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Posted by carlarey
at 10:01 AM CDT
Feel free to use this address to be added to a
recipient list for updates or a new url,
otherwise, it's gonna get fairly dusty around here:
contactcrl(ampersand)carlareydahtcom
Yesterday at 7:30 am, a roofing crew showed up at our house. Don't worry, we were expecting them. Less than 12 hours later we had a new roof, and all the roofing crap had been cleaned up from the lawn. A few plants are the worse for wear, but I will take it. Watching these guys work was a thing of beauty.
While the roofers were lounging in the shade on their lunch break, Diablo and his friend wanted to play Indiana Jones outside. They came back in a while later, and Millie ran into my office to let me know she was inside and still loved me just as much as she did thirty minutes ago. I reached down absently to pet her, and OH MY GOD THE HORROR!
It seems the roofers had left the gate open, so Millie had herself a little walkabout. Apparently during this jaunt through the neighborhood she encountered a Sasquatch and the Sasquatch used her to wipe his ass!
The dog was covered in reddish brown chunky funk from ears to tail. I really don't even want to dwell on what it might have been.
I dragged her outside and tied her to a tree and three quarters of a bottle of kiwi-citrus clarifying shampoo later she was fairly presentable. I still catch a whiff of something now and then. I don't know if it is actually her or some sort of olfactory post-traumatic stress.
I do hereby apologize for my previous smug remarks to my cat-owning friends when they are talking litter box strategies. Your pets might poop in the house, but at least they don't go out and roll in zombie puke.
Actual conversation here in the living room. Diablo and I are sitting on opposite ends of the room, each engaged in our own particular pursuits.
Diablo: Mom, can you quit making that noise?
Me: I'm making a noise?
Diablo: Yes, every time you breathe you make a noise.
Me: (Thoroughly puzzled) Really?
Diablo: It's a whistling noise, every time you breathe. (He pauses and looks up from his action figures.)
No, wait. Never mind, it was me.
We are having a very cool, wet spring. Ordinarily by this time things are already wilting from the heat. Poor plants are going to be in for quite a shock when the weather returns to normal.
I should start whispering to the flowers the pride goeth before fall.
This interesting character has been hanging around for a few days.
Quite possibly the cutest, bluest bird ever.
We had a pet turtle for a day, but he turned out to be the ambitious type and left the easy living in the flower garden for the top of the hill. Go figure.
Clearly he doesn't know the good life when it is handed to him on a saucer with some spring salad mix and baby carrots. Good luck and God speed, Spotty. If you change your mind, you know where to find us.
(We know where to find him too, at the top of the hill, under the honeysuckle.)
Free promotional mug with movie rental, no endorsement implied.
After reading carefully, I'm off to wash my parts with warm water,
and then enjoy a chilled beverage.
I will not overfill.
She test drove the Mitsubishi Hypocrite, but settled on this one instead.
I'm betting she's completely unaware of the comic juxtaposition.
I was almost recovered from a debilitating allergy attack when our Lawn-tards showed up at 7:30 to cut the grass in the gathering dusk. I will have to wait until morning to go out and survey the full extent of the devastation. In broad daylight they are apt to chop down anything not surrounded by four feet of chain link and yellow caution tape.
I think this calls for a Nafta Sunrise, you know, expired Benadryl and tequila with a twist of lime.
We have a huge park downtown where there is an art festival three or four times a year. We usually try to go, and over the years have bought some really incredible artwork there. The show is really popular and crowded as all hell. I have noticed over the years that the people tend to fall into two groups, those who actually come to look at the art, and those who enjoy walking their dogs in a shoulder to shoulder crowd. For years as I have inched my way through the crowds, I have wondered why on earth anyone would bring a dog to something so crowded. I doubt they are in the habit of coming out to this particular park every weekend, and suddenly found it packed with humanity. No, the park is huge, and if you look past all the artists, there are untold acres of space where people are tossing frisbees and balls for their beloved pets, or biking or jogging with their dog alongside.
I also noticed that there are no ordinary dogs being dragged around the art show. Chocolate labs? Australian Shepherds? Plain old mutts? No, those dogs are the ones on the other side of the park fetching frisbees.These dogs are either so huge that for a moment you think someone is leading a pony through the crowd, or they are so tiny they are in danger of being trampled. The huge dogs always look like they just want to lie down in the shade and have a bowl of water, and the small dogs look as though they would wish someone would please pick them up before they wind up being scraped off a shoe.
The dog owners seem to fall into two categories as well. They are either the ambassador for that particular breed, happy to stand in a central location, impeding the flow of traffic, and extoll its virtues to anyone who wants to chat, or they adopt the attitude that they simply came out to view some art, they had no idea their dog would cause such a stir, but in a weary tone they will tell you the name of the breed, heave a put upon sigh and say yes, you may pet him.
All the dog owners do seem to have one thing in common, though. Not one of them is ever carrying a piece of art they have bought.
And then there was this guy. Sir, go home! And don't come back until you are wearing pants.
Diablo's school holds an annual carnival as a fundraiser, and strong arms all the parents into manning various cheesy midway games and hand out really crap prizes. The fact that the prizes are crap and the "rides" are lame in no way diminishes the thrill for the kids. At least not for the smaller kids; the fourth graders don't turn out in the numbers the lower grades do. The ones that do are either not that bright, or have to attend to keep an eye on younger siblings. They gravitate toward the dunking booth and any game where you can throw something and "accidentally" hit an adult.
I've just checked the weather map, and there is a nice long line of severe weather plowing through Arkansas. It should get here late this afternoon. It the meantime, there is an advisory for 30 mile an hour wind gusts all day.
Jane, I am just going to apologize now for the sno-cone wrappers and escaped helium balloons that are headed your way.
There are a raft of kids at our synagogue who are turning thirteen this year. We just got our first invitation to the Bat Mitzvah of a pair of delightful twin sisters. If they weren't already adorable, the invitation asks that in lieu of gifts, contributions be made to an orphanage.
I just wonder if the rest of the girls get their invitations and think, "Great. An orphanage. Now if I ask for gifts I am going to look like such a twat."
After I got dressed this morning, Diablo looked at me and said, "Mom, you are just barely fat, almost not fat at all, and that shirt makes you look really fat."
"Does it? Maybe it's these jeans; the buttons stick out on them. I could change pants."
"It's not very good for your boobs, either."
After two service calls featuring one inept repairman, and one brilliant, the refrigerator is pronounced beyond salvation. When I mention the fact that we have to go pick out a new refrigerator to an aquaintance, she charitably offers to come along and help. Because apparently since I haven't torn the existing kitchen out of this house and spent a hundred thousand dollars on a renovation, I must be backward.
"I'll come too, and help you pick one out. They don't even make refrigerators in that size anymore, so you'll need to tear out those cabinets where the old one is. You should get stainless, double-sided. And if I were you, I'd go ahead and tear out those cabinets beside it and replace the oven. Why don't you get a double oven? You could replace that cook top too, and get one with a grill."
Shut. Up.
I do not share the current aching need for hulking industrial appliances and acres of granite counter space. I am happy with my vintage 1964 single oven and four burner range. My plain white formica countertops are fine, thank you. I do not require an island with a built in Mix Master and hand hammered copper prep sink.
And yes they do still make refrigerators of that size. I now have a shiny new one that fits perfectly in the space where the stunningly similar old one sat. It has an icemaker and humidity controlled crisper drawers. I need nothing else.
It was less that 500 dollars, delivered.
Keep your hands off my cabinets.
Edited to add: I have similiar feelings about cookware. Hussy, if you can't cook worth a damn in a twenty dollar pan, buying a two hundred dollar pan will not fix that.
We had guests.
Then we had more guests.
Got lucky at an antique store...here's one, I'll show you the rest later.
Aside from the fact that I have to go buy the entree courses all over again because of the untimely demise of the freezer. I'd rather take a beating that go grocery shopping.
The traditional European Jewry Seder menu is beige, beige, beige; matzah, chicken soup, gefilte fish, roast chicken, potato kugel. It's like a week long homage to the ulcer. The only real bright spot is the horseradish. When Jon and I were first dating, he began to introduce me to the food of his people. He'd get all misty over kasha and bowties, latkes and applesauce, and noodle kugel. I finally said, "Honey, are your people aware that a spice rack is not merely a decorative item?"
And no, paprika doesn't count. Paprika is color, not spice, for spice you use cayenne. Paprika waves politely from across the room. Cayenne runs over and slugs you in the shoulder. There is probably some Hungarian paprika out there that could change my opinion, but I haven't run across it yet. If you have a source, please let me know.
So now we have kasha and bowties with habaneros. And what the hell, you call them latkes, I call them hashbrowns, either way, they are a lot better with salsa than applesauce. When Passover rolls around, my greatest joy is dishing up seconds and thirds of my matzah ball soup and having all the guys tell me how bland and awful their mother's matzah balls were and how they choked them down out loyalty year after year.
Somehow I get the feeling that if my ancestors had been told they had to grab a few things and get out of Egypt before Pharoh changed his mind, they'd have looked at the stack of unleavened bread and said, "Screw the candlesticks, take the tabasco."
Remember last year when one of my really organized friends called up and said she wanted to spend her birthday in a villa at Lake Como, and did we want to join her?
Boy, I sure wish one of those borderline OCD planny plannerton types would call me and ask if we'd like to go halfsies on some really cool trip this summer. I love to travel, it's just the organizational part I find annoying.
If only there was some person who's job it was to plan vacations and just let me know when to be packed...if only...
In other news, Mega Meat Week continues. The thought of cooking for Passover has made me lose the will to live. Seriously, can't we just eat crackers while watching the Ten Commandments? Just this once?
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