My mother wasn’t the greatest cook. Not that she was dreadful, mostly that she wasn’t interested in doing much more than putting nutrients into our systems, sadly a talent I have inherited. Food was made to be consumed, often with whatever she had on hand. To this day, I HATE ginger because she discovered that a large ginger root would last her ages and she could - should not have!!! - but could put it in everything. As a result of my mother’s lack of culinary genius, my brother and I became experts in the chew-deposit-in-napkin-while-she’s-not-looking eating technique. And the following excuse-yourself-to-the-bathroom-to-flush-it-down-the-toilet, which always worked unless there were multiple bathroom visits at which point our bowel health would be questioned and no one wanted that. When that happened, we’d revert to the “Could I get some more milk?” and make sure to pass the garbage on the way back from the refrigerator. We drank a lot of milk. We’ve also both always been very good about taking out the garbage. I bring this up because Wednesday, this massive Red-tailed Hawk landed on squirrel in our backyard and proceeded to rip him to shreds for lunch. My somewhat productive day shot to hell, I spent the next few hours watching him eat, then hop/fly squirrel remains all over the yard until he found a perfect spot to “hide” the carcass. Perfect spot for him. The fallen rotting tree branch within the boundaries of Tigger the Dog's electric fence was not a perfect spot for me. Mr. Hawk then proceeded to perch in the crook of a tree above his spot and spent the rest of his time with us cleaning his bloody talons and threatening to kill me with every look in my direction. Seriously, his stare said “I will cut you if you even think about coming closer into the yard.” I didn't. I like my face the way it is. Here’s my dilemma: It's two days later and I have a dead squirrel at the bottom of the garden. Well, really a partial squirrel; head, back legs and tail, at the bottom of the garden. At what point can I remove squirrel bits and Tigger the Dog temptation and not get cut to shreds by a pissed off Hawk looking for leftovers for breakfast? And really, shouldn’t this be Husband’s job? Tigger the Dog is his dog and his responsibility should she eat three day old shredded squirrel bits and need a quick visit to the doctor. Or if the “Don't mind us, we’re just passing through” coyotes decide that this a good place to hang out because of the free eats. Or if the “I have a gun and like to shoot it at wildlife while wandering the neighborhood in camouflage and night vision goggles in the dark of night” neighbor comes through and mistakes Tigger the Dog for something wilder and less wimpy, we’re going to be down one dog and up an obvious trauma Husband won’t address or seek therapy for... Life was so much easier when we had napkins to put the icky food into and a plumbing system that could handle the waste... Pictures by Husband. Blurry edits by me. Note squirrel legs in full rigor on left side of Hawk and full "I will cut you!" stare thrown in our direction while he's ripping/eating guts from said squirrel. Not boring!
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As I told you Friday, Husband has been having an affair for the last eight months. On Saturday we invited our friends to come meet her and bask in her beauty. Despite my fears (and bitter bitchy asides), they all loved Husband's Mistress and all she has to offer. And they should. She is stunning and charming and music was made and new friendships were formed. It was a good night. Husband’s favorite part of the evening was when he sat in the project room with two very accomplished drummers as they played the bass and guitar and he played the cajon. All of three of them happily making beautiful music with other mistresses in a lovely padded room. My favorite part was Sunday at 1pm when I finally found my grandmother’s rings which for some dumb reason I found myself wearing at some point in the party. Until I’d apparently decided to take them off and put them in a 'safe place.' A place I could not remember until 1pm Sunday. I was in full panic "CRAP, I'M GOING TO HAVE TO GO THROUGH THE TRASH!" mode when I finally remembered that the 'safe place' was apparently the spice cabinet. I should not drink wine. Everything else is up for grabs but wine gives me blank spots, a screeching loud voice (according to Husband) and faulty security about my spice cabinet. I'm an idiot. Oh, I loved meeting the guy who has a pig. After seeing pictures of the pig, legs splayed in the sunshine just enjoying life, I now totally want a pig. And I think Husband’s guilt is at an all time high that I can actually get myself a pig! I think my many years of performing in and directing Charlottes Web might be also be informing this sudden desire. I might have to do some research so I can rebut all his arguments against pig. He’s sure to have them and my response can’t be, “Because Wilbur!” Even though, it is totally because of Wilbur. How to approach the request might take some finagling. Should I go for the, “Eight months of spending every dime and all your time on her, I deserve a pig.” Or should my approach be, “I’m so proud of what you’ve done with your time and our money… can I have a pig?” For now, here are the promised pictures of the slut – I mean, Husband’s new girlfriend – in all her glory. Remember before? Smack dab in the middle of that floor is where Tigger The Dog peed our first night in the house. Sexy, right? Well, here's The Mistress after. Husband is a pain in the ass and he never listens to what I say but he does damn good work! When Brother – who has the same name as Husband and the same damn ass stubborn streak so really I just did this to myself. I’m an idiot. Anyway, when Brother was five, he sucked his thumb. All. The. Time. His thumb was a moist mess of creepy wrinkly skin. Not attractive. Not hygienic. Just plain nasty.
When Brother was sent to day care they did not care for him sucking his thumb. In fact, they were very upset about the continual sucking so they tried to make him stop. First they put some nasty tasting stuff on his right thumb, the primary soggy thumb. They figured he’d stop sucking and the problem would be solved. He didn’t. He just switched his comfort sucking from his right to his left thumb. He considered it a win. They considered it a challenge. They dosed both thumbs, smearing the icky tasting stuff all over, and considered themselves smarter than a five year old. They were wrong. Brother just went to the bathroom; liberally squirted soap on both thumbs, scrubbed them thoroughly clean and then went back to sucking the right thumb. They were not smarter than a five year old. Well, neither am I. I took the spatula hostage. I laid out my demands. I expected results. I expected Husband to comply. I expected my spatula to enjoy a dried on egg free environment from now on. Husband did not comply. He just went on Amazon, bought himself his own spatula and had it delivered on Sunday. Lesson not learned. For either of us. Damn. HOSTAGE UPDATE: Husband. I have taken the spatula hostage. You will never see her again unless you can meet my demands. They are simple: She must be bathed immediately after use and left to dry or placed lovingly in her drawer. THIS MUST NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN. Your Wife. (and protector of kitchen utensils) |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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