Filed under: bits and pieces, childhood, dogs!, family, Good grief | Tags: Home and hearth, Kids, Spouse
The trip to the grocery store…oy vey. It was Big Groceries, too, a whole buggy full. I was nearly checked out, maybe 5 items left, and…the cash register computers died. All of them. The cashier said “uh boy…last time this happened it was 3 hours. You might want to just unpack your bags (I use cloth totes for myriad reasons) and reshop later.” So that’s what I did. And it has been discombobulating, because all day yesterday I would set out to do something and think “Oh yeah! I have (this thing I bought this morning) and can do this!” only I didn’t. Even supper turned into Default Dinner due to confusion about what I had and what I didn’t. So I am going to try again this morning. If it happens again, I’ll go to a different store.
Ok, this morning Terry and I were sitting there, having coffee, and he recalled an event of 20 years ago that was hilarious then and still is today.
Will, age 4
The dog (I don’t even remember which one)
The setting: In the living room of our house in South Alabama. The dog is asleep, Terry and Will are just muddling around.
Will: “I am going to go piss in the dog’s ear.”
Terry: “um…..what do you mean?”
Will: “You know, go up to her and go ‘psssst’ in her ear.”
Filed under: *whinge*, cat, Disease and infirmity, dogs! | Tags: arthritis, cats, Dachshunds, hurricane, In the Southland, Oversharing
Isaac isn’t anywhere near us. It’s way over there approaching the Mississippi delta (good grief and they aren’t fully recovered from Katrina yet, bless their hearts.)
And yet, my arthritis…it’s like…some kind of psychosomatic thing. I hear “hurricane” and go to aching. If we lived where we used to live in South Alabama, I could see it. When Opal and Alphonse (or whatever it’s name was) rolled over us I was (even at the tender age of early 30′s) pretty much incapacitated for a few days. Motrin, heating pads, frozen lasagna and a telescoping stick with which to smack the kids so I didn’t have to move (also, soft slippers to throw at them. My aim is wicked accurate). The boys were early elementary age back then and required swift justice.
But here? We don’t get them much here. Either they hit land way south or further north. But just mention it and suddenly the hands and feet, wrists and ankles, and that @%&*! left shoulder all commence to sounding like Yosemite Sam on a bender.
Feel sorry for me yet? You should.
I have Things To DO! However, y’know what? I am going to do them anyway. Shit’s gonna hurt, whether I am sitting in my comfortable recliner watching Grey’s Anatomy on Netflix, or ambling through the grocery store, picking up Velveeta and jalapenos for Terry’s football party on Thursday. It will get done.
With complaining. Oh yes, you can betcher sweet bippy I am going to be vociferous in my complaints, and even milk it all a bit for getting work out of people. Why SHOULD I have to do all this stuff (which I am normally quite capable and even cheerfully willing to do) when there are several able-bodied males who eat the food and use the laundry (once in a while, when they run completely out of clothes) who can do it for me?
This morning is Grocery Day, with a merry trip to the store and a trunk full (you know, a Beetle’s trunk is much larger than you’d think. It’s just the opening that is ridiculously small) of provisions. I am HOPING that someone will be awake and functional when I get home, and can carry everything in. I love it when that happens.
(Pardon while I pause briefly to bellow at the 13 year old,who is half an hour late getting downstairs to do his morning chores, which aren’t as onerous as usual because someone forgot to run the dishwasher last night. I swear you’d think he had to shovel the barn and milk the cows, with all this stalling he does. His morning chores are: feed the dogs, take out the trash, empty the dishwasher…which he doesn’t have to do this morning. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.)
So, in the interest of being cheerful and Suzy Sunshine, here are some cute pictures of my animals.
Filed under: aaawwwww, dogs!, family, food, Good grief, I feel so smart!, In The Southland, oh you self indulgent hussy! | Tags: Being Southern, Coping mechanisms, Dachshunds, Oh for pete's sake, What.
So. Yesterday was full of consequences. (before you worry, no one died, no relationships were ended, and actually this post has nothing to do with anything related to the last 2 posts)
I wear aprons around the house. I am a messy person and wearing a full coverage apron allows me to only wear one change of clothes a day. My aprons always have deep pockets. The one on the left gets bits and pieces of trash that I pick up, and gets emptied several times a day. The one on the right carries my phone and reading glasses. This Is How It Is Done. I also did laundry yesterday, and that included washing the week’s worth of aprons. Monday’s apron somehow didn’t get emptied before washing. As I was removing everything from the dryer, I discovered a very clean and bent to heck pair of reading glasses. “Well,” I thought. “I wonder if I bought the warranty for them. Probably not because I don’t usually have the best judgement when it comes to stuff like that”. A trip to the optician and resulting assurances that I, in an uncharacteristic fit on common sense, DID buy the warranty and they still had those frames in stock so 10 minutes later, I had a a new pair of reading glasses. I needed to go to the store anyway…because…
I had plans to make this ridiculously easy chicken salad for dinner. Seriously…no cooking not even any chopping. However, it requires chow mein noodles- those delicious little fried things that look like dessicated earthworms. Since I was there anyway, I got a bag of noodles. Then I though “hey, self…since you were so smart to get that warranty, you deserve a Treat.” I love Ruffles chips and that onion dip you make from a carton of sour cream and a bag of onion soup mix. O How I Love That Stuff. So, I bought some. A big bag of chips so it could be shared with the Summer Household. And I ate it. So delicious! Not a petite portion either. You know how the thing on the back calls a portion size 2 tablespoons? Is that realistic? No it is not. Not when you love that stuff. Now, as a No Longer 20 Year Old With A Cast Iron Digestive System, I suffered consequences. I knew I’d have them and did not care. And have them I did. I warned Terry, but did not feel guilt, because he has his own issues with hot wings. Sometimes the consequences are worth it.
We have a dog. He name is Rusty (actually we have 4 dogs but this story is mainly about him). He is one year old, and a male wirehaired dachshund. Like most male dogs, he’s loyal to a fault, and Protects Me From Danger. Even though he only weighs 10 pounds. Last night Terry and I were sitting outside, enjoy a late evening adult beverage and commenting on the weather. It is what people do in the Deep South. “It sure is humid tonight.” That sort of thing. Now, we live on a golf course. Our yard is fenced. Every evening at 7:30, a dog and his person, that live on the 12th hole (we are midway down the par-4 10th hole), walk past our fence. All 4 dogs find it necessary to vociferously remind that dog and his person (the dog is a stately old golden retriever) that they (our dogs) are Very Dangerous Indeed and He’d Better Watch Out and If It Weren’t For The Fence There Would Be Carnage. Satisfied that the old dog was sufficiently reminded of his rank in the scheme of things, 3 of the 4 dogs came back to us. We didn’t see Rusty, but didn’t think much of it, assuming he was molesting a golf ball or something. Then we heard mournful wailing. A sad, sad song that alarmed us. It was not the yelping and squealing of pain, but the angst of a broken spirit. We saw Rusty standing in the back of the yard, and called to him. He didn’t move, but was obviously alive because his tail wagged. What we discovered was that, in the excitement of the golden retriever’s evening constitutional, Rusty got his head stuck in the fence. He wasn’t hurt, but was unable to get loose. We laughed, Terry took pictures with his phone, and then we got him loose, no worse for the event.
Now for the ridiculously easy chicken salad, because you know you want to know:
The meat from the other 1/2 of the rotisserie chicken you bought on Sunday, chopped OR 2 cans of chicken, drained
1 can each bamboo shoots, sliced water chestnuts, bean sprouts and baby corn, drained
1 bag of shredded cole slaw mix from the produce section
1/2 cup Asian Sesame Dressing (the bottled stuff)
1/2 cup mayonnaise
A bag of chow mein noodles, or a can of those rice noodles (like chow mein noodles but smaller) either one is fine
Maybe some toasted almond slivers
Mix the chicken and vegs together in a big bowl
Mix together the mayo and salad dressing, pour over the salad and mix together.
Sprinkle the noodles and almonds on top.
See, no cooking.
Filed under: Dewicate feewings, Disease and infirmity, dogs!, family, He'p meh He'p meh Oh Lawzy He'p meh, home and hearth, I feel so smart! | Tags: solving personal problems
I’m getting a new fridge. I’ve never had a side-by-side before. Never had an icemaker, either. Now I’m getting both! I’m so fancy! They’re supposed to show up late morning. I am happy that Will will be here, because I have have issues with being a woman alone at home and men-types showing up and coming inside. Call me old fashioned but there it is. Will said he’ll stand in the kitchen with my 14 inch butcher knife and growl at them.
Poor Puppy Rusty/ That Little Shit has a solution. He has had to wear a Cone of Shame because he’d gnaw on the cast on his leg. However, TCoS is awkward and makes it difficult for him to get a drink unless the water bucket is completely full. Also, he likes to sleep on the bed, and has inexplicably decided the best way to sleep is to snuggle up next to Terry. Which is difficult whilst wearing TCoS. So, last night while I was laying on my back, wide awake (about 3am) I decided what he needed was a sock to cover his splint, something tough. Denim. I have many scraps of denim. So, this morning (feeling smug at my ability to come up with a solution) I made a well fitting denim sleeve-sock that covers the splint and he cannot pull it off or chew through it. go me! And he is MUCH happier at being out of the Cone of Shame.
I was wide awake at 3am because 2 minutes earlier, I tried to turn over and heard a *CRUNCH* in my upper back, right between the shoulders. I saw white, felt nauseous, and decided the best thing to do was lay there and not move at all. Then I thought about solutions to various small problems and came up with the denim sock concept.
David, bless his heart, didn’t have a class until 9, and took #4 to school for me, while I sat in the recliner, sipping coffee and waiting for the motrin to start working. With a heating pad on my back that feels like Jesus might be giving me a back rub. Will has agreed to pick #4 up at 3. Good men, they are.
There’s a hutch in the kitchen It had to be moved over a couple of inches to make room for the new fridge, which is 2-1/2 inches wider than the old one. It holds lots of stuff. Yesterday Terry instructed me to empty it then have the boys pick it up and move it over, as the legs wouldn’t hold up to sliding over. So I emptied it, then decided I didn’t want to wait for the boys to be available to move it, and moved it myself. Which broke on of the back legs. Way to go, Rootie, see what happens when you disobey someone who nearly always knows what he’s talking about? So, today I am going to empty it again (with the boys help) and have them carry the hutch outside, and see about repairing the broken foot. I do not want my disobedience to mean lost fun time for Terry. Sorry, hon…you were right.
My Poor Puppy Rusty, (that’s his name now, to be referred to as “PPR)…he has a broken foot. 3 metatarsals in his front left foot, with nice clean breaks, not displaced (thank goodness, that would have required surgery and pins). The vet showed me the xray, and said he’d put a splint on it. It’s a neat little cup thing that fits over his foot and up the back of his leg, held in place with purple-with-blue-spots bandages. He got a doggie valium for the splinting, and was grooving on it when I picked him up.
“What? No Auburn logo bandage?” I exclaimed.
::blink:: he responded, and quietly pointed to the University of Georgia Veterinary degree hanging on the wall.
“oh well,” I said. “Nobody’s perfect.”
He turned to his office manager and said “Please give this client the Auburn University Special Price.”
“Yessir, Dr. Gary!” she chirped.
Turning to me she said “That’s $260, but with the AU Price, you only have to pay $800, half now and half in 2 weeks!”
I turned to Dr. Gary and said “You know, my father taught at the UGA Vet school for 9 years.”
He said “Why didn’t you say so?” and told his office manager “UGA prices please!”
She rolled her eyes at both of us and said “That’s $190, payable over 4 months, and you get a free packet of Dawg Biskits”
Poor Puppy Rusty is now in the dog bed,gnawing on a chunk of leg bone, The other dogs are perched around him, like a trio of vultures, waiting for him to choke on the bone so one of them can grab it.
PPR is a Flea Magnet. That is a special type of dog that, for some reason, fleas are more attracted to than typical. Since we got him, there have been very few fleas on the other dogs (even without the normal weekly shampoo or dip) and he requires a bath every other day, and is STILL covered up with the a few hours later. I mean, really, 100 fleas on this poor thing. So, I figured he needed something more effective. Dr Gary put him on Comfortis, kind of pricey for 4 dogs (at $18 a month per dog), but he felt like, given PPR’s body chemistry, maybe just putting him on it would work. He’ll keep them off the other dogs, and when the fleas get on him they die. So, 4 hours after giving him the tablet (once a month like heartworm stuff), I checked him over and found some fleas…BUT…they were all DEAD! Awesome
The Next Day
He shall now be known as That Little Shit (or TLS).
You see, the veterinarian, Dr. Gary, prescribed TLS some pain pills. Nothing strong, he assured me, just something to help, an NSAID, like Doggie Motrin (dogs can’t take real Motrin, it will shut their kidneys down).
“Give him some at bedtime, it will help him sleep comfortably”
phphpht. Give him some at bedtime. It will help him sleep comfortably. My aunt’s ass.
Rusty, That Little Shit. I gave him the pill and he seemed to start seeing things. He was laying on the bed, then sat straight up and was looking around, really alert, like he was following a fly through the air. I didn’t see a fly. Then he started wiffling at the fly.
I decided ok, maybe if I turned out the light he wouldn’t see anything.
So I did, and he laid down, continuing to wiffle.
Eventually he settled down and (I thought) went to sleep.
This was 11 pm. Later than my normal bedtime of 9pm, but hey, I was gonna get to sleep in the next morning!
At 1am, he started barking softly and hopping around on the bed.
Great, I thought. He has to use the feckin’ bathroom. I put him on the pee pad, conveniently located in our bathroom. He ran to the door and tried to crawl under it.
Great, I thought. Suddenly he’s developed manners and only wants to pee outside. So I took him downstairs, across the house, and outside. He hopped around the patio, located a golf ball and brought it to me.
He wants to play fetch. At 1am. That little shit.
I said O Hell NO, and took him back to bed.
He laid down and appeared to go to sleep.
2:30am, same thing.
4:20am. Same thing. This time I have the bright idea to get the other dogs out of their crates, to keep him company. I do this, give them all some food, and open the door so they can go outside if they want to.
They don’t want to.
They (all 4 of them) crowd at the bottom of the stairs (there’s a gate there to keep them from coming up) and yodel their disapproval at my absence.
Finally, at 5:15, I came downstairs with a pillow, and got in the recliner to sleep, and slept undisturbed until 9:30. I woke up to find TLS attempting to remove his cast, so was able to get some deep and somewhat sadistic pleasure at snapping The Cone of Shame around his neck. I am also contemplating his lovely curly buff colored fur coat, and how nice it would look as a collar on a tweed cloak.
Ok I had this dream last night. It wasn’t the least bit disturbing, in fact was somewhat entertaining but with annoying elements.
I was on top of a a plateau, like a butte sort of thing with steep cliffs on 3 sides and a smooth grassy slope on the 4th side. I was sitting at a small folding table, like the one I had as a child, and on the table was a plate full of piping hot biscuits and cornbread muffins. I have a big lump of butter and was buttering up those biscuits and cornbread, excited to have something delicious for a snack!
Then a helicopter flies overhead! And another one! One of them is a gunship, all bristling and mean looking. It lands first and a bunch of soldiers dressed in blue uniforms with white helmets and (??) white guns jump out and establish a perimeter while the second helicopter that looks like the one the President flies in lands inside the perimeter. One of the soldiers walks over to me while I am buttering a cornbread muffin and tells me I have to leave.
“But my muffins! My biscuits! They’re hot and the butter is melting and I am hungry!” I cry.
“I am sorry, ma’am, but you have to leave right now.”
I am not happy because all along I thought this was MY butte and my house is right there at the bottom of the slope and how DARE they interrupt my snack!
But I leave anyway, grumping the entire time. I do not know why I didn’t take the plate of muffins and biscuits with me, but I left them on the table and went to my little house.
When I got there, I noticed my vegetable garden needed weeding and the white picket gate was hanging a little crooked.
Then a Senator (I don’t know which one, they’re all the same anyway) arrived, with a cadre of the blue uniformed soldiers, and we had a chat about organic gardening. Then he left.
I decided to get my biscuits and muffins anyway, even if i had to be sneaky about it. So I put harnesses on my 4 dogs (Sally, a rat terrier we had for about 2 weeks in 1993; Lucy, a pointer we had for 10 years from 1994 to 2004, when she died of old age; a golden lab we’ve never had, and a cocker spaniel we’ve also never had) and I went to the cliff side of the butte and started climbing, straight up that cliff with the dogs scrabbling along behind me. Sally the rat terrier climbed over my head and reached the top first. Then the golden lab retriever pushed me from behind. Lucy tried, but was too old to make it and I told her to wait at the bottom, likewise the cocker spaniel.
We were very near my table of snacks, and I was hopeful that they were still warm. Sally the terrier bounced over to the soldiers and distracted them while I ate a muffin and gave the golden lab a biscuit. They were indeed still warm! The soldiers came over and told me I had to go back down the way I came up, and I said I would leave as soon as I was finished with my muffin.
Then I woke up.
Here’s what I think about this dream:
I love buttered bread. Buttered bread is bad for me, especially when I’d like to lose 50 pounds.
The butte/plateau represent my life, and the comfortable place I am in right now.
The helicopters and soldiers represents The Food Police, or perhaps my subconcious, which is trying to tell me to put the biscuit DOWN.
The Senator is my brain making up an excuse (other than biscuits) for there to be a helicopter.
The weedy garden and crooked gate are the aspects of my life that could use some improving.
The climb up the cliff is my selfish side, that is resenting being told what to do (PUT DOWN THE BISCUIT) and will go to any lengths to do what I damn well please.
Lucy(the pointer) was an extremely sweet tempered dog, and she shows up in my dreams frequently. It is comforting to see her there, as if she’s telling me she’s doing great.
I don’t know why Sally (the terrier) was there. Usually when a dog is in my dreams it’s either Lucy or Rosy (the wee dachshund we had to put down a couple of years ago. I still tear up when I think of her.)
We’re at that peculiar time of year, where it’s a little bit cool to leave the windows open all the time, yet it’s too warm by midday to have the heat on, and I want to wear a sweater but it’s too warm, but in just a shirt I’m too cool.
And no, I don’t like taking it off after I’ve put it on. And I don’t like wearing layers.
And there goes the puppy, trotting around the corner with a pair of socks in his mouth…
where was I?
Oh yeah…sweaters and stuff. We left the windows open last night,because I like a house that’s cool at night, the better for snuggling under a blanket, but this morning after Terry and David left and I was there all alone, I got cold. The thermostat was reading 60 (inside) and the thermometer outside said 46. So I closed all the windows and turned on the heat. Only the dogs smell funny, and in that heat (set on 70, not too hot, I thought) it was even worse.
Lily has bad breath, Daisy is always gnawing on Lacy so they both smell weird, and Russell Sprout, the puppy, has a yeast infection in his ears so he smells like old cheese. And they always want to be right near wherever I’m at so I get to smell all that. Ew.
where was I?
Oh yeah…the weather. that’s not to say it’s unpleasant. Oh no, it’s perfectly gorgeous outside. clear as the proverbial bell, not a cloud to be seen, and stellar for driving with the top down on the car. With seatwarmers. O yes, the pinacle of self indulgent luxury. The only thing that could improve it would be a built in espresso machine and Terry in the passenger’s seat, making hot mochachinnos.
I cannot decide if the windows should be opened tonight or not. The extra blanket on the bed is always welcome, but the cold in the morning makes it mighty hard to roll out of it at 5:30am. tho hot coffee helps.
So the whole Homer Affair was pretty awful. I won’t say it’s as bad as it gets, because my children are all alive and healthy, no one is starving, no one has been abducted into sexual slavery in Thailand. (my mind knows no limits when it comes to thinking up awful scenarios)
However, it was pretty awful nonetheless.
In response to it all, Terry (bless him) called the breeder we got Homer from (Porth Kennels, y’all… if you ever want a miniature dachshund GO THERE), the veterinarian where we got the Sentinel, and my father (a retired veterinarian), to let everyone know what happened.
I think I said that in the last post.
Anyway…Missy Porth, in an incredible act of generosity, offered us another puppy. Yesterday we made the drive to Lexington, SC and picked out Rusty, half brother to Homer.
If Homer was Homersaurus Rex, Rusty is a Rustyplodicus. Ok, no more comparisons.
Why did Terry name him Rusty? After his favorite race car driver, the now retired Rusty Wallace. Other names that were considered: Harry (he was Harry about for about an hour), and an assortment of Teutonic names like Beowulf, Otto, and Heinz. Thor was considered for about 30 seconds. I called him Grover once, when I couldn’t remember Rusty. I do that with everyone and every thing, having a terrible memory for names.
He and Terry watched the race last night. The dog sprawls. Back legs behind, forelegs to the side, belly flat on the cool floor. He nibbles, too. He ate kibbles like popcorn, watched the race, and WENT INTO THE YARD to do his business! none of this puppy “whatever wherever” stuff.
He is a POLITE litte fella. Terry put his bed on the floor next to ours last night, and threw a used t-shirt over him. He promptly went to sleep until about 2am, when Terry heard “um…excuse me please, I don’t mean to be a bother but I’m kind of lonely down here.” and he picked him up and Rusty mooched around on the bed for a few minutes, then snuggled in and went back to sleep. Terry put him back in his own bed, where he slept on until about 6, when he woke up, peed ON THE PAD NOT THE FLOOR (stunning!)and asked to get back in bed with us.
The 3 Old Maids seems to kinda sorta like him Ok, I guess. Even the cats aren’t acting like we’ve tried to introduce them to Beezelbub. No (ok not much) hissing, poofing of tails, or panicking.
And I am totally paranoid about putting him outside without me being there to watch closely. I haven’t figured out what to do this morning for church,but I’ll work something out.
They do not like the rain. It makes them lazy(er) and bossy(er) and noisy(er). The brown one, Lily, is already constantly making some kind of gross noise, burping and farting and slurping gulpy nasty grunty noises that people think “oh that’s so funny” until you have to listen to it constantly then I just want to bop her on the head and tell her to STOP. Sometimes I do, and she does, after giving me an accusing stare for a few seconds, as if to say “if I were a human I’d have nicer parents than you” and I tell her “you’re a dog and here by my pleasure and it doesn’t please me to listen to you slurp and fart all day long.”
The cats aren’t fond of the rain either. Phleud has sense enough to determine that it will soon rain, and come on inside. Gracie chooses to wait until the evidence of rain is irrefutable, then bursts through the pet door, spitting and hissing and cursing a blue streak. She’ll then spend the next hour or so informing the inhabitants of the household of her extreme displeasure and possibly even look for a shoe to poop in. Fortunately it’s never mine. Once she has recovered her composure, she and Phleud are unconcerned with the meteorological conditions, and resume their regular household activities.
Here lately it has been raining a lot. It’s typical Spring weather, with downpours and violence and occasional mayhem. I like it. Grey boring blah rain is grey,boring and blah. Violence and mayhem appeal to my need for violence and mayhem, without me having to take the blame for the results. It’s like getting to be a Viking for a couple of hours, and watch the world (and pine trees) wail at the injustice of my mercurial moods,only they aren’t mine, so NO ONE can point their finger at me and howl “YOU DID THIS!” Not even CJ, who discovered 2 inches of water in the floor of his car. He swears up and down he didn’t leave the sunroof open, but I have my doubts about that one.
So instead of responsibility for the grass seed washing into the ditch, I can sit in the warm chair, and watch it wash, and go “tsk…” while I drink a cup of hot tea and listen to the dogs grunt and slurp.
This morning I woke up at 5:30, to the sound of softly falling rain and thought “why am I awake at 5:30 on a Sunday?” So I laid there until 6, pondering the dream I had, where my children were 4,2, and 1, and decided I was profoundly grateful the were no longer those ages, because it was not easy. Not in the dream, and not in reality.
Then Terry left for work, and I got ready for church (with my new short haircut that took less than 5 minutes to fool with YAY!). #4 and I went, then as I was pulling into the parking lot, realized that I’d completely forgotten the crockpot full of chicken and rice for the potluck lunch. So 4 was deposited, and I whooshed back home, thankful the the Statesboro Police take Sundays off, and made it back in time to get the last muffin from the bowl, and a seat in Sunday School. Dinner after church (somebody bought a big bowl full of strawberries. I could have just dropped my face straight into it and been satisfied. As it was, Tina and I nearly got into fisticuffs over who would get the last scraping of juice for their pound cake)and as we were leaving the sky was turning ominous.
and now the sky is an interesting shade of sage green, making all sorts of rumbly noises, and intermintently hurling large quantities of water at the ground. The garden will be pleased. The dogs, however, are not. Nor the cats. Gracie just came in, yowling and spitting her displeasure at the universe for having the temerity to make her wet. Phleud had more sense than Gracie, and recognized the possibility of Wet, and came in before it actually happened.