What a Difference a Pillow Makes

For a while now I've woken up feeling like total crap.  Stiff, creaky neck, headaches, stuffed up nose, post nasal drip dry cough and generally feeling like a herd of River Dance people stomped on me (a nightmare in itself).

I tried drugs, thinking it was just allergies.  They didn't really work, still woke up feeling crappy.  After trying a myriad of different possible solutions, I decided that I needed a new pillow.  I liked my squishy down pillow, but it was about all squished out and not supportive at all, so I went in search of a pillow that would fit my sleeping patterns, which consist of this:

Every night, Meeshka sits on my head, Sam and Loki fight for the foot of the bed. 

After about 20 minutes, Meeshka gets too hot and jumps down, so Loki stomps all over me and takes her spot and sleeps half on the end table and the other smelly half is shoved in my face.  Sam takes the whole foot of the bed.

After about 20 minutes, Loki spreads his full ample ass and takes over the whole head of the bed through the ingenious use of swift kicks to my face with his pokey little feet, and Sam oozes into taking over the foot and half of the middle of the bed. 

The "No Dog Zone" is Lobersterman's side of the bed.  He made it very clear from the beginning that no dogs are allowed over there, and they respect it, unless he's eating something, and then all bets are off.

So, the perfect pillow would have to be for someone that sleeps on their side, back, face, half off the bed and toward the center of the bed, sometimes sliding off the bed.

I went to Kohls and searched.  I found two really nice dresses for work and then actually made it back to the pillow department, where I tested each pillow for comfiness, but most were ONLY for one position or another... until... I found this:

Now I have to say that I'm not crazy about the whole memory foam thing.  Lobsterman had one and it seemed like it was too squishy and it also was HOT!  Coming from someone who is a potential candidate for spontaneous human combustion at night, the LAST thing I need is a pillow to contribute to the overall over-heating problem I have, but this one is different.

Its actually a memory foam pillow on one side, and a nice squishy down-like pillow on the other side.  It felt really supportive and its made for sleeping in any position... oh and it was half off.  Oh hell yeah, its mine!

I took it home, changed the dog fur laden sheets and put a new pillow case on it, and then couldn't wait to go to bed to try it out.

This morning I woke up... and felt AMAZING!  No crappy sinuses, barely any neck ache, no headache, slept like a log (even with Loki kicking me in the face) and wow!  Holy crap!

Now I'm wondering if I was allergic to the real down pillow.  I really can't believe how much better I feel after using this thing.  I give it two solid thumbs up and can't wait for my afternoon nap.

Fond Childhood Memory #937: Running Away

As I'm sure the majority of you have done, when I was a teenager I decided to run away.  I don't distinctly recall the reason, but I'm pretty sure it was something major like my parents wouldn't let me do something that would have ended with me losing some fingers and an eye, which is just like parents to keep their kids from doing fun things.

Regardless of the reason, I pronounced to my father that I hated everyone and was going to run away.

Dad: Ok
Me: I'm serious, I'm running away.
Dad: Fine, where do you want to go?
Me: I'm not telling you because then you'll know and that defeats the whole purpose of running away!
Dad: Well, I was going to offer to drive you to the bus station and buy you a one way ticket.
Me: what?
Dad: You don't have to stay where the bus drops you off, but at least I'll know that you are out of the county.
Me: What?
Dad: well, if you just "run" away from home, you probably won't get very far and end up back here.

I was going to mention to him that I ran Cross Country and would at least make it five miles away before tiring, but...

Me: FINE!  Let me go pack my things.
Dad: Well, I would like to point out that most of your stuff isn't really yours, I mean your mother and I paid for those things, we're just letting you use them.
Me: WHA?
Dad: You can take whatever you paid for, but the rest has to stay here.
Me: but... but...
Dad: ok, fine, you can take the clothes you are wearing, now is there anything else you've paid for?
Me: YOU'RE NO FAIR!

At this point I stomp upstairs

Dad: well, if you aren't running away today then you'll have time to weed the garden before supper.

This Old Foreclosed House - Update

Yeah, yeah, I know, its been a while since I've updated my blog.  Frankly there's just so much stupidity going on that its overloaded my brain.  There just isn't enough time in the day to blog about all of it, it would be a full time job... if full time job meant sitting on my ass all day and blogging while shoving cheese doodles in my face and not getting paid.

So, here is the latest installment of "This Old Foreclosed House", because there's just oodles of stuff going on there.

First, let's all recall what the craptastic foreclosed house looked like for a few years while it went through the foreclosure process:

Through years of complaining to the Health Department, we finally got them to cover the half filled with crap and water mosquito swarmed inground pool wreck:

So... there it sat for a few years, with more phone calls, more complaining to the bank that owned it...

FINALLY, some work started getting done on it, but we're pretty sure they contracted out to the local "some guy who has a pickup truck and a screwdriver" to do the work because...

Some guy with a pickup truck and a screwdriver and some friends started dismantling the back addition to the house and throwing all of the debris into the pool.  When they were done throwing the back end of the house in the pool, they threw the vermin filled shed in the pool, broke up the concrete around the pool and threw it in the pool and then...

Yep, brought in fill dirt and started burying all of the junk.  They also left half of the rickety deck up... for some reason.  Sure, we called the health department about it, but by the time they showed up...

In ground pool?  What in ground pool, I have no idea what you're talking about... please note, the fence is gone now... 3 guesses on where it went.

Allrighty then.  It came as no surprise when this happened:

Which meant even more dirt on top and some straw, to make it very tasty:

There!  Nobody will know what kind of crap is buried under there, and lets rip off the siding while we're at it... yeah, that looks GREAT!

How about we build an extension to the rickety deck using 2x4s for supports with no supports at the back... yeah, that would be great!  We can also throw mis-matched gray siding to it, and as an added bonus, lets throw some of that gray siding over that window we boarded over... yeah, that looks GREAT!

There was a LOT of speculating and even some betting as to whether the deck was level.

 Hubby claimed it was all an optical illusion because of the way the boards were, and the darker crappy rotted wood of the old section... so I went over and checked.

Yep, its level... amazingly enough, its level.

So then... they started painting the gray siding white... I have no idea.

The part that really pisses me off... their "yard" looks better than mine

But at least I know that if I dig in my yard, I'm not going to unearth half a house, a shed, some fencing, concrete, insulation, drywall, mold and probably the body of a mobster.

Taunting Telemarketers (Part 386)

Actual telemarketer call

6pm, while I'm chopping up veggies for fajitas, the phone rings, and rings, and rings, and rings, I finally answer it:

me: what?
TM: Hi, this is a courtesy call from blah blah home improvements...
me: who?
TM: Dumbass home improvement company, we'd like to offer you a free estimate on new windows...
me: do you know what the definition of "courtesy" is?
TM: um
me: courtesy isn't calling someone at 6pm after they've had a crappy week, and its ONLY TUESDAY, while all they want to do is make some tasty fajitas, after which I'll need to be hosed off, and then crawl into bed with the realization that tomorrow will be another crappy day, and if I don't get some tasty fajitas then I'm half tempted to drive my truck into my garage, close the door and let it run until I'm dead... but I don't have a garage.
TM: um
me: hey, do you build garages? I could totally use a garage right now because instead of making fajitas I'm talking on the phone with you.
TM: um
me: seriously, I'd leave you a check for it, but I have to be up front, the check is going to bounce because... well, I'm dead and I don't care if you get paid for the garage or not, can you do an estimate on a nice garage that's all sealed up so the carbon monoxide fumes won't escape and I'll die quicker?
TM: um
me: ok, how about you just stop calling me because I'm on the "do not call" list
TM: ok... have a nice night
me: you too clueless wonder
click

Spray Painted Mailbox Part II

Yeah, yeah, its been a while since I had a good rant, but there's just so much madness going on in the world that I was overwhelmed with stupidity and took to sitting on my ass and playing Angry Birds.

FINE!  I don't really need an excuse to sit on my ass and play Angry Birds, and seriously, I'm not addicted to it in any way, its perfectly normal to sit for hours on the toilet and play it, so SHUT UP AND STOP JUDGING!

I figured I'd follow up on the spray painting the mailbox post a few after the fact... mainly because I wanted to be sure that  the new paint job wasn't going to wash off in the rain and then I'd be sitting here gloating over how pretty the mailbox actually turned out when in fact I'd be a liar, liar, pants on fire with a craptastic mailbox.

So... if you recall in our last adventures, I tried to spray paint numbers on the stupid thing, but the numbers ran, so I had blobs of white paint and ... oh good gah, just go read the last blog entry and catch up.  Hurry up, we'll wait for you, and no, we won't talk behind your back (bitch).

Ok, so rather than hack off my finger trying to install a new one, or paying someone to replace it, I just bought more spray paint.  Of course you are rolling your eyes thinking I'm sadistic, but this time I actually did research and found out that the spray paint that I used isn't for plastic.  So I found the stuff that you can actually use on plastic, except it wasn't the BRAND I wanted, which meant they didn't have the cool plum color I wanted (bastard Home Depot), so I opted for the "Hunter Green", although the bright orange was tempting... and had I been single, it would have been my color of choice, but part of marriage is give and take... mostly give, with some taking when the other is asleep or passed out or handcuffed to the radiator.  Please note, we have no radiators in the house, so I'm not disclosing any family secrets here.

After 20 minutes of circling the spray paint department of Home Depot, I go to pay for my purchases, and opt for the self checkout, because I was in a foul mood to begin with, I just wanted to scream at the faux happy mechanical check-out bot and leave.  Of course that was impossible, because apparently in the state of craptastic Merryland, you have to show someone your drivers license to buy spray paint.

Why?  I have no frickin clue what this accomplishes... that I can drive to my next tagging gig?  That I'm old enough to drive a car and therefore know to buy the gold spray paint to huff (p.s. I have no idea why huffers like the gold paint, but a friend speculated it was because gold is expensive... looking, or they want to look like Goldfinger, although they would actually look like Jill Masterson, the hapless employee of Goldfinger, who is spray painted gold by Oddjob and killed by epidermal suffocation... which isn't even a plausible cause of death, and more likely she succumbed to the stupid plot line, but I digress).

So, even though I did everything humanly possible to avoid human contact, I was forced to show the "keeper of the machines" my drivers license and then wait for her to figure out how to let the machine know that I'm old enough to huff spray paint if I damn well want.

As there was a pretty stiff 60mph wind that afternoon... ok, it was like 10 mph, I waited for the next day and then spray painted the mailbox Hunter Green... and it looks pretty good.  Of course I should have waiting for the mailman to pick up the mail, because the timing from completion to completely dry was interrupted by mail delivery and once slightly pissed mailman, so there was some touch up to the door, but otherwise it went smoothly.

The next day, using the stupid stencils, I used a paint brush and white paint and TAH DAH! 

No, I'm not going to take a picture of it because then my street address would be there for the world to see, and I'm not going to airbrush it out because then you would all be like "look at the big glob of airbrush on it, that looks like crap", and since I know most of you are haters of pretty green mailboxes, you can just imagine and scoff to yourselves.

Tomorrow:  I cut the Federal budget with wood chipper.

Why I Spray Painted My Mailbox

I hate my mailbox.  It was here when we moved in.  Its brown, its plastic, it sits on a wooden pole, and it holds the mail, so its functional.

I don't want a giant trout mailbox, or a racecar mailbox, or even a husky shaped mailbox, I just want a mailbox that will hold the mail and keep it dry... which is one of the main problems with our mailbox.  It hates us.

If it rains, the door will magically open and the mail will get wet.  We blamed the mailman, but watched on several occasions as the mailman came and went and diligently closed the door, through rain, and sleet, and all that other crap, the door was always closed with a resounding thud.  We even hid our cars and pretended not be be home, because mailmen are cagey and would know they were being watched and only do it on days when they knew we weren't home... but sure enough... diligent mailman.  The only other alternative: the mailbox hated us.

FINE, I don't much like it either.  Mainly because I can't get the stupid reflective street numbers to stick to it.  Oh sure, we have decorative worthless street numbers that you can't even see unless you were inches away with a magnifying glass, so we put the reflective stickers on the mailbox itself... only to see it shed them off at the slightest wind.

FINE! So we got one of those things that you bolt to the top... except someone stole it.  Yes, I went from street to street and checked out everyone that had the same street number as us, but you can only go to so many streets before you realize you should just go freakin buy another one.

FINE! So we buy another one, except they don't make the one that will fit on our box, and even if they did, the bolts that hold it are so rusted we'd have to rip them off and probably break the spindly plastic mailbox, so we bought another one, and that one requires drilling new holes and who freaking has time to do that (especially since the new level of Angry Birds came out).

FINE!  So at Lowes this afternoon I bought stencils and spray paint.  I would also like to take a moment to bitch to the stencil people who only put 1 copy of each freakin letter and number in there, so I had to buy TWO sets of complete stencils.  Why don't they sell individual stencils?  HMMMM?

FINE! So I get home and carefully put the correct numbers in the correct order and tape the row of numbers together so they stay straight and go out with the stencils and spray paint... AND I CAN'T GET THE LID OFF THE SPRAY PAINT!  Apparently its a "safety" thing to keep kids from huffing spray paint... like they can't afford spray paint, a paper bag AND a screw driver to jam under the lid? 

FINE! So I go inside and get a screwdriver and the STUPID PIECE OF CRAP LID STILL WON'T COME OFF!  So I beat it to pieces with a hammer, and go out and attach the stencil to the mailbox and spray the "drip less" spray paint.  "Drip less"?  SERIOUSLY?  Its dripping all over the place, and not only that... but the numbers look like a freakin blob of white.  Now I have a freakin blob of white on my mailbox.  Great, that looks like crap.

So I sprayed the sides and top of the stupid thing and now it looks like crap... and I don't care.

Eventually we'll have to get another one... which means replacing the rotting pole its on, cutting through power lines, and probably severing a finger... I'll pay any of you to come replace it.... because you still can't see our address numbers under all that dripping white spray paint.

Sudafed Protocol

For the third day in a row I woke up with a cement block in my left sinus and an ice pick embedded in my left eye.  No amount of over the counter drugs hoarded in the house seemed to be making things better, so I did a silly thing and actually called for a doctor's appointment.  Lobsterman assured me that I would most likely get in a month from now... dead or alive.

Some masterful whining got me an appointment with some doctor at my usual clinic, not my usual doctor... but at that point I just wanted to see anyone that had a license to write a prescription, so in theory I could have just gone to any street corner in Baltimore, but Baltimore is such a hassle and you can never find parking.

Doctor appointment time came, and the guy pretty much told me I was out of luck.  I wasn't running a fever, therefore no infection, therefore no drugs.  He told me to suck it up, buy better over the counter drugs, and come back if I got worse.  Yep, and that's why I pay $350 a month for health insurance!

After I ripped his still beating heart out of his chest and showed it to him (ok, not really, but I did in my head), I ventured to the pharmacy for something stronger than what we currently had. 

This meant taking one of the little slips of paper with the picture of your drug of choice to the pharmacy, where they take your driver's license, run a back ground check on you, strip search and cavity check you, then tell you they only have the generic version of the "over the counter" drug of your choice.  FINE!  GIVE IT TO ME!

I bought the last bag of Cherry 3-muskateers, so this means that I can make cherry flavored meth in my bathtub had I not failed miserably at being a crack-ho (and yes, I know there's a difference between crack and meth, I didn't fail that miserably at being a crack-ho!)

This Old Foreclosed House - Do It Like This

There has been some "movement" on This Old Foreclosed House.


Lobsterman reported that this morning a very large dumpster was plopped down on the side of the house, and that a HUGE load of dirt was dumped in the driveway.

Then this cute little beast showed up.

Yes, that's a mini cat, which we thought would be used to fish all of the house innards out of the pool... but wait, they have something even more ingenious planned....

Hmm, look at all of this dirt... what could they possibly do with all of this dirt?

You guessed it!  They broke up the concrete AROUND the edge of the pool and tossed it into the pool, and now they are filling the debris with dirt.  As an added bonus, they also destroyed the red shed (where all of the vermin like to hang out) and threw that in the pool for good measure.


As  you may recall, the family that lived there prior to foreclosing had tried to use fill dirt to fill in the craptastic mosquito laden malaria ridden in ground pool, but were shut down because in our county its illegal to fill in an in ground pool by just dumping fill dirt into it.

Well, apparently nobody told the bank this.

This prompted a call to our friend the County Health Inspector, who I'm sure will be very interested in these developments. 

I gotta admit... their yard is a LOT bigger than I thought with all the crap covered up, but if I were you... I wouldn't try to plant any trees or anything in the yard, you may be digging up the whole back portion of the house.

P.S. They did cut down that stupid tree that kept leaning into our yard, so... whoot. 

P.P.S. They still haven't fixed the damage to our yard where the tree fell over.

P.P.P.S. They even touch our fence and someone's gonna get a size 8 duck boot placed in an uncomfortable area

A Rant **

** Because "OH MY FREAKIN GAH ARE YOU FREAKIN KIDDING ME" has probably been used already.

Ok, so this rant will be about 15 different things that are actually all connected, in a bizarre kind of way.

I know someone who was at a CVS PHARMACY buying a sitz bath and a cane and the cashier actually asked for their last name to verify that the credit card they were using was actually theirs.

1. This assumes that a credit card thief is too incredibly stupid to read the credit card owner's name off the card.
2. If someone stole my credit card and all they were buying was a sitz bath and a cane... just let them get it.  Seriously, if they were desperate enough to steal my card and use it for that... they got some problems.

Coincidentally, the guy at the next counter was buying heartburn pills and got asked for his birth date... because apparently there's a new under aged heartburn relief gang?

At 7pm Saturday night, we had a prescription for Vicodin called in... for long time readers, you'll know that it wasn't for me because I can't even get Xanax, and I'm pretty sure I qualify for that.  I think I'll start a petition drive.  Throughout all of my myriad of strange issues (broke my foot in two places using a Wii, random cysts that I've all named popping up on my wrists, thumb problems from a car wreck) the only thing I get is Ibuprofen.

Now its not like we live in the middle of a field in the middle of nowhere or anything.  We live like 10 minutes from Baltimore (pronounced Balmer) and a half hour from D.C. (Warshington, as my mom calls it) so its not like we commute by Yak and use smoke signals, so you would think it would be relatively easy to find an open pharmacy at 7pm on a Saturday.  I actually think it would be easier to find an open pharmacy on that time and day because that's generally when the drunks who say "Hey, watch this" do something stupid and need a prescription... but NOOOOO.  Its literally impossible to find a pharmacy open after 6pm on the weekends.

Now, let me clarify: an open PHARMACY.  Sure, CVS PHARMACY is open, and so it Rite Aid PHARMACY, but not the PHARMACY part, just the store.

Why bother?  To me, an emergency isn't running out of bread or hair dye.  I've never run frantically to a pharmacy for some late night hair bands or lip gloss, no matter what the weather forecast.  I'm pretty sure I can live without those items for a night, or at the very least GO TO ONE OF THE GAZILLION 7-11, WA-WA, QUICKSTOPS, ROYAL FARMS, GROCERY STORES, OR GAS STATIONS that are open and have this crap in them.  To me, an emergency is needing some guy to count out 20 vicodine to keep from writhing in pain over night.

IF YOU CALL YOURSELF A PHARMACY THEN KEEP THE PHARMACY OPEN WHEN THE STORE IS OPEN!!!

Better yet, if your Web site says you are open until 9pm HOW ABOUT YOU PUT IN BIGGER PRINT THAT YOUR FREAKIN PHARMACY CLOSES AT 6 SO SOMEONE DOESN'T GO SHLEPPING OUT AT 7PM ONLY TO FIND THE PHARMACY CLOSED!

Then, at 10am when the pharmacy opens, but your pharmacist calls in sick... when the person who got burned the night before calls to make sure you are open and have the prescription called in the night before ready and waiting, how about you just tell them the ETA of the replacement pharmacist instead of making the already irate customer play 20 questions:

Me: So... when will the replacement show up.
Rite Aid Moron (RAM): He's been called and he's on the way
Me: Is he flying in from Pakistan?
RAM: ???
Me: When do you think he'll get there?
RAM: He's on the way
Me: so... will he be there today, or perhaps next week?
RAM: Oh today!
Me (banging head against wall): roughly about what time today?
RAM: Oh... maybe like 11

So... now I wish I hadn't failed miserable with my new year's resolution: Become a Crack Ho.

At least I could have whipped up something in the bathtub using common household products.

The Rat Trap

A few months ago I noticed that some sort of vermin had dug a hole under my fence. I can only imagine that its some starving rat, taking advantage of the lack of rat snakeability looking at my yard for foodstuffs from Ye Olde Foreclosed Home.

I poured Quikrete down the hole, poured in water, and thought the problem was solved... not so fast.

A few days later, right next to the cemented area was another hole. I knew that I was dealing with a very determined rat. Although determined, this rat has to be dumber than a box of rocks to dig INTO a yard with 3 Siberian Huskies wandering around. I commonly see Loki sitting patiently near the hole, waiting, waiting, waiting for it to come out. He’s very good at that. He’ll wait prey out, catching moles, mice, fledgling birds, whatever, just by sitting perfectly still and pretending to be a lawn ornament. Either that or they just eventually commit suicide and run into his mouth.

So I looked into the various and sundry types of ways to capture, kill, maim, destroy and obliterate various and sundry types of vermin.

Hav-A-Heart traps Good concept, except for one thing... WTH do you do with it once you caught it? Its not like I’m Billy the Exterminator (who I LOVE, so don’t be mocking Billy) and have thousands of miles of forest area to free trapped critters. The best I could do would be to call animal control for pick up, and the poor critter would die of old age in the trap by the time they showed up, or release it into the foreclosed home area... but all I’d be doing there is training the critter that it could come to my place for a free meal and lounge in the trap for a while, like a mini all-inclusive vacation. Of course, there’s always “disposing” of the critter but what kind of humane way is there to “dispose” of them other than drowning or shooting them (and frankly the county frowns upon firearms discharging).

Poison: errr, no way. There’s absolutely, positively no way I’d use poison on critters, not because its a horrible death (which it is) I honestly don’t have a problem with vermin dying horrible deaths, its just that I don’t want poison ANYWHERE near my dogs, I don’t want something non-targeted to get into the poison, and once the vermin die, don’t want my dogs or other non-targeted animals eating poison dead vermin. Plus the vermin usually crawl somewhere unfortunate to die and stink, so poison is right out.

Glue Traps: While handy indoors, they don’t work for crap outdoors in cold weather. I don’t have a problem using glue traps (bite me Animal Rights nut cases), I do have a problem with removing them from husky fur, as my dogs would no doubt be covered in glue traps because they were “interesting”.

Snap Traps: Once again, I’d be making vet trips with dogs that had snap traps on their noses since peanut butter is the main trap bait, and mine can’t resist peanut butter.

Call a pest control company: but what are they going to do that I can’t do? Charge me a lot of money to set a trap, that’s what.

So, using logical (for me) thinking, I’d need something non-poisonous, non-sticky (because of the cold), that would kill the vermin (so I wouldn’t have to) that the dogs couldn’t get into it. Once again... watching Billy the Exterminator pays off. I found this really cool AMERICAN company (and from what I can tell, they are family run) Do My Own Pest Control

They have the really cool professional grade rat bait stations that you can put one of their T-Rex Rat traps in. It has a hex lock, and a way to anchor it to the ground. This solves the following problems:

1.) Dogs getting snapped by traps
2.) Dogs playing hockey with the enclosed trap thing
3.) Dogs snacking on the dead critter once the critter is dead
4.) Dogs picking the lock to get at the peanut butter

PERFECT! I order a bait station and a trap online and then spend hours gleefully imagining the fun that will ensue.

Unfortunately, the weather took a turn for the worse in Georgia, which delayed my shipment. To their credit, they immediately e-mailed to let me know that not only couldn’t they get to their shop, but all of the shippers couldn’t get around on the slippery roads, and apologized profusely for the delay... which lead me to respond:

“Dear Customer Service,

I want to thank you for the e-mail in regard to the status of my rat trap order. I want to assure you that I totally understand the delay, and frankly I wouldn't be able to live with myself if one of your employees injured or killed themselves trying to mail out my rat trap. I'd have to change my name, possibly move out of the country, and that's just a hassle.

Even if I had ordered a brain eating zombie trap, it would be silly of me to be upset under the current weather circumstances, and totally irrational not to buy one locally, although when attacked by brain eating zombies, one typically doesn't think clearly.

I appreciate your update and fine customer service, and although I don't hope I have a need to buy more traps, if you do market a brain eating zombie trap, I'll be sure to get it from your fine company.

regards“

Pretty much everyone in customer service responded, and even thanked me for suggesting the brain eating zombie trap as a potential untapped resource for them.

To which I responded:

”I’m pretty sure you could make a zillion dollars with an effective brain eating zombie trap. You just never know when the zombie apocalypse will kick off, and frankly, even if it wasn't effective... I'm pretty sure you wouldn't get any complaint e-mails, as zombies can't type.“

At last check, my rat trap is in the vicinity and scheduled for delivery on Monday... I’ll let you know how it goes, but if you ever need any sort of pest control stuff... please visit Do My Own Pest Control

Fond Childhood Memory: The Bean Incident

I'm soaking some beans tonight because tomorrow I plan on cooking them and a hunk of ham (with bone) in the crockpot for some tasty bean soup... which jogged this fond childhood memory of the bean incident.

So, I have no idea how old I am when this happened, but every Saturday my dad use to cook something incredibly tasty, and since it was a snowy, cold day, he decided to cook ham and beans.

I'm sure you are aware that when beans are in the package, they're pretty small, and you have to soak them overnight before you cook them... well, Dad did that, but the amount of beans in one package didn't seem like a whole lot, so he used like... 5 packages.

By morning they had swelled to mammoth proportions and we had to keep transferring them to bigger and bigger bowls and we ended up having to use one of those HUGE canning pots to hold them all.  Mom was off somewhere most of the day, so we were all in charge of seasoning and watching the beans cooking to make sure they didn't double in size again and take over the kitchen. 

Since we had so many beans, we figured we'd make a few phone calls and invite half the neighborhood over, because, seriously, who can eat a vat of beans?

Well, mom had some stomach issues and couldn't eat pepper.  We did add some pepper to the beans, but just a normal amount, barely enough (in all of our opinions) to set off her stomach "condition", but when mom walked through the door later that night, the first thing she shrieked was that she could SMELL the pepper, and then went off on a tirade about her stomach condition and the pepper (mom was also going through the "change", which is yet another fond childhood memory I'll share later).

An argument ensued and just as the the neighborhood friends came into the front door, dad took the entire vat of ham and beans and threw it out the back door, much to the delight of Barney, our terrier-mix dog (the white dog on the left, the schnauzer is Baron... yet another fond childhood memory forthcoming).

I greeted the neighbors by saying "hey, glad you can make it... dad just threw the beans into the back yard".  Being good friends, they laughed until they cried, because good friends don't think its bizarre for us to toss a vat of beans into the back yard.

What Barney couldn't eat that night, he buried in the snow and feasted on it for days, and as far as I know, he thought there was just enough pepper in it.  We opened up some canned soup and drank heavily and had a good time.

Fond Childhood Memory: Christmas

Since we don't have kids and the dogs can't read calendars (they think every day they get a cookie is Christmas), its kinda hard to get into the Christmas spirit.  I truly do think that Christmas and Disney World are for kids, and that Disney World as an adult is inhumane and should be outlawed, or they include "adult land" where its nothing but alcohol and strippers.

Anyhoo, I just happened to find some black and white pics of one of my childhood Christmas times, so I thought I'd share the wonder that was "A Very Robinson Christmas"... and yes, for those of you that know my first name is Penny, I was Penny Robinson and NO I wasn't named after the stupid "Lost In Space" family (although I had an Uncle Don and my father was Jon, I did not have a little brother or a freakin robot so STFU I was named after a dog!).

See, you keep trying to ruin Christmas for me, so just be quiet and enjoy "A Very Robinson Christmas" and no, we weren't a Swiss Family either OMG will you just be quiet and enjoy the stupid pictures!

Here is our tree:

Yes, it looks like quite the motherlode of gifts under the tree, but be advised, we got socks and clothes and to make things look bountiful, my parents use to wrap everything separate... so it was "ooooh, a sock", then "oooh the other sock".

The tree was snagged from one of the local tree sellers and decorated with about 5,000 lbs of ornaments, popcorn strings, and tinsel.  We would invariable find popcorn and tinsel laden poo or cat puke around the house for weeks after, and there was always the lovely walking through the house and having your foot impaled with a brittle, splinter-like tree spike.

The "thing" in our house was that my mom would take my sister out "shopping".  Then she would take me out "shopping".  I can only vouch for my shopping, but it went something like this:
Mom - "Your sister would really like that doll"
Me - "euw, lets get her a GI Joe"
Mom - "no, I think we should get her THIS doll"
Me - "whatever"

Then, when we would unwrap our gifts, we would each get the same doll, and the same GI Joe... whatever one got, the other got.  The mindset behind that insanity was that we would never fight over gifts, because we both got the same thing.  We figured that out quickly, and just traded dolls for GI Joes and finger paints for guns, then we both had two of what we wanted.

The household tradition would be that on Christmas Eve Dad would trudge upstairs with Mom and read "Twas the Night Before Christmas" where we would both burst out laughing when the guy "threw up" the sash.  Then we were told that we had to fall asleep or santa wouldn't come.  Of course we were too keyed up to sleep and heard Santa downstairs rustling around and cursing in a voice that sounded like dad.

Around 3am we'd get up and creep downstairs and ask if it was too early, then run back upstairs when threatened with bodily harm and continue to ask each hour until finally they'd have enough and decide to get up.  Then we had to wait for the coffee to brew and they each had their first cup before we started the whole opening gift process.  We'd get each parent a gift, then get to open one, etc.

Here I am near the tree, and from the carnage it looks as though we are in mid-unwrapping.  The lovely little pajama number was sewn by my mom, who ran out of the patterned material before she made the sleeves.

Yes, that is a cow skull hanging from a beam in the ceiling, and yes, that is the sun god Rah on the wall.  Behind me is a rotary phone too.

Here is a bigger picture of the homemade pajama monstrosity.  Please note: I have the exact same hairstyle now.  Also note that the last time I was home, my mom still had the same Encyclopedia Brittanicas that we bought from some door to door salesperson dirt cheap because even by the time we bought them, they were incredibly outdated. I'm pretty sure there's an entry in them about the world being flat.

Here is my dysfunctional sister with her bounty.  Love the saddle shoes (and yes, I got the same exact freaking things).

Every year one of us would get the "big" gift.  Actually if it was for us kids, we'd each get the "big" gift, like bicycles or something.  But this year it was mom that got the big gift... a new sewing machine.  She cried over the sewing machine... seriously?  We cried over the sewing machine too, because that meant that she could sew unmatching, one sleeve too long fashions for us for school.  Don't get me wrong, I appreciated the fact that my mom tried to put us into the latest fashion, but as with all home-made clothes, its just... not right and all of the kids KNOW its not store bought, especially when your mother can't match fabric colors to save her soul (a trait she passed on to me).

Later she would take up crocheting and I had quite a collection of mutant stuffed crocheted animals.

There you have a "Very Special Robinson Christmas".

Merry Christmas to everyone out there!

Stupid Sayings

This morning, as I blew about 5lbs of crap out of my nose, I thought "great, I'm catching something".

Then I thought about how stupid that saying was.  Typically when you "catch" something, its a conscious decision to grab and hold onto something that is thrown to you.  While nobody bats an eye when you say: "I caught a cold", they would probably avoid you and label you a nutcase if you said "I caught a pile of poop".

Although germs can be "thrown" at you, typically by an inconsiderate co-worker that comes to work sick and then hacks and sneezes all over you in a meeting that you didn't want to attend in the first place, I'm pretty sure you have no choice in whether or not to "catch" those germs as they are sprayed on you at a rate of 40 mph.  Its like trying to outrun a speeding car.  So you should just say: "some inconsiderate bastard sprayed me with their cold and contaminated me."  Of course, that's a really long sentence but if you just said "I have a cold" then people will label you a plague carrier and blame you for everything as if you spontaneously contaminated yourself with a cold virus.

So, I guess having a cold is all about blaming someone else for your illness, and that you couldn't possibly be sick for no reason, but that someone threw a cold at you, and like a dumbass, you caught it without thinking.

I'm going to start a new trend:

I was attacked by a ninja cold virus.