport downstairs.

Once I'd blasted an ounce of room spray around my bedroom, it was habitable again (no exaggeration–I was using one Melissa made for me last Christmas and I could see in the clear bottle how much I went thru trying to kill the stink), but just barely. I must have checked the floor half a dozen times to assure myself I didn't have stealth shit anywhere else in there.

This morning, Honey had the upstairs bathroom occupied, so I headed downstairs for my morning ablutions. As I took care of this and that, I noticed a garbage bag perched on top of the dirty clothes hamper. Huh? Not another lesson to write about, is it? Surely these people can take a bag of…wait, I know what it is.

That's right–Honey just shoved the crappy sheet into a trash bag and pulled the drawstring tight rather than deal with the mess. As much as I hate admitting that I just can't do something, I was forced to admit that Zeke's poo kicked my ass. Having said that, I don't feel one bit bad about having informed Honey that all present and future doggie accidents are now his problem. I've cleaned up after these dogs since the first time their terrified little asses soiled the beige shag rug at the old house–it's his turn.

After all, what goes around, comes around.

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Bad Dogs?

January 3, 2006 at 7:32 pm (Rant Goodness, The Enlightening Ones, WTF)

Last night’s blogging was difficult for me. It wasn’t difficult because of the subject matter (I’m sorry for all the “EW” reactions but some things just need to be said and no one in this house is listening). I had to make that post and the ones which will follow. It was really hard to blog last night because there was hours upon hours of screeching going on all afternoon and evening. It was all the same ear-splitting phrase, over and over and over.

“Bad DOGGGGGG! BAAAD DOGGGGSSSS!”

So, what did the dogs do to incur everyone’s wrath? They snagged a 3 pound package of hamburger out of a grocery bag left on the floor for two hours, dragged it into H’sMa’s bedroom and had themselves a high-pro party.

Read that again.

MY dogs (they’re suddenly MY dogs when they misbehave) got screamed at by everyone but me for fucking HOURS because they took off with a package of meat that was left sitting ON THE DOG-DAMNED FLOOR. That’s right, it was on the floor for two hours, and three people busted THEIR chops for succumbing to the temptation that THE YELLING PEOPLE laid out for their doggie asses.

Why didn’t I put it away? Because when my back bitched about bending down to the floor to do exactly that, I got the shrill screaming treatment (I made the mistake of allowing a yelp out of my mouth when my leg wouldn’t hold me up, which makes it all my fault, right?). I had two people bitching that I’d even attempted to make sure people ate the food instead of the dogs. What would you do? Damned straight you’d leave it right where it lay.

I did too. I bit my tongue, left the bags right where they’d been left, and went back to killing things standing between me and my favorite dragon. Fuck ’em if one small yip offended them so much. Don’t leave shit in the floor and I won’t be yipping trying to clean it up.

Another half hour later, the shrieking started. “Where’s that hamburger?” “Zeke, you BAAAAD DOGGGGGGG!” “Dani, put that down NOW! Baaadddd DOGGGGGG!” “You two get NO LOVE from Daddy!” Eventually the dogs found that the only room in the house not full of insane noisy humans was the computer room, so I had two dogs looking at me, liquid eyes begging for a kind word. I knew better–if I’d said one word about it not being their fault I’d still be getting yelled at, and so would the dogs. I couldn’t just sit there and watch my Beagle shake like Michael J. Fox either–the whole thing would never have happened if that food had been put where it belonged.

I compromised. After all, the humans were too busy listening to themselves bitch at the top of their vocal ranges to hear two dogs being petted, scritched and loved on. I scritched, I petted, I used my softest voice to tell them it wasn’t their Dog-damned fault the higher life forms were too lazy to put groceries away and too proud to let anyone else do it. I let the dogs know that Daddy would get over this fucking snit before bedtime, or I’d be starting some screeching myself.

I know my dogs didn’t understand my words anymore than they understood the ones being hammered at them by everyone else. It did seem like the tone of my voice did calm them a little, but they looked at me so strangely every time I’d giggle over how mad my fiance and his mother got. I’d snicker. The dogs would eye me suspiciously, as if I were about to join the shriek party. I’d go back to scritching them and watch them relax until another giggle snuck out.

Yeah, I laughed to myself over how mad they were at the dogs, when in fact it was their own lazy damned fault that the dogs were able to reach the meat in the first place. I’m evil, vile, and likely going straight to Hell.

Scritch…scritch…pet…I can live with that.

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Lessons I Wish Had Been Learned Before I Moved Here #1

January 2, 2006 at 8:42 pm (The Enlightening Ones)

As some of you know, back in May my fiance and I moved in with his mom and brother. Contentment levels have been pretty damned low these past months, in part because I’m dealing with a woman who has only shared accomodations with family and a man who’s never been forced to share a damned thing his entire long life short of having his mommy divvy it up and make him like it.

The woman’s position I can understand. She’s over 70 years old, and lived during times where a woman first lived in her parents’ house, moving out only to move in with her brandspankingnew husband. From there it’s the family home until age, illness or death force a move. I don’t see much excuse for the grown man who still has to be told there are other people in the house who occasionally expect to share in that five-pound bag of Chex Mix Honey brought home from work. I know it’s hard to expect a 40-plus man who has never shared his bed with anything but a Keeshond (and now my pushy-bitch cat) to deal with a family member he didn’t know from babyhood…

Wait.

I’m stopping myself on the “excuses for heinous behavior” hedge I’m writing here, because there simply is NO perfectly good explanation for a 40 year old virgin and an elderly woman who never learned boundaries. There just isn’t one and I’m not going to play fucking nicey-pants and hedge what I need to write here.

Lesson 1 I wish they’d learned:

There are things none of us need to see.

It seems so simple to me.

If you’re taking a shit while you’re on stool softeners, just close the door when you go. I don’t need to see you perched on the pot. I was a Certified Nursing Assistant for eight years. During that time I saw all the wrinkled asses I will ever need to in my lifetime, and unless something’s desperately wrong with yours, I don’t want to add to the body count. Shut the damned bathroom door!

In addition, I didn’t leave that can of citrus room spray in there because the aluminum bottles I got were such a decorative addition to your decor. I really, REALLY want you to use the stuff in it! It’s not like I have to harness up the dogsled and haul ass across the tundra to get more. I MAKE this–I developed the blend, I always stock the essential oils, and it smells infinitely better than Eau de Laxative. Use it, use it all, use as much as your stinky butt-products require. I’d be more than happy to refill the bottle, gratis.

Side note: Thanks so very much for asking for a new robe for Christmas. Being flashed because you don’t wear anything underneath a robe with worn-out snaps before I’ve had what passes for coffee here has not helped with my need to heat a fireplace poker and ram it into each eye socket until the gross pictures stop. My shrink’s very concerned about that, but even he has to admit it’s not an abnormal reaction to seeing the naked lower half of one’s mother-in-law-to-be.

If you’ve been running your Interwebnet pr0n machine all afternoon and feel the need for relief, simply go in your room across the hall from ours and close the fucking door. If there’s the slightest chance any of me I’m not intending for public consumption will poke out from under its covering, I shut my own door tight. I’d appreciate it if you’d do the same. It has to do with the creepy feeling associated with the thought of you peeping thru a crack in a not-quite-shut door. Just call it an eccentricity if you really must justify complying with this request. I don’t go around assuming that your passion for images of anything having to do with sex (not exaggerating here–he leaves the CD’s he stores images on around, titled by category, and, um, EW!) means you really want to see my plus-sized, poshly-scented, cellulite-pocked bare ass, and you can trust I have no deep-seated need to ever see yours.

As for your naked fumblings, do keep in mind I’m marrying your brother, and have negative interest in you. I’ve had many years to debate whether or not I’ve chosen the right brother, and my mind’s made up. I like to watch him beat off; the idea of sharing that intimate moment with you makes my skin crawl. The one time Fate forced the vision on me, it ensured that your brother didn’t get any for a week. I will sew you into your fucking ick-assed bedsheets and beat you with an iron skillet if I am ever forced to see your substitute for female companionship ever again! I know how you were raised–overcome it, you repressed dipshit!

In general, my family-in-law, if you’re changing clothes, feeling the need to spray that feminine hygiene stuff on your snootch instead of showering, if you’re actually showering, if you’re peeing, if you’re even just brushing your teeth, shaving in your underwear, or any of the other horrible sights I’ve witnessed since my incarceration here , just shut the Dog-damned door, all right?

No one needs to see that shit.

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Tuesday Morning Quickie

November 29, 2005 at 8:29 am (Daily Dookie, Soaping and Knitting, The Enlightening Ones)

Hi, folks,

This is just a general update, just so you know Silly Scented Serra shits her pants one leg at a time, just like everyone else…

~SMACK~ Get back in the can, YPF–it's not Friday yet!

Anyhow, Project Shining Soap (you know the one–the one where all four of us work together so that I can make soap in the kitchen like I was promised months ago) is progressing a tad faster. I've refused to tell anyone in this house what I want for Christmas until I've poured a moldful of Peach Green Tea, so there's been a little action. I'll keep you updated on progress here. Phase II will be tested the next time Honey brings six grocery bags into the house and I kick his ass if they sit around more than five minutes.

I spent most of the day yesterday trying to get Garand's porn machine working–turns out it was so full of spyware, uncleared caches and in such sick need of a defrag that his widdle puter just wouldn't stay online. He'll be spending his next day off eliminating redundant software. I doubt he'll see max performance ever, since his #1 activity is running around pr0n sites, but hopefully it won't be as bad as it was. In return for giving his pr0n machine so much attention, he lifted a finger around here last night–smacked Honey upside the head for me, just once. Little does he know he's going to be lifting a LOT more than that today when I go ballistic on the kitchen again.

I actually got to do a bit of cooking over the weekend. I made a gallon (literally) of Beer Cheese Soup Saturday. It lasted less than 24 hours, mind you, but I ate very well that whole day. I also started a batch of Kahlua, which looks promising so far but I might have put a tad too many vanilla beans in (I doubled them). We'll see what the final result is. I also filtered out the batch of vanilla extract I've had brewing for the past several months–turned out yummay!! I did an 8 oz batch in an old DiSaronno bottle, so we have plenty for a long time to come. It's much stronger than commercial vanilla, no sugar added, and I find I don't need to use nearly as much.

I'm nearly done with Honey's balaclava. I did manage to get the face hole knitted in right thanks to help from the owner of the website I found the pattern on. Elmore-Pisgah's Black Watch cotton self-striped into a nice but not blinding pattern, so it's looking VERY cool! I'll post pics once it's done–Honey may have to download them out of the camera, but he'll love his burglar mask so much that I shouldn't have to kick him in the ass more than twice. Evil Science Chick's stitch markers worked wonderfully–easy to use, no snags on the yarn or the knit, and I still want to make earrings out of them.

I've also been working on another washcloth order, in and between doing some for Katrina survivors. The group I'm working with has sent out over 1300 to shelters around the country. I have a boxful that I haven't sent yet but think I'm going to send along with some quilt squares I did for Squares 4 Survivors. I've had to set the squares aside for now, until the balaclava's done and Christmas is a little more in the bag, but I'll be picking them up again soon.

I'd write more, but there's only so much anger I can write down before you all catch onto the idea that I've lost my mind in more ways than I want to admit here. I'm going to just say that the happiest I'll have been in a long time will be the day we move back into our own place, if our relationship lasts that long. Between not having my own place for the first time in many, many years, having no car and being so voiceless (much as I'd love to tell everyone off, I have no choice but to live here and I can't let my mouth get me kicked out) I'm not sure I wouldn't have already packed the car and left all this if I were able to.

As I write this, the most perceptive life form in the house jumped into my lap and demanded scritches, so I'm going to go kill things over at http://www.pqcomp.com and pet my cat and hope I feel better sometime soon.

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SPT: One Less

November 27, 2005 at 8:26 pm (Sock Puppet Theater, The Enlightening Ones)

Cast: SSS, H'sMa in Kitchen. Honey in living room, having a post-work veg-out. Garand upstairs; you don't want to know what he's doing since he had the porn machine running constantly all day downloading…you don't want to know.

SSS: Contemplating yet another box separated from the long endless parade of boxes scattered throughout the house…Is anyone romantically involved with the box we got Turkey Killin' Day Dinner in?
H'sMa: Nope.
SSS: Good. Means I don't have to wait around for someone to kiss its ass goodbye. She tears it apart and it joins its broken-down mates, awaiting garbage pickup.

And…scene.

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Little Old Lady Logic

November 21, 2005 at 2:24 pm (The Enlightening Ones)

This one has bitten me in the ass far too often in the last six months, so it's rant time.

First, get yourselves comfy, folks–go get a latte, something to munch, and settle back. It's been brewing awhile so it's going to be long.

Ready?

Exasperated sign…then get ready. Sheesh! You should know better than to think I'm fucking kidding here.

OK. Here we go.

Over the past six months a phenomenon has been making my life a screaming hell–Little Old Lady Logic. Little Old Lady Logic is the thing that goes on in a 60+ year old person's head that makes them think all their actions are perfectly fine, showing no signs of mental decrepitude or dementia, but which in fact highlight the fact that they should be strapped to rocking chairs unless accompanied by a younger adult smart enough (and large enough) to take away their car keys when the time comes.

I've been a victim of LOL Logic more times in the last six months than I have fingers, toes, breasteses, and pubic hairs .

YOU–stop trying to count my pubic hairs–that's Honey's job and he gets cranky when someone else fills in.

Anyhow, last night was the topper–once again supper sucked. While I'm getting used to this, and in defense of it I've taken to stashing Pop Tarts and Doritos in my room, last night's incident was avoidable. I actually caught it right in the act, tried to put a stop to it, and fell victim anyhow because I wasn't forceful enough to prevent it from happening. Before you criticize me, though, email me a picture of you smacking an old lady upside the head with a baseball bat, because that's the only thing I did NOT try last night!

I was taking a break from my favorite version of Kill-Maim-Dismember when I noticed H'sMa trying to read a measuring pitcher. She had some milk in it, but was tilting it to read the measurements. I pointed out that she was tilting it and wouldn't get a correct measurement that way.

"I know I'm tilting it, it's the only way I can read it."

"Try using your other, readable, pitcher."

"I like this one."

"But you can't read it and you're going to get too much of whatever you're measuring."

"No I won't."

Since I absolutely REFUSE to sit and play "Yes you will–No I won't" with a septugenarian, I let it go for a minute and headed to the bathroom. This gave me a few minutes to picture yet another totally shitty supper, which I would end up feeding to Honey rather than throwing it the fuck out like I would want to, plate and all, so once I'd pulled up my pants I'd decided to give it another whirl.

"When you tilt the container the level isn't right in the pitcher and you'll get too much in the mix"

"No I won't–I know I'm tilting it."

Stopping the video…There's the LOL Logic in action. Right there. She's tilting the container, knows she's tilting the container, hence she'll get the measurement right because she knows what she's doing. See that–right there–where she totally misses that she won't have the correct measurement because she never looks at a level liquid measurement?

Restarting the video, we watch H'sMa set the pitcher down, add milk, lift it, tilt it, then shake her head. Once again she sets the pitcher down, adds milk, then tilts it again to see if she finally put enough in. We note that when the pitcher's level there appears to be about 2 cups inside; when tilted the milk hits the 1/2 cup mark.

Rather than risk jail time over the irrepressible urge to beat her with the pitcher, I decide to go back to my game and hope she catches her mistake (yeah, the one she's making, I told her she's making, but "No, she's not" making).

Half an hour passes, and H'sMa brings me a bowl of beef stew and biscuits. I smile, thank her, then wait for her to get the hell away from me before I look at the biscuit. The top is nearly burned, but the bottom is the expected gooey, undercooked, hideously gross mass I knew I'd get.

I take the bowl to Honey, swap it for his empty plate, ignore his questions about the meal, and with remarkable restraint take myself back to the computer room, snagging a piece of paper towel to cry into. I was fucking HUNGRY last night.

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Random Brain Dump

September 14, 2005 at 1:04 pm (Daily Dookie, Other Bloggers, The Enlightening Ones)

This is sort of a random brain dump…bear with me, it should be amusing.

For those who wonder just what exactly goes on in my head, it should answer your questions.

*Dog, I'm sick of listening to the bickering. Today's bitch session is over Honey's new project. H'sMa and H are debating whether or not the project is finished. Like either of them knows how it's going to come out since Honey's never done it before.

*The project? Why, how nice of you to ask! It's making beef jerky, dried between furnace filters bungee-corded to a box fan. It didn't get dry last night so Honey's got it in the oven at 170, said temperature taking a 10 minute debate to arrive at. The debate was settled when it was discovered that the lowest setting for the oven was, oh yes, 170.

*I'm sick of having dried meat shoved in my face, oh boy am I ever! It's not the fun, live, meat that so many of us treasure (men) and so many of us get that special, wiggling-in-the-snootch craving for (some men, some women–yeah, I know men don't have snootches, but some of you get that craving just the same). No–it's furnace-filter and oven-dried hot beef that really should be teriyaki flavored if you want me to go apeshit over it.

*Telling me how much you're saving on prescriptions BEFORE I've had coffee is not the way to get me to go "ooh" and "ahh" over it. How about waiting at least until I get a sip or two in?

*ACW had a great post Friday about commenting on blogs. We all are bemoaning the fact that our blogs don't have the volume or the comments they do in the wintertime, but I like that ACW did something about it. So leave comments, instead of just your IP addresses on hit counters.

*MooCow is criminally insane and has too much time on his hands, but I like his ideas in this post. Honey didn't like the idea of mounting a flamethrower on Baby, but I've got a LAW rocket launcher on my birthday wish list.

I have more, but it'll be a longer post so I'm ending this one. I'm just full of it today, yes I am.

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It’s been a day

September 12, 2005 at 9:28 pm (Daily Dookie, The Enlightening Ones)

This has been a day. Not MY day, mind you, but a day. Here's the highlights:

* There is nothing like waking up shrieking because you rolled over and your back decided you shouldn't have, really you shouldn't have. It announced its decision somewhere around 6 am. I think it's time to go back on continuous meds–even if I had room to work I couldn't anyhow.

Then, after a couple of fruitless hours trying to persuade my back that moving around would actually help it feel better (it didn't believe me and continued to protest), I gave up and spent most of the morning knitting, then trying to nap. Just as I finally settle down for a fitful snooze and a truly annoying dream, what happens?

*HONEY decides I shouldn't be sleeping, I should instead be poised to sprint to my computer, so that within seconds I can either be emailing his resume or printing him a pretty copy. You read that correctly, folks–I woke up from a dream where Honey just could not leave me the fuck alone or give me a moment's peace to him not leaving me alone or giving me a moment's peace…

Me: Uh, Honey? Which are you going to need–email or hard copy?
Him: Um….
Me: Patiently waiting. Patient waiting lasts 3 seconds. Fuck that in the ass without lube. Not-so-patient waiting ensues for the rest of a full minute.
Him: I don't know yet. She hasn't called me back.
Me: You don't know how she wants your resume sent, or even if she wants it sent, but you HAD to wake my quietly snoring ass up? Why?
Him: What were you doing asleep anyhow?
Me: Making up for the fact that I screamed myself awake at 6 am!
Him: Suddenly has nothing to say.

*The irritation grows when he announces that he's unable to reach the person he needs to send the resume to, so could I just send her an email (from an address she's never heard of before) with his resume attached (like no one cares about computer virii anymore and will just hurt themselves in their rush to open an attachment from someone they don't know) so she's got it when she decides to reopen the lines of communication (or just delete the fucker like most people would).

*Supper was the most overcooked steak I have ever seen in my life. I saw this meat before it was immolated–it was yummy, juicy, nicely-marbled and hadn't done one damned thing to deserve being sacrificed to the god Holdupyerhand HereswhereIliveinMI. And it was cut up for me, much like I used to cut Biskie's food when she was tiny. I hate that–not only can I cut my own damned steak, but when you cut it all at once it gets cold before you're done eating it. The plate rested on a hot burner on a ceramic-cooktop stove during the unnecessary carving, and that fucker burnt the shit out of my unaware hand when I picked it up.

*I looked at my fantasy football team's roster. Seems Bufflepup and Javon Walker have something in common–both of them have torn ACL's and won't be playing football this fucking season. Bufflepup isn't on my roster. Fucking Javon IS. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

One nice thing happened today:

*Honey most carefully did not gloat about the Lions win over my precious, sacred Pack yesterday. He's a smart man, who doesn't want to be sewn into his own bedsheets and beaten with his own cast-iron skillet.

I think he chose wisely.

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I wonder what…

September 9, 2005 at 10:22 pm (The Enlightening Ones, WTF)

…root beer scented soap tastes like? I have two bars, the very last of my own soap on hand. Right now I'm tempted to eat one. You see, something odd has happened to some of the food stashed in H'sMa's chest freezer out in the garage. Occasionally something will come out that smells slightly like gasoline. Tonight's disaster was the worst, hands down.

H'sMa made spaghetti for supper–normally a joy for me, because Honey hates sketti and I love it, so I don't get it often. I got my bowlful, then slathered the stinky-feet cheese on top, and dug into a yummy-looking meatball. I chewed a couple times, then stopped and put the fork down. The meatball in my mouth tasted like a brand-new marinade–that $3.00 a gallon shit they pump down at the Sunoco on the corner.

Ah shit, not again. The last two nights my stomach wouldn't handle the meat selection for the night's supper, so I feasted on small amounts of side dish and dealt with it. Looks like tonight I don't even get a side dish.

This presented a problem–I can't stand most hot dogs, so H'sMa decided to make sketti tonight instead of her original plan. So, she's already changed the menu on my account for tonight. How the blue hell do I tell her I can't eat tonight either? She's either going to be mad (I'm getting used to it but the tic in my eyelid is back and we've already had me putting my foot down once tonight) or hurt. How do I explain what I'm about to dump–

My dilemma was suddenly solved by Honey making a mad dash for the bathroom. I have never seen that man EVER spit out anything he has EVER voluntarily put in his mouth, but he did it tonight–loudly. He followed it up right after I asked where the meatballs came from with, "They came out of the garage, didn't they? They taste like gasoline!"

H'sMa pitched the offending din-din, Garand scavenged himself some hot dogs, Honey got something or other. Ma actually ate the spaghetti–said it tasted fine to her! I worry about that woman…

Me? Oh, I'm sitting here with a Ron White routine about his wife's cooking running thru my head. Seems the dog ate her food, then sat down and licked his ass.

Wife: "What's he doin?"
Ron: "Looks like he's trying to get the taste out of his mouth."

Hm…that soap sure smells exactly like root beer…

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Fer Crying Out Loud

August 30, 2005 at 11:56 am (The Enlightening Ones)

It's Tuesday, and the day's off to an annoying start:

  • The daily bitching has already gone into full gear. It seems that the well's water tank needs more air and the one person who's ever put air in a well water tank will not even look at it. Instead he's upstairs doing whatever his strange ass does, while Honey is down attempting to mess with it while H'sMa rags and nags from up here.
  • I thought I heard a jet landing behind the house. It turns out that it's only the biggest riding lawnmower I've ever seen, driven by one of the drunks next door. It's big enough to chew up both of their kick-me dogs (the little shit factories that think their own lawn is too good to poo on) so there's always hope for the hopelessly lawn-addicted.
  • I'm pretty much fenced into the computer area thanks to Honey leaving things I can't move on my own behind my chair while he tinkers with the above well. I don't dare try to move the chair because sure as shit someone will bitch about it.
  • The beagle goes to the vet's today–she broke off a dewclaw back in June and it's curling and growing into the pad of her paw. Yay, since she hates car rides with a passion and will pee all over me during the fun trip there and back. Yippee.
  • I'd dearly love to get some food, but since the dishwasher isn't a built-in model and it's running, I can't reach anything but coffee, which I've had my limit of already.

And it's just barely noon…

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