Actually, 'twas abso-perfect-lutely wonderful! A glorious Valentine's Day and I think I'll keep His Holiness for at least another year. *Smiles*
I was a little tired from working with the new dogs the day before. Washed all of them with my special doggie shampoo - a mixture of store bought stuff, oatmeal, liquid Vitamin E and lemon juice - then a follow-up with hair conditioner mixed with moisturizing skin lotion and a good brushing. (Tip: Always brush the fur the wrong way - it gets rid of loose fur.) And they smelled sweet and their fur coats started to get that silky feeling. A few more baths like that and they'll shine.
So I slept later than usual on Valentine's day and when I woke up... this *huge* man was in my bed! And he was kissing me! And I was in my birthday suit!
"Ohhhhhh," I said. "If my husband shows up, you're in big trouble!"
"I'm his stand-in," the behemoth said and kissed me again!
'Twas wonderful!
"You can stand-in *any* time," I assured him and kissed him back.
"Such a hussy you are!" the giant squid growled and before I knew it, I was over his lap and his excessively hard hand was doing the one-clap dance.
Tsk.
"Now that I think about it," I told him between gasps of ouches and sighs of pleasure, "you do remind me of His Holiness."
"What gave it away?" the wretch wanted to know as he continued to practice his drumbeats.
"No one kisses quite like you."
"Who else have you been kissing?"
Oye - poor choice of words.
"Welllll, there's this Neanderthal I'm occasionally fond of..."
"Only occasionally?"
SWAT!
"And a giant squid that I feel sorry for and feel an obligation to kiss every once in a while - just so he doesn't feel neglected."
"Feel sorry for?"
SWAT!
"An obligation?"
SWAT!
"Feel neglected?"
SWAT!
"And then there's His Holiness who thinks I should follow his orders but between you and me, he's just a wussie Navy Seal and I just can't resist a wussie Navy Seal."
"Seals are not wussies."
SWAT!
"Oh yeah? But can they kiss?"
"Damn straight!"
SWAT!
"Prove it!"
~ sigh ~ And he did.
Then there was chocolate and cuddles and lots of laughter when I got tickled till I was breathless and then more chocolate and more cuddles and Cue the violins good stuff.
Breakfast was shared - we fed each other cheese blintzes and strawberries and cream and chicory coffee and cuddled some more.
I had hung several mistletoe Valentines around the house so when he took a phone call on his cell - standing in the doorway to his office, I heard him say "Sir?" Oh joy! That means someone higher ranked than His Holiness was on the phone - a rare occurrence. What's a loving wife supposed to do at a time like that?
I came up behind him and yanked his sweats down and when he instantly turned to face me, I let my hands talk for me. Boy! Was he surprised! And then I slipped to the floor - drum roll, please! - And practically choked on my... errr... laughter... as I listened to him try to carry on a civil conversation with a superior officer and act as if he were immune to what was happening below his waist.
The wretch made some excuse and ended his call and before I could make my escape, I was lifted above his head, told what a naughty girl I was and was bent over his desktop before I took another breath.
Hark! Was that a herd of stampeding longhorns? Thunder rolling in? Fighter jets passing through Mach 2?
Ohhhhh myyyyy! What followed was stingy and not-so-gentle loving... falling to the carpet... rolling over and over fighting to be on top... kissing here, there and everywhere and wowzers! Firecrackers and shooting stars and such absolute bliss I'm struggling to find the right words and I just might leave those mistletoe Valentines up for a while.
~ long contented sigh ~
The rest of the day was equal amounts of chocolate, cuddling, teasing, chasing, catching, and lots of loving. I vaguely remember lunch. But for dinner, Cowboy gave me a sexy number to wear and he donned a jacket and we were soon dressed to go out. I wondered where he was taking me when the doorbell rang.
A waiter showed up with my favorite foods, set my dining room table with linens, et al and served us a delicious meal. There was wine and triple chocolate cake and lots of flowers and when I couldn't eat another bite, the dishes were cleared away and we retired to the sofa in front of the fireplace and cuddled until the man left. The temps are below freezing, the fire was warm and I got up to make a chocolate drink for my beloved - Bicerin - and what followed was so very sweet on the rug in front of the blazing fire.
We weren't totally alone all day. My rott was drawn to the wine... and kept nosing me under the table in case I forgot he was there. The mastiff knows I won't give him chocolate but that didn't stop him from swiping one of the small cheese/dip platters the waiter had put on the kitchen counter prior to serving it. The dog is so large, he just stood on his hind legs and stole the ENTIRE platter. Then both dogs assumed the rug in front of the blazing fire was for THEM and they settled in for a nice long nap until His Holiness made ugly noises in their direction and they retreated to the rug under the kitchen table.
The cats sprawled on top of the fireplace mantle and watched us make whoopee - feline voyeurs.
It was a wonderful day to remember why we wed and to enjoy each other. There's more to February yet to come... and I plan to give His Holiness a few more surprises. With any luck, he'll be *up* to the challenge.
~Sar~
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Saturday, February 11, 2006
February Musings
Cowboy here. Sar is still flying high so I'm updating her blog. It's not just chocolate that makes the imp dizzy with happiness although that's a given.
Don't know if she's mentioned that we foster large breed dogs that have been rescued. They come from breeding kennels that have been shut down, were abandoned or the owners died, etc. Sar is skilled in teaching "obedience" and getting the animals rehabilitated and socialized. Most of them earn "companion" dog titles before they're adopted out and some learn the basics of living with a disabled person and assisting them. All animals are attracted to her - 2-legged and 4-legged varieties. I generally push the 2-legged ones away from her.
She's good at this and I'm damn proud of her accomplishments. This morning, I screened a few dogs that need a second chance at life and brought them home for her to rehabilitate and train. When she saw the "pure dog rescue" van pull into the driveway, she flew out of the house to meet us. It took great restraint on her part to keep her hands off until each was individually kenneled. I had to laugh - when Sar can't wait to touch them, she hugs herself and simultaneously tells me to hurry so she can meet the dogs.
I brought home an English mastiff - neglected and too thin and rough patches on his coat. His nails are too long, teeth a little yellow and he's scratching his ears a lot - probably mites. Sar declared him a handsome rogue waiting to strut his stuff. She named him Oliver.
We also took in an older bloodhound - arthritic and torn paw pads, a crooked tail, and chest scars. His name is Archie and when he saw Sar, he bayed. The first time I saw her I bayed too but that's another story.
There's a Scottish Deer hound in the crowd. Murdock - the first time we've fostered one of those. They're sight hounds, should be easy to train.
And last, there's a young Alaskan Malamute. Malamutes are medium sized dogs but powerful and extraordinarily bright. It takes a mentally strong trainer to teach them new habits. Sar chose to call him Tuma, a proud Inuit name.
With me and her rott and mastiff in attendance, Sar introduced herself to each dog, examined their eyes, ears, teeth, paws and coat and made notes on their health problems. This "meeting" always astounds me. The dogs look at me and mostly ignore me or growl low. When they see Sar, they turn to mush, each one wants her attention and wants to sit on her lap. While she talks to them, she's offering bits of peanut butter cookies and they're lapping it out of her hand.
Each dog gets the same lecture while she pets them. Sar tells them what the rules are, what they will eat and what she expects of each one.
"You jump on me, you get kicked in the chest."
"You nip me, you get your nose pinched."
"You fight with the other dogs, you eat kibble while everybody else gets mac and cheese and twinkies."
"You play nice and try hard, you eat large."
"Herbal bath twice a week and daily brushing."
"Daily dose of vitamin C and no spitting it out."
"No growling or backtalk while I clean your ears, brush your teeth and clip your nails."
"You be good to me and I'll make you the happiest pooch on the planet."
The mastiff stands still during the lecture. The bloodhound bays through the whole thing. The deer hound has been nosing Sar's pockets and the malamute is chewing on her shoe laces. I smile at the imp; she has a lot of work ahead of her and she's hyped for the challenge. When she gets through with them, 4 families will get 4 very obedient and healthy pets.
She makes a special supper for them - cooked oatmeal mixed with small amounts of kibble and ground chicken and eggs and I don't know what else. She feeds each one of them from her hand - there is a reason for this. She wants them to know she is the alpha in the pack and controls the food. When she grooms them, she will subtly introduce commands - sit, down, stay. But the main thing she will teach during grooming is "watch me." This is an important command. If they learn to watch her, the other commands will be learned quickly. She'll teach them to respond to voice and hand signals, and when she works with them, her own dogs will be in attendance to keep the peace.
On another note, it is February. Both of us are enjoying the extra effort we have put into sharing this special month. I have ordered imported chocolates for my sweetheart and will bring flowers home on Valentine's Day. She told me she wants more than chocolate and flowers.
What do you want? I asked her. New lingerie?
Sex, she said.
Sex? I try not to laugh in case she is serious.
Lots of sex, she says. And sweet spankings.
You don't get enough?
You're getting old, she tells me. I want as much as possible before you're too old.
I grab her and hug the stuffing out of her. I'm not so old that I can't please my wife on a regular basis. I should spank her for being sassy and I will later. Right now I promise her she doesn't have to worry. I'll deliver everything she wants and maybe more.
Cowboy
Don't know if she's mentioned that we foster large breed dogs that have been rescued. They come from breeding kennels that have been shut down, were abandoned or the owners died, etc. Sar is skilled in teaching "obedience" and getting the animals rehabilitated and socialized. Most of them earn "companion" dog titles before they're adopted out and some learn the basics of living with a disabled person and assisting them. All animals are attracted to her - 2-legged and 4-legged varieties. I generally push the 2-legged ones away from her.
She's good at this and I'm damn proud of her accomplishments. This morning, I screened a few dogs that need a second chance at life and brought them home for her to rehabilitate and train. When she saw the "pure dog rescue" van pull into the driveway, she flew out of the house to meet us. It took great restraint on her part to keep her hands off until each was individually kenneled. I had to laugh - when Sar can't wait to touch them, she hugs herself and simultaneously tells me to hurry so she can meet the dogs.
I brought home an English mastiff - neglected and too thin and rough patches on his coat. His nails are too long, teeth a little yellow and he's scratching his ears a lot - probably mites. Sar declared him a handsome rogue waiting to strut his stuff. She named him Oliver.
We also took in an older bloodhound - arthritic and torn paw pads, a crooked tail, and chest scars. His name is Archie and when he saw Sar, he bayed. The first time I saw her I bayed too but that's another story.
There's a Scottish Deer hound in the crowd. Murdock - the first time we've fostered one of those. They're sight hounds, should be easy to train.
And last, there's a young Alaskan Malamute. Malamutes are medium sized dogs but powerful and extraordinarily bright. It takes a mentally strong trainer to teach them new habits. Sar chose to call him Tuma, a proud Inuit name.
With me and her rott and mastiff in attendance, Sar introduced herself to each dog, examined their eyes, ears, teeth, paws and coat and made notes on their health problems. This "meeting" always astounds me. The dogs look at me and mostly ignore me or growl low. When they see Sar, they turn to mush, each one wants her attention and wants to sit on her lap. While she talks to them, she's offering bits of peanut butter cookies and they're lapping it out of her hand.
Each dog gets the same lecture while she pets them. Sar tells them what the rules are, what they will eat and what she expects of each one.
"You jump on me, you get kicked in the chest."
"You nip me, you get your nose pinched."
"You fight with the other dogs, you eat kibble while everybody else gets mac and cheese and twinkies."
"You play nice and try hard, you eat large."
"Herbal bath twice a week and daily brushing."
"Daily dose of vitamin C and no spitting it out."
"No growling or backtalk while I clean your ears, brush your teeth and clip your nails."
"You be good to me and I'll make you the happiest pooch on the planet."
The mastiff stands still during the lecture. The bloodhound bays through the whole thing. The deer hound has been nosing Sar's pockets and the malamute is chewing on her shoe laces. I smile at the imp; she has a lot of work ahead of her and she's hyped for the challenge. When she gets through with them, 4 families will get 4 very obedient and healthy pets.
She makes a special supper for them - cooked oatmeal mixed with small amounts of kibble and ground chicken and eggs and I don't know what else. She feeds each one of them from her hand - there is a reason for this. She wants them to know she is the alpha in the pack and controls the food. When she grooms them, she will subtly introduce commands - sit, down, stay. But the main thing she will teach during grooming is "watch me." This is an important command. If they learn to watch her, the other commands will be learned quickly. She'll teach them to respond to voice and hand signals, and when she works with them, her own dogs will be in attendance to keep the peace.
On another note, it is February. Both of us are enjoying the extra effort we have put into sharing this special month. I have ordered imported chocolates for my sweetheart and will bring flowers home on Valentine's Day. She told me she wants more than chocolate and flowers.
What do you want? I asked her. New lingerie?
Sex, she said.
Sex? I try not to laugh in case she is serious.
Lots of sex, she says. And sweet spankings.
You don't get enough?
You're getting old, she tells me. I want as much as possible before you're too old.
I grab her and hug the stuffing out of her. I'm not so old that I can't please my wife on a regular basis. I should spank her for being sassy and I will later. Right now I promise her she doesn't have to worry. I'll deliver everything she wants and maybe more.
Cowboy
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Ya know...
Sometimes a gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do.
So when His Holiness announced that we were going back to the doctor for a follow-up visit and that I wasn't supposed to eat or drink anything after 10 p.m. the night before, I went into "warrior princess" mode. My savior - Wonder Woman - has been mighty busy lately and her image has been tainted ever since someone posted a pic of her bare bum getting smacked by Super Man on the Internet. I couldn't rely on her to save me so I went to Plan B.
I've learned over the years not to argue with His Holiness when he says we're doing something I object to. I generally just ignore him and make my escape, but this time I knew I couldn't get away in time.
So... in the middle of the night when I got up to go to the bathroom, I scarfed down a few Twinkies, HoHos and DingDongs. I would have had a few Heath Bars but I didn't want to push it. Then, the next morning, while Cowboy was jogging, I made a few boxes of Mac and Cheese for me and the pups. Forget this fasting blood thing - I'm going to get weighed when I get to the doc and I need to carbo load.
When he came back he said: "You didn't eat breakfast, did you?"
Mac and Cheese for breakfast? Nawwww.
"I made breakfast for the pups, dear." (Which was true. And since I've never ever done anything in my life for which I felt guilt, there was no reason to volunteer information that would raise Cowboy's blood pressure.)
"They're going to draw more blood, imp. You don't want our visit to end up with you upended, do you?"
Visit? A doctor's appointment is not a visit. It's a date with doom. And don't they have enough of my blood by now? What are they doing? Selling it to the closet vampires?
"We have to leave as soon as I shower," the giant squid announced.
"I'm ready," I smiled and put the mastiff in the backseat of the car. The doc is obviously afraid of the rottweiler - the mastiff is bigger and has a friendlier face. Fortunately, he also bites on command.
The dog knows where his loyalty lies so he gets down on the floor of the SUV behind the front seat and under a blanket and doesn't pop his head up until we're at the base clinic.
"You brought the beast? How many times do I have to tell you dogs are not allowed in the clinic?"
"You're an Admiral. Rank has its privileges. I'll be much more comfortable with BullyBoy beside me."
"He's not gonna be beside you when I get you home and alone in the bedroom with the door shut!"
ACKKK! I think I was just threatened.
The clinic staff is used to me. They don't get alarmed when I walk in with a 165 lb. dog by my side. I think they're just happy I didn't bounce in with an AK47. So, while Cowboy is talking with the doc, I'm in another room where the nurse is weighing me. I keep her attention on the bar at the top of the scale and BullyBoy puts his paw on the scale next to my foot. It took *forever* to teach him to do that and to hold his paw there until I said "okay" and then remove it as I step off the scale. Between me and BullyBoy's paw, I have gained six pounds! A miracle! The nurse is very impressed with my weight gain. I make a mental note to give the pup extra liver biscuits when we get home.
The doc wants to draw blood.
I say no.
His Holiness says yes.
I run a finger down BullyBoy's back.
BullyBoy smiles - showing his pearly whites. The pup has such a sweet smile. And he wags his tail. Such a well-mannered puppy.
His Holiness arches a brow.
I tap BullyBoy on the head.
BullyBoy morphs into canine terrorist and growls. When a dog growls, it's a bit startling. When a BIG dog like BullyBoy growls, every nerve in your body screams "I DON'T WANT TO DIE!"
His Holiness mutters an unintelligible sound which I'm certain is not a compliment.
The doc eyes the dog and you can just see what he is thinking. RABID DOG! RED ALERT! He says the blood test isn't really all that necessary, just a backup to confirm what he already knows.
I arch a brow at His Holiness and mouth words like "Somalia."
His Holiness makes a hand gesture that clearly interpreted means "spanking" and mouths "you."
Tsk.
We make an appointment to return in 3 months. (As soon as I get home, I cancel the appointment.)
On the way home... His Holiness says he didn't realize BullyBoy's paw weighed so much. Tsk. For someone who was born in the dark ages, Cowboy knows a lot more about my tricks than I give him credit for.
I suggest we stop for brunch and ice cream.
He suggests we high tail it home so he is not tempted to spank me in public.
I suggest Prozac.
He suggests making a stop to pick up some very soft pillows.
I tell him someone I know has referred to him as a "serial spanker."
He tells me he loves that appellation and takes the freeway exit that goes to the road to our house.
I tell him he needs to pull over onto the shoulder NOW.
He pulls over... I grab him and kiss him and tell him I love him for not telling the doc about BullyBoy's paw.
I get a hard swat, a mind blowing kiss, another swat - lighter this time - and since I didn't hurt the doc, I get a promise that we'll go out for a nice dinner later.
"Will I be sitting comfortably at dinner?" I need details.
"Depends."
"Depends on what?"
"On how good you are to me when we get home."
"Ohhhh. I can be very very good."
"You'll have to prove it."
~sigh~
Well, a gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do... and I did.
~Sar~
So when His Holiness announced that we were going back to the doctor for a follow-up visit and that I wasn't supposed to eat or drink anything after 10 p.m. the night before, I went into "warrior princess" mode. My savior - Wonder Woman - has been mighty busy lately and her image has been tainted ever since someone posted a pic of her bare bum getting smacked by Super Man on the Internet. I couldn't rely on her to save me so I went to Plan B.
I've learned over the years not to argue with His Holiness when he says we're doing something I object to. I generally just ignore him and make my escape, but this time I knew I couldn't get away in time.
So... in the middle of the night when I got up to go to the bathroom, I scarfed down a few Twinkies, HoHos and DingDongs. I would have had a few Heath Bars but I didn't want to push it. Then, the next morning, while Cowboy was jogging, I made a few boxes of Mac and Cheese for me and the pups. Forget this fasting blood thing - I'm going to get weighed when I get to the doc and I need to carbo load.
When he came back he said: "You didn't eat breakfast, did you?"
Mac and Cheese for breakfast? Nawwww.
"I made breakfast for the pups, dear." (Which was true. And since I've never ever done anything in my life for which I felt guilt, there was no reason to volunteer information that would raise Cowboy's blood pressure.)
"They're going to draw more blood, imp. You don't want our visit to end up with you upended, do you?"
Visit? A doctor's appointment is not a visit. It's a date with doom. And don't they have enough of my blood by now? What are they doing? Selling it to the closet vampires?
"We have to leave as soon as I shower," the giant squid announced.
"I'm ready," I smiled and put the mastiff in the backseat of the car. The doc is obviously afraid of the rottweiler - the mastiff is bigger and has a friendlier face. Fortunately, he also bites on command.
The dog knows where his loyalty lies so he gets down on the floor of the SUV behind the front seat and under a blanket and doesn't pop his head up until we're at the base clinic.
"You brought the beast? How many times do I have to tell you dogs are not allowed in the clinic?"
"You're an Admiral. Rank has its privileges. I'll be much more comfortable with BullyBoy beside me."
"He's not gonna be beside you when I get you home and alone in the bedroom with the door shut!"
ACKKK! I think I was just threatened.
The clinic staff is used to me. They don't get alarmed when I walk in with a 165 lb. dog by my side. I think they're just happy I didn't bounce in with an AK47. So, while Cowboy is talking with the doc, I'm in another room where the nurse is weighing me. I keep her attention on the bar at the top of the scale and BullyBoy puts his paw on the scale next to my foot. It took *forever* to teach him to do that and to hold his paw there until I said "okay" and then remove it as I step off the scale. Between me and BullyBoy's paw, I have gained six pounds! A miracle! The nurse is very impressed with my weight gain. I make a mental note to give the pup extra liver biscuits when we get home.
The doc wants to draw blood.
I say no.
His Holiness says yes.
I run a finger down BullyBoy's back.
BullyBoy smiles - showing his pearly whites. The pup has such a sweet smile. And he wags his tail. Such a well-mannered puppy.
His Holiness arches a brow.
I tap BullyBoy on the head.
BullyBoy morphs into canine terrorist and growls. When a dog growls, it's a bit startling. When a BIG dog like BullyBoy growls, every nerve in your body screams "I DON'T WANT TO DIE!"
His Holiness mutters an unintelligible sound which I'm certain is not a compliment.
The doc eyes the dog and you can just see what he is thinking. RABID DOG! RED ALERT! He says the blood test isn't really all that necessary, just a backup to confirm what he already knows.
I arch a brow at His Holiness and mouth words like "Somalia."
His Holiness makes a hand gesture that clearly interpreted means "spanking" and mouths "you."
Tsk.
We make an appointment to return in 3 months. (As soon as I get home, I cancel the appointment.)
On the way home... His Holiness says he didn't realize BullyBoy's paw weighed so much. Tsk. For someone who was born in the dark ages, Cowboy knows a lot more about my tricks than I give him credit for.
I suggest we stop for brunch and ice cream.
He suggests we high tail it home so he is not tempted to spank me in public.
I suggest Prozac.
He suggests making a stop to pick up some very soft pillows.
I tell him someone I know has referred to him as a "serial spanker."
He tells me he loves that appellation and takes the freeway exit that goes to the road to our house.
I tell him he needs to pull over onto the shoulder NOW.
He pulls over... I grab him and kiss him and tell him I love him for not telling the doc about BullyBoy's paw.
I get a hard swat, a mind blowing kiss, another swat - lighter this time - and since I didn't hurt the doc, I get a promise that we'll go out for a nice dinner later.
"Will I be sitting comfortably at dinner?" I need details.
"Depends."
"Depends on what?"
"On how good you are to me when we get home."
"Ohhhh. I can be very very good."
"You'll have to prove it."
~sigh~
Well, a gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do... and I did.
~Sar~
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Football Fever!
It's Super Bowl Sunday!
big deal!
I've never been much of a football fan, never had football fever but this year... it's the Pittsburgh Steelers vs. the Seattle Seahawks. I live in the Seattle area and this is the Seahawks' very first time in the Super Bowl. The football fever here is at an all-time high. Everywhere you go, "have a nice day" has been replaced with "Go Seahawks!"
yawn
I attended a lot of football games when I was in college. They were held every Sunday afternoon during the season and the reason I went was because I knew my date would buy hotdogs and chips and soda pop. I'd eat my share and then, whenever he jumped up to shout and make a fool of himself along with the other football fiends... err... fans, I could help myself to the rest of the food. I rarely went to a football game with the same guy twice. They always seemed to wonder when they had eaten their hotdogs and I know you won't believe this, but some of them actually looked at me with great suspicion. I think those were the days when I spent a lot of time practicing my innocent look. I entered college as a 16-year old freshman so I had youth on my side. Those were the good old days.
~sigh~
I knew absolutely nothing about the game until I went off to college and even though I spent most of my time eating... some of what was happening on the field eventually rubbed off. A lot of people today - females - know as much or more about the game than the men do, but there are still people - in third-world countries - who don't understand the intricacies of the sport. Well, I'm here to clue you in.
The rules are very specific:
1/There are two groups of guys. These groups are called teams. Each team has to have the same number of players. Offhand, I don't know how many but it can't be too many because I don't think football players can count too high.
2/Each team has to wear a uniform in different colors than the other team. This is so a mama can tell if it's her little boy running like a bat out of hell down the field or if he's the one on the bottom of a pile of oversized testosterone getting squashed. This is not a game for the faint of heart.
pass the chips
3/The football is not round like a baseball or a basketball. It's oval shaped and get this: It's made out of pig skin! Is that disgusting or what? I wonder how many little piggies they have to slaughter just to cover that thing. And what's worse! It's brownish and leathery. I do hope they didn't roast that poor little piggie until it was already dead. Tsk.
4/The game is played for 60 minutes. The playing time is divided into 4 quarters. After 2 quarters, there's a few minutes of entertainment. This is called the "half-time show." The reason there's the half-time show is because the football players have been running around like chickens with their heads cut off and now they need a break so they can pee and have a beer. "Sporty" guys do that a lot.
4/In addition to the players, there are men with somber faces watching everything they do. They wear uniforms too - stripes. Since the game is seasonal, it's possible they get these guys from the work-release programs at the local penitentiary. Isn't that lovely? I forget what they call these guys - umpires or referees maybe. Whatever... they're the watchdogs and not one of them ever cracks a smile. I bet they don't floss either.
5/Also on the side of the playing field are the team coaches and in a lot of games, the media is also there. The coaches are the ones wearing portable microphones and carrying a clipboard. Clipboards are very important accoutrements of a football game. I don't know why; I think it's a part of the uniform. There's usually one coach that chews gum through the whole event and it's truly disgusting. First, he chews with his mouth open and second, he chews a WAD of the stuff. Of course, this makes his dentist happy because the guy probably also grinds his teeth. He can't wait for the half-time break so he can shove a new wad in. Ewwww.
6/The game begins with someone singing our national anthem, "The Star Spangled Banner." Then the two teams face each other in the middle of the field and act all macho. They crouch over like someone just kicked them in the gut, the really big fellas just sort of lean on their knuckles and channel King Kong in the hopes of scaring the beejeebees out of the other gorillas on the opposing team. This is a case of "my shoulder pads are bigger than your shoulder pads" or... something like that.
7/Then the quarterback goes into action. This is the star of the team and everyone on the opposing team wants to tackle him and smother him. The reason he's called a quarterback is because he's about 1/4 the size of the gorillas. He can run faster than they can which is a good thing. I think they need to paint him with pig grease (from the pig they slaughtered) so he can slip through the gorillas more easily.
8/I forgot to mention that the football players wear helmets with face guards. This is so nobody gets a fist or a foot in the face in the heat of all that good sportsmanship. They also paint thick dark lines under their eyes. Is this really necessary? It makes they look like wussies.
9/When a team gets the ball, they play "4 downs" and then the other team gets the ball. Once in a while, they don't get all 4 "downs" because the other team "intercepts" the ball. Okay folks, since little kids are watching, they call this a "ball intercept," but you and I both knew what really happens is that the other team gets greedy and can't wait their turn and they steal the ball. And every time this happens, the crowd goes wild! Very very sad grown men can't play nice.
10/The "4 downs:" Every time I hear it's the "1st down" or the "2nd down," etc. I can't help wondering when it will be the "1st UP." There are certain immutable things in life: Day - night, black - white, vanilla - chocolate, left - right, down - up. All those "downs" and no "ups." And nobody ever mentions it, either! Unbelievable.
11/The goal of the game is to get the football to the far end of the field with all of one's body parts intact. This is called a touchdown and everybody makes a big deal out of it. This is really my favorite part because everybody jumps up and down and goes crazy and nobody notices that I just grabbed the last of the nachos, etc. At least I have *my* priorities in order.
Okay, who's up for pizza?
12/After a touchdown, the team gets to play for an extra point. This is usually done by kicking the football between two goal posts. The team has a "kicker" and as far as I can tell, that's all he does. Everybody in the stands is watching this guy. The TV cameras are watching him. The coach is chewing like crazy and he's watching him. His mama is watching. This puts a lot of pressure on the poor guy and it's a really tense moment. Sometimes that one point can make or break the game for the team. Will he make the kick?
Like I care. Pass the pizza.
I asked His Holiness to look this over to make sure I explained everything. He said it wasn't quite accurate. Now he tells me!
And would you believe the wretch is laughing?
Tsk. Now, I'm not sure if I should explain the rules of basketball and baseball to you.
~Sar~
big deal!
I've never been much of a football fan, never had football fever but this year... it's the Pittsburgh Steelers vs. the Seattle Seahawks. I live in the Seattle area and this is the Seahawks' very first time in the Super Bowl. The football fever here is at an all-time high. Everywhere you go, "have a nice day" has been replaced with "Go Seahawks!"
yawn
I attended a lot of football games when I was in college. They were held every Sunday afternoon during the season and the reason I went was because I knew my date would buy hotdogs and chips and soda pop. I'd eat my share and then, whenever he jumped up to shout and make a fool of himself along with the other football fiends... err... fans, I could help myself to the rest of the food. I rarely went to a football game with the same guy twice. They always seemed to wonder when they had eaten their hotdogs and I know you won't believe this, but some of them actually looked at me with great suspicion. I think those were the days when I spent a lot of time practicing my innocent look. I entered college as a 16-year old freshman so I had youth on my side. Those were the good old days.
~sigh~
I knew absolutely nothing about the game until I went off to college and even though I spent most of my time eating... some of what was happening on the field eventually rubbed off. A lot of people today - females - know as much or more about the game than the men do, but there are still people - in third-world countries - who don't understand the intricacies of the sport. Well, I'm here to clue you in.
The rules are very specific:
1/There are two groups of guys. These groups are called teams. Each team has to have the same number of players. Offhand, I don't know how many but it can't be too many because I don't think football players can count too high.
2/Each team has to wear a uniform in different colors than the other team. This is so a mama can tell if it's her little boy running like a bat out of hell down the field or if he's the one on the bottom of a pile of oversized testosterone getting squashed. This is not a game for the faint of heart.
pass the chips
3/The football is not round like a baseball or a basketball. It's oval shaped and get this: It's made out of pig skin! Is that disgusting or what? I wonder how many little piggies they have to slaughter just to cover that thing. And what's worse! It's brownish and leathery. I do hope they didn't roast that poor little piggie until it was already dead. Tsk.
4/The game is played for 60 minutes. The playing time is divided into 4 quarters. After 2 quarters, there's a few minutes of entertainment. This is called the "half-time show." The reason there's the half-time show is because the football players have been running around like chickens with their heads cut off and now they need a break so they can pee and have a beer. "Sporty" guys do that a lot.
4/In addition to the players, there are men with somber faces watching everything they do. They wear uniforms too - stripes. Since the game is seasonal, it's possible they get these guys from the work-release programs at the local penitentiary. Isn't that lovely? I forget what they call these guys - umpires or referees maybe. Whatever... they're the watchdogs and not one of them ever cracks a smile. I bet they don't floss either.
5/Also on the side of the playing field are the team coaches and in a lot of games, the media is also there. The coaches are the ones wearing portable microphones and carrying a clipboard. Clipboards are very important accoutrements of a football game. I don't know why; I think it's a part of the uniform. There's usually one coach that chews gum through the whole event and it's truly disgusting. First, he chews with his mouth open and second, he chews a WAD of the stuff. Of course, this makes his dentist happy because the guy probably also grinds his teeth. He can't wait for the half-time break so he can shove a new wad in. Ewwww.
6/The game begins with someone singing our national anthem, "The Star Spangled Banner." Then the two teams face each other in the middle of the field and act all macho. They crouch over like someone just kicked them in the gut, the really big fellas just sort of lean on their knuckles and channel King Kong in the hopes of scaring the beejeebees out of the other gorillas on the opposing team. This is a case of "my shoulder pads are bigger than your shoulder pads" or... something like that.
7/Then the quarterback goes into action. This is the star of the team and everyone on the opposing team wants to tackle him and smother him. The reason he's called a quarterback is because he's about 1/4 the size of the gorillas. He can run faster than they can which is a good thing. I think they need to paint him with pig grease (from the pig they slaughtered) so he can slip through the gorillas more easily.
8/I forgot to mention that the football players wear helmets with face guards. This is so nobody gets a fist or a foot in the face in the heat of all that good sportsmanship. They also paint thick dark lines under their eyes. Is this really necessary? It makes they look like wussies.
9/When a team gets the ball, they play "4 downs" and then the other team gets the ball. Once in a while, they don't get all 4 "downs" because the other team "intercepts" the ball. Okay folks, since little kids are watching, they call this a "ball intercept," but you and I both knew what really happens is that the other team gets greedy and can't wait their turn and they steal the ball. And every time this happens, the crowd goes wild! Very very sad grown men can't play nice.
10/The "4 downs:" Every time I hear it's the "1st down" or the "2nd down," etc. I can't help wondering when it will be the "1st UP." There are certain immutable things in life: Day - night, black - white, vanilla - chocolate, left - right, down - up. All those "downs" and no "ups." And nobody ever mentions it, either! Unbelievable.
11/The goal of the game is to get the football to the far end of the field with all of one's body parts intact. This is called a touchdown and everybody makes a big deal out of it. This is really my favorite part because everybody jumps up and down and goes crazy and nobody notices that I just grabbed the last of the nachos, etc. At least I have *my* priorities in order.
Okay, who's up for pizza?
12/After a touchdown, the team gets to play for an extra point. This is usually done by kicking the football between two goal posts. The team has a "kicker" and as far as I can tell, that's all he does. Everybody in the stands is watching this guy. The TV cameras are watching him. The coach is chewing like crazy and he's watching him. His mama is watching. This puts a lot of pressure on the poor guy and it's a really tense moment. Sometimes that one point can make or break the game for the team. Will he make the kick?
Like I care. Pass the pizza.
I asked His Holiness to look this over to make sure I explained everything. He said it wasn't quite accurate. Now he tells me!
And would you believe the wretch is laughing?
Tsk. Now, I'm not sure if I should explain the rules of basketball and baseball to you.
~Sar~
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
A quick note
I adore your comments on the blog and I am really delighted to read the emails you send to my addy. However...
A few weeks ago, someone sent me an email... the "sender" line was blank; the "subject" line was "none" and I mistakenly opened it. It turned out okay - it was someone commenting on my stories. But...
In this age of virus scares and undesirable email i.e., I'm not in need of a penile enlargement device, Viagra, breast enhancement, nor a mortgage and I definitely do NOT want to see Candy on her webcam or celebrities "doing it."
In the past few days I have received about half a dozen emails with blank lines on sender and subject line and I have not opened them. If you want to comment, please put something in the subject line so I know it has to do with my website fiction and/or blog. A "sender" name would be helpful, too. I reply to most emails - ignoring the few ugly ones I receive that boast about the size of their equipment and/or "ya haven't lived till you make it with a female dom." Oye!
So, if you've sent email and I didn't reply... I'm not being rude, just cautious.
~Sar~
A few weeks ago, someone sent me an email... the "sender" line was blank; the "subject" line was "none" and I mistakenly opened it. It turned out okay - it was someone commenting on my stories. But...
In this age of virus scares and undesirable email i.e., I'm not in need of a penile enlargement device, Viagra, breast enhancement, nor a mortgage and I definitely do NOT want to see Candy on her webcam or celebrities "doing it."
In the past few days I have received about half a dozen emails with blank lines on sender and subject line and I have not opened them. If you want to comment, please put something in the subject line so I know it has to do with my website fiction and/or blog. A "sender" name would be helpful, too. I reply to most emails - ignoring the few ugly ones I receive that boast about the size of their equipment and/or "ya haven't lived till you make it with a female dom." Oye!
So, if you've sent email and I didn't reply... I'm not being rude, just cautious.
~Sar~
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
February!
Tomorrow is February 1st! Oh joy!
February, as you know, is the month of hearts and flowers and in our house, it's also a big chocolate month. It's a time when lovers can make a public display of affection and get away with it. Not that we ignore loving the other 11 months of the year, but in February, well... it's extra special.
A year or so after we were married, Cowboy came home from the other side of the world via a commercial flight. He had been gone for over a month and we were both anxious to reunite.
It was February.
So... I put on one of my more risqué sets of lingerie - red demi bra and panties - hip hose and knee-high black leather boots. I covered up with a flannel-lined black raincoat and drove out to the airport to meet him. We were in the DC area at the time and it was really chilly that time of year so no one would wonder why the raincoat was buttoned and belted even in the airport. He came down the jetway, I jumped into his arms, we hugged and kissed and neither of us could let go of the other. Finally, we came up for air and Cowboy said he couldn't wait to get home and say hello properly and in a more intimate way.
There's a small waiting area at Dulles airport that is off the beaten path and generally reserved for military. I pull Cowboy in that direction and tell him I have to kiss him some more before driving home. He is agreeable.
We get into the waiting room, I pull him into a corner away from the few people waiting there and push him back against the wall. Then I open my raincoat.
Tsk.
When the squid is startled, he often curses... in Italian.
I'm certain those words are unbecoming to an officer and a gentleman - no matter what language he uses.
"Do you like what you see?" I ask him, posing seductively and totally ignoring his naughty outburst.
"I could spank you right here! I *should* spank you right here!" he growls as he grabs either side of my raincoat to cover me up.
My back was to the room. Why does he automatically think I should be spanked? Not looking for answers here... Double tsk.
"You only spank for safety and health issues," I remind him. "And what I'm wearing is neither of those." I am indignant. I dressed to please him and he's threatening to burn my butt.
Truly, this man needs a refresher course in couth.
"My mental health!" he grumbles.
And then I notice that his pants seem very snug. I know he hasn't gained excess weight... do ya s'pose...? Hmm...
Okay, I feel better and because I'm such a loving spouse, I part my raincoat and lean into him... and rub against him... and whisper very naughty words about what I'm going to do to him when we get home.
He mumbles, moans, utters unintelligible noises as I rub against him but I clearly hear:
"I am gonna burn your butt!" And with that, he puts his arms around me under my raincoat and swats my rear end.
We hear the door close and suddenly, we're all alone.
Ut-oh!
"Time to go," I announce.
"Not quite yet," the giant squid retorts and there! In the waiting area! Of Dulles Airport! In front of ceiling-to-floor windows! I am upended under his arm! And spanked!
A commercial plane taxis by... Air Canada I think... *everyone* on that side of the plane can see my rear end being swatted! Thank God they couldn't see my face but I'll tell you right now. Haven't flown Air Canada since and I burned that bra and panty set.
This February... I have *other* ways to show my affection... in public.
Cowboy calls me his birbantella - naughty imp - for a reason.
~Sar~
February, as you know, is the month of hearts and flowers and in our house, it's also a big chocolate month. It's a time when lovers can make a public display of affection and get away with it. Not that we ignore loving the other 11 months of the year, but in February, well... it's extra special.
A year or so after we were married, Cowboy came home from the other side of the world via a commercial flight. He had been gone for over a month and we were both anxious to reunite.
It was February.
So... I put on one of my more risqué sets of lingerie - red demi bra and panties - hip hose and knee-high black leather boots. I covered up with a flannel-lined black raincoat and drove out to the airport to meet him. We were in the DC area at the time and it was really chilly that time of year so no one would wonder why the raincoat was buttoned and belted even in the airport. He came down the jetway, I jumped into his arms, we hugged and kissed and neither of us could let go of the other. Finally, we came up for air and Cowboy said he couldn't wait to get home and say hello properly and in a more intimate way.
There's a small waiting area at Dulles airport that is off the beaten path and generally reserved for military. I pull Cowboy in that direction and tell him I have to kiss him some more before driving home. He is agreeable.
We get into the waiting room, I pull him into a corner away from the few people waiting there and push him back against the wall. Then I open my raincoat.
Tsk.
When the squid is startled, he often curses... in Italian.
I'm certain those words are unbecoming to an officer and a gentleman - no matter what language he uses.
"Do you like what you see?" I ask him, posing seductively and totally ignoring his naughty outburst.
"I could spank you right here! I *should* spank you right here!" he growls as he grabs either side of my raincoat to cover me up.
My back was to the room. Why does he automatically think I should be spanked? Not looking for answers here... Double tsk.
"You only spank for safety and health issues," I remind him. "And what I'm wearing is neither of those." I am indignant. I dressed to please him and he's threatening to burn my butt.
Truly, this man needs a refresher course in couth.
"My mental health!" he grumbles.
And then I notice that his pants seem very snug. I know he hasn't gained excess weight... do ya s'pose...? Hmm...
Okay, I feel better and because I'm such a loving spouse, I part my raincoat and lean into him... and rub against him... and whisper very naughty words about what I'm going to do to him when we get home.
He mumbles, moans, utters unintelligible noises as I rub against him but I clearly hear:
"I am gonna burn your butt!" And with that, he puts his arms around me under my raincoat and swats my rear end.
We hear the door close and suddenly, we're all alone.
Ut-oh!
"Time to go," I announce.
"Not quite yet," the giant squid retorts and there! In the waiting area! Of Dulles Airport! In front of ceiling-to-floor windows! I am upended under his arm! And spanked!
A commercial plane taxis by... Air Canada I think... *everyone* on that side of the plane can see my rear end being swatted! Thank God they couldn't see my face but I'll tell you right now. Haven't flown Air Canada since and I burned that bra and panty set.
This February... I have *other* ways to show my affection... in public.
Cowboy calls me his birbantella - naughty imp - for a reason.
~Sar~
Friday, January 27, 2006
'Fessing up:
I'm a BDSM virgin.
My public email addy is posted on my website and gracious readers occasionally drop me a note. Sometimes, they ask questions. One common question is whether or not Cowboy and I engage in BDSM activities.
Nope.
A lot of years ago I was in the Toronto area for a few weeks - a couple of friends were into the BDSM scene. I didn't know what that was at the time and the very thought really freaked me out. They convinced me to attend a "play party" where I could just sit on the sidelines, sip a cool lemonade (no alcohol allowed) and observe various scenes in action. Sure, that sounded great.
I step DOWN, literally, into a basement that has most of the center of the room dimly lit and there are "things" everywhere: St. Andrews Cross, hoists, spreader bars and whips, tails, paddles, floggers, spanking benches and other paraphernalia. (I learned all the words later.) The ONLY things missing are Vincent Price, Bela Lugosi and Edward G. Robinson.
I immediately went into "fight or flight" mode. Scared the beejeebees out of me. My friends were hysterical with laughter but what can I say? I wasn't very discriminating in those days. The various "acts" had my eyes as big as saucers and my heart in my mouth. You know the way kids peek at horror movies through their fingers? I slipped under the table and watched under cover of the tablecloth - I kid you not. Peeking was more than enough.
Years later, I exchanged chitchat with a gentleman from the Toronto area who participated in one of the Toronto area BDSM groups. He enjoyed my commentary and I listened wide-eyed to a lot of what he told me. Lost track of him - if he still reads at my website, hope all is okay.
I am amazed at the wide range of interest and various activities people enjoy and engage in. Each to his/her own. If the harsher and heavier forms of "this thing we do" is your cup of tea, bravo and brava! I don't care what consenting adults do. Life is short; enjoy every minute.
Will Cowboy and I ever move into that scene? Not in this lifetime. Sweet sensual erotic spanking suits me just fine. On the few occasions when he thinks a harder hand-to-tush discussion is necessary... welll, that's why revenge was invented... along with pink boxer shorts, food tasters, brownies with saltpeter additives, and islands to escape to while he tears his hair out worrying about me. I've said it before; I'll say it again. I am too good to that man.
~Sar~
My public email addy is posted on my website and gracious readers occasionally drop me a note. Sometimes, they ask questions. One common question is whether or not Cowboy and I engage in BDSM activities.
Nope.
A lot of years ago I was in the Toronto area for a few weeks - a couple of friends were into the BDSM scene. I didn't know what that was at the time and the very thought really freaked me out. They convinced me to attend a "play party" where I could just sit on the sidelines, sip a cool lemonade (no alcohol allowed) and observe various scenes in action. Sure, that sounded great.
I step DOWN, literally, into a basement that has most of the center of the room dimly lit and there are "things" everywhere: St. Andrews Cross, hoists, spreader bars and whips, tails, paddles, floggers, spanking benches and other paraphernalia. (I learned all the words later.) The ONLY things missing are Vincent Price, Bela Lugosi and Edward G. Robinson.
I immediately went into "fight or flight" mode. Scared the beejeebees out of me. My friends were hysterical with laughter but what can I say? I wasn't very discriminating in those days. The various "acts" had my eyes as big as saucers and my heart in my mouth. You know the way kids peek at horror movies through their fingers? I slipped under the table and watched under cover of the tablecloth - I kid you not. Peeking was more than enough.
Years later, I exchanged chitchat with a gentleman from the Toronto area who participated in one of the Toronto area BDSM groups. He enjoyed my commentary and I listened wide-eyed to a lot of what he told me. Lost track of him - if he still reads at my website, hope all is okay.
I am amazed at the wide range of interest and various activities people enjoy and engage in. Each to his/her own. If the harsher and heavier forms of "this thing we do" is your cup of tea, bravo and brava! I don't care what consenting adults do. Life is short; enjoy every minute.
Will Cowboy and I ever move into that scene? Not in this lifetime. Sweet sensual erotic spanking suits me just fine. On the few occasions when he thinks a harder hand-to-tush discussion is necessary... welll, that's why revenge was invented... along with pink boxer shorts, food tasters, brownies with saltpeter additives, and islands to escape to while he tears his hair out worrying about me. I've said it before; I'll say it again. I am too good to that man.
~Sar~
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Verklempt!
I was just composing a new blog entry when I heard a box of Twinkies calling my name. As some of you have surmised, I believe that doctors are evil creatures until they prove otherwise. Even though I am "well," I do have another medical appointment coming up soon. I'm going in to placate the medic who has delusions of omnipotence and between you and me, is probably also incontinent the moment he sees me in the waiting room. No matter how much I consume, my weight is always a little less than what they show on national insurance charts. (Now you know why Cowboy can upend me with one arm.) There is a reason for this - I have an extremely fast metabolic rate. I take meds for this. If the doc increases the dosage, I shall turn into a lethargic doofus. Soooo I'm trying to gain a little weight prior to the appointment so he-who-knows-what-is-good-for-me-and-will-die-a-painful-death if he increases my meds lives to worry the beejeebees out of his next patient.
His Holiness will be with me... tsk. So I won't argue if the Neanderthal prescribes more meds. I will, however, cut them in half, etc. Better to be a little on the slim side and get to eat EVERYTHING than to conform to... whatever.
Back to Twinkies: Of course I've had frozen Twinkies. They taste just like ice cream. Have you ever dipped the frozen ones into hot chocolate? swoon
Oh ye who are truly deprived! There are CHOCOLATE Twinkies and strawberry ones, too. Yes, I've fried them and poured chocolate glacé over them. Naturally, being a Twinkies veteran, I don't share those. And I'm certain the Twinkie Farmers of America are due to give me an award.
Alas! IF Twinkie looks like they are going the way of "boxed" Cracker Jack... I shall have to buy up the entire inventory west of the Mississippi. I can still get boxed Cracker Jack(s) by smuggling them in from Canada, although customs agents and the mounties are starting to get suspicious. Ya s'pose it's against the law to let the Cracker Jack prizes cross the border?
And... are you sitting? Someone asked me if I really let my pets eat Twinkies. I said yes, of course. Then the person who picked on my Twinkies by posting that Twinkie torture article went on to tell a horror story about pets eating people food. Tsk and double tsk! It will be a cold day at the equator before I share any Twinkies with her!
Oye! I was so distraught - the pups and the cats and I ate two whole boxes of Twinkies. I had mine with chicory coffee, the Rott had a glass of merlot, the cats drank "half and half" and the Bull Mastiff washed his down with beer but as you might guess, he takes after the squid who frequently is in need of a refresher course in couth.
~Sar~
His Holiness will be with me... tsk. So I won't argue if the Neanderthal prescribes more meds. I will, however, cut them in half, etc. Better to be a little on the slim side and get to eat EVERYTHING than to conform to... whatever.
Back to Twinkies: Of course I've had frozen Twinkies. They taste just like ice cream. Have you ever dipped the frozen ones into hot chocolate? swoon
Oh ye who are truly deprived! There are CHOCOLATE Twinkies and strawberry ones, too. Yes, I've fried them and poured chocolate glacé over them. Naturally, being a Twinkies veteran, I don't share those. And I'm certain the Twinkie Farmers of America are due to give me an award.
Alas! IF Twinkie looks like they are going the way of "boxed" Cracker Jack... I shall have to buy up the entire inventory west of the Mississippi. I can still get boxed Cracker Jack(s) by smuggling them in from Canada, although customs agents and the mounties are starting to get suspicious. Ya s'pose it's against the law to let the Cracker Jack prizes cross the border?
And... are you sitting? Someone asked me if I really let my pets eat Twinkies. I said yes, of course. Then the person who picked on my Twinkies by posting that Twinkie torture article went on to tell a horror story about pets eating people food. Tsk and double tsk! It will be a cold day at the equator before I share any Twinkies with her!
Oye! I was so distraught - the pups and the cats and I ate two whole boxes of Twinkies. I had mine with chicory coffee, the Rott had a glass of merlot, the cats drank "half and half" and the Bull Mastiff washed his down with beer but as you might guess, he takes after the squid who frequently is in need of a refresher course in couth.
~Sar~
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Twinkies!
On a site I frequent regularly - someone posted a gawd-awful alleged research report on Twinkies. I am certain none of the facts were true. The blasphemy included ugly things that happened or didn't happen when Twinkies were nuked, radiated, drowned, boiled and other couthless torture was heaped on that sweet confection. I was so distraught I had to grab a box of Twinkies and eat every single one.
The fact that Cowboy is making dinner this evening - ungodly and horrific green things - had little to do with my need to get stuffed on a sweet treat. In my response to the Twinkie torture article, I reminded the writer of the following:
Eat a Twinkie - feel good.
Eat a box of Twinkies - get HIGH!
I happen to know that a tall muscular marine from Arkansas eats Twinkies. And so does my neighbor, Ms.HairUpHerAss. See! Both ends of the human spectrum eat Twinkies: the good, the brave, the few as well as the nosy, the evil and the shameful. You can quote me.
Twinkies have so many attributes I don't think I have enough room on this blog to list all of them.
It is an indisputable fact that when you give a kid a box of Twinkies, he will be so busy stuffing himself and licking all the sticky gooey filling off his fingers that you'll have plenty of time to rob his piggy bank... or sneak a quick bourbon straight up.
Pour hot chocolate sauce over a Twinkie - serve with a glass of chilled wine - wait 5 minutes. THEN present His Holiness with the VISA bill. (The Twinkie is for me; the wine for him.)
You know that big busty blonde making goo-goo eyes at your husband at that Christmas party at the office? Hold a Twinkie over her head and she'll follow you anywhere. When you get her alone... stuff that Twinkie... somewhere nasty.
And the dentist who swore he wouldn't hurt you... and did... and you couldn't retaliate because His Holiness was in the room... seek out his children and force feed them Twinkies until giant cavities appear!
Don't mess with MY Twinkies!
~ sigh ~
I'm already making quilts for Katrina families and lobbying to save the whales. Now, it seems I have to start a campaign to support the Twinkie Farmers of America!
~ Sar ~
The fact that Cowboy is making dinner this evening - ungodly and horrific green things - had little to do with my need to get stuffed on a sweet treat. In my response to the Twinkie torture article, I reminded the writer of the following:
Eat a Twinkie - feel good.
Eat a box of Twinkies - get HIGH!
I happen to know that a tall muscular marine from Arkansas eats Twinkies. And so does my neighbor, Ms.HairUpHerAss. See! Both ends of the human spectrum eat Twinkies: the good, the brave, the few as well as the nosy, the evil and the shameful. You can quote me.
Twinkies have so many attributes I don't think I have enough room on this blog to list all of them.
It is an indisputable fact that when you give a kid a box of Twinkies, he will be so busy stuffing himself and licking all the sticky gooey filling off his fingers that you'll have plenty of time to rob his piggy bank... or sneak a quick bourbon straight up.
Pour hot chocolate sauce over a Twinkie - serve with a glass of chilled wine - wait 5 minutes. THEN present His Holiness with the VISA bill. (The Twinkie is for me; the wine for him.)
You know that big busty blonde making goo-goo eyes at your husband at that Christmas party at the office? Hold a Twinkie over her head and she'll follow you anywhere. When you get her alone... stuff that Twinkie... somewhere nasty.
And the dentist who swore he wouldn't hurt you... and did... and you couldn't retaliate because His Holiness was in the room... seek out his children and force feed them Twinkies until giant cavities appear!
Don't mess with MY Twinkies!
~ sigh ~
I'm already making quilts for Katrina families and lobbying to save the whales. Now, it seems I have to start a campaign to support the Twinkie Farmers of America!
~ Sar ~
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Shoot Me Now! Part 2 of 2
The doc comes toward me like I was happy to see him...
"I would like to take your blood pressure," he says and wraps this cuff thing around my arm while I narrow my eyes at him and growl. My normal blood pressure is in the low range and it comes out fine; the doc's blood pressure is obviously sky high by now and I decide not to kick him... yet.
"Where did you go to medical school," I ask.
"Back East," he mumbles.
"Did you go to a real medical school or did you earn your degree online? At Google?"
"I went to a real medical school and now, I need to listen to your heart," the fool says.
"I need to see your medical school transcripts before you touch me. Did you pass everything?"
"Yes!" he shouts.
Tsk. Obviously, he slept through the course on "bedside manners 101" and "patience with patients."
I'll hold the "heart end" part of the stethoscope and you can listen," I tell him.
"Can't do it that way," he says, digging the hole he's standing in deeper.
Cowboy says to let him listen to my heart.
Hmmm...
I let him listen... he's listening a long time... I pick up the stethoscope end that's touching me and I blow into it.
Doc jumps.
"Why did you do that?" he yells.
"Would you rather I kicked you?"
Cowboy whispers in my ear and what he's whispering is that when we're alone, he's gonna burn my butt.
Truly, the man says the sweetest things.
"You really need to change into a gown," the doc says.
"Why? What's the difference between a gown and the shirt I'm wearing?"
"I can't do a breast exam when you're wearing a shirt," the easily demented man explains.
"I don't need a breast exam, thank you very much. I have two of them and both are just fine. And I get a mammogram every year and the scans are good there, too."
"It's part of the exam," he says.
Oye, I bet he flosses after every meal, too.
"I'll skip the breast exam. What else do you have to do?"
"I have to look in your mouth."
"Better not," I advise.
"Why not?"
"Because if I breathe on you, you'll disintegrate. I took anti-demon pills before I got here." (I learned that by watching "Charmed" on TNT.)
"Sir..." the doc addresses His Holiness who is rolling his eyes.
"Sar," the eye-rolling giant squid says.
"Did you go to a reputable medical school?"
"Yes," he says.
Does the man actually think I'm gonna take his word for this?
"How many bones in the human body? What do you prescribe for an upper respiratory infection? What's the difference between eczema and psoriasis? Why is a canine heartbeat slower than ours and what's the TSH range for a normal person?"
"Sir..." the doc repeats his fervent plea to my husband who has just arched a brow in my direction. This means Cowboy's patience is at an end. I'm not sure if that's because he's thinking of having one of those hand-to-my-tush discussions or he's unhappy that the doc didn't answer any of my questions.
"Why don't you wait outside, dear?" I ask.
"NO!" the doc protests.
AHA! He's afraid of me.
I love fear in a doctor.
Cowboy stays in the room and the doc gets very brave and says he wants to run a series of tests.
"What kind of tests?"
"Abdominal scan, GI series, throat cultures, that kind of thing."
I get off the table and leave the room.
"I'll wait in the car," I tell the giant squid.
"Sarrrrr."
I hear the doc tell Cowboy he'll be happy to admit me overnight if that's what it will take to get the tests done.
I hear Cowboy's answer. "You want to be reassigned to Somalia?"
There is dead quiet in the car on the ride home but Cowboy holds my hand. Once we're home, he hugs me tight and tells me he's relieved I didn't hurt the doctor but he's gonna spank me for being uncooperative.
WHAT?
"I was in the room, baby. You could have been nicer to the doctor. He didn't exactly hurt you and he barely touched you. And I forgot to tell you," he says as he reaches into his jacket pocket. "He gave me these pills for you to take before your next appointment. As soon as your blood work comes back, we're going to see him again."
I look at the pills... happy pills. Hmmm....
So... if you happen to see a story on the 6 o'clock news about a doc that requested a transfer to Somalia... you'll know I had absolutely nothing to do with it.
Tsk. The man didn't even know the difference between eczema and psoriasis. Probably doesn't even know the difference between his ass and a hole in the ground. Probably doesn't even....
"Sarrrrr."
SWAT!
Tsk.
~Sar~
"I would like to take your blood pressure," he says and wraps this cuff thing around my arm while I narrow my eyes at him and growl. My normal blood pressure is in the low range and it comes out fine; the doc's blood pressure is obviously sky high by now and I decide not to kick him... yet.
"Where did you go to medical school," I ask.
"Back East," he mumbles.
"Did you go to a real medical school or did you earn your degree online? At Google?"
"I went to a real medical school and now, I need to listen to your heart," the fool says.
"I need to see your medical school transcripts before you touch me. Did you pass everything?"
"Yes!" he shouts.
Tsk. Obviously, he slept through the course on "bedside manners 101" and "patience with patients."
I'll hold the "heart end" part of the stethoscope and you can listen," I tell him.
"Can't do it that way," he says, digging the hole he's standing in deeper.
Cowboy says to let him listen to my heart.
Hmmm...
I let him listen... he's listening a long time... I pick up the stethoscope end that's touching me and I blow into it.
Doc jumps.
"Why did you do that?" he yells.
"Would you rather I kicked you?"
Cowboy whispers in my ear and what he's whispering is that when we're alone, he's gonna burn my butt.
Truly, the man says the sweetest things.
"You really need to change into a gown," the doc says.
"Why? What's the difference between a gown and the shirt I'm wearing?"
"I can't do a breast exam when you're wearing a shirt," the easily demented man explains.
"I don't need a breast exam, thank you very much. I have two of them and both are just fine. And I get a mammogram every year and the scans are good there, too."
"It's part of the exam," he says.
Oye, I bet he flosses after every meal, too.
"I'll skip the breast exam. What else do you have to do?"
"I have to look in your mouth."
"Better not," I advise.
"Why not?"
"Because if I breathe on you, you'll disintegrate. I took anti-demon pills before I got here." (I learned that by watching "Charmed" on TNT.)
"Sir..." the doc addresses His Holiness who is rolling his eyes.
"Sar," the eye-rolling giant squid says.
"Did you go to a reputable medical school?"
"Yes," he says.
Does the man actually think I'm gonna take his word for this?
"How many bones in the human body? What do you prescribe for an upper respiratory infection? What's the difference between eczema and psoriasis? Why is a canine heartbeat slower than ours and what's the TSH range for a normal person?"
"Sir..." the doc repeats his fervent plea to my husband who has just arched a brow in my direction. This means Cowboy's patience is at an end. I'm not sure if that's because he's thinking of having one of those hand-to-my-tush discussions or he's unhappy that the doc didn't answer any of my questions.
"Why don't you wait outside, dear?" I ask.
"NO!" the doc protests.
AHA! He's afraid of me.
I love fear in a doctor.
Cowboy stays in the room and the doc gets very brave and says he wants to run a series of tests.
"What kind of tests?"
"Abdominal scan, GI series, throat cultures, that kind of thing."
I get off the table and leave the room.
"I'll wait in the car," I tell the giant squid.
"Sarrrrr."
I hear the doc tell Cowboy he'll be happy to admit me overnight if that's what it will take to get the tests done.
I hear Cowboy's answer. "You want to be reassigned to Somalia?"
There is dead quiet in the car on the ride home but Cowboy holds my hand. Once we're home, he hugs me tight and tells me he's relieved I didn't hurt the doctor but he's gonna spank me for being uncooperative.
WHAT?
"I was in the room, baby. You could have been nicer to the doctor. He didn't exactly hurt you and he barely touched you. And I forgot to tell you," he says as he reaches into his jacket pocket. "He gave me these pills for you to take before your next appointment. As soon as your blood work comes back, we're going to see him again."
I look at the pills... happy pills. Hmmm....
So... if you happen to see a story on the 6 o'clock news about a doc that requested a transfer to Somalia... you'll know I had absolutely nothing to do with it.
Tsk. The man didn't even know the difference between eczema and psoriasis. Probably doesn't even know the difference between his ass and a hole in the ground. Probably doesn't even....
"Sarrrrr."
SWAT!
Tsk.
~Sar~
Shoot Me Now! Part 1 of 2
BANG!
I was thinking of writing a blow-by-blow account of my medical appointments but I'm not sure if there's a maximum word count law on each individual blog entry. So I'll try to give you the highlights.
1/ I'm fine.
2/ Score:
a/ Sar - 10
b/ Vampires - 1
c/ Docs - 2
d/ Giant Squid - IN THE STRATOSPHERE!
Normally, when I have a doctor's appointment, I try hard to disappear for a few days. The pups and I take the ferry out to the out islands and count orcas, run on the beach, eat mac and cheese and drink milkshakes and I nibble on chocolate while they consume my Twinkies and Cracker Jacks. By the time His Holiness catches up with me, he's already made formal apologies for my failure to show up at the appointment I didn't want in the first place, and made a new appointment. He's also vowed to get to the "bottom" of this "conduct unbecoming" the spouse of an officer, and in general, has uttered threatening noises into his cell phone. I don't why he does this. It's not as if I had been listening. Orca whales and chocolate bars are far more interesting than his threats of retribution, yada yada yada.
However... this time I didn't get to sneak away. He kept his evil eye on me for days... and instead of telling me to get dressed so we could go to the base - I was in a sweater and jeans - he just tossed me over his shoulder! Caveman style! And in an instant we were in the back of a Navy car and he was holding me so I wouldn't fly out the door while the car was in motion and his driver - who I will personally maim - snickered the whole time we were on the road.
I have several rules about the military. Sailors should not laugh when they are spanking their wives. Sailors should not snicker when they are driving. And of course, marines should never chortle... or call me SweetCheeks.
So we get to the base and the first stop we make is in front of the entrance to Vampires R Us! The lab tech comes out to greet us and I swear on all that's holy, the wretch was a dead ringer for Bela Lagosi! I immediately pull a huge silver cross out of my shirt and wave it in front of him. Surprisingly... he steps back. AHA!
Cowboy snorts... "You're not Catholic, Sar."
"It only works for Catholics?" Who knew?
To make a long and unpleasant story shorter, Cowboy sits in the chair meant for me, pulls me down to sit on his lap, wraps his legs around mine so I can't kick, his arms are holding my down and I yell.
"Fire!"
"Pervert!"
"Blood sucker!"
"Does your mother know what you do for a living?"
Whatever it takes...
None of us are surprised that my blood is brownish-red. Cowboy says it's all those tootsie rolls I eat.
When the ordeal is over, I smile sweetly and kick the heathen vampire in the shin. I would have kicked harder and higher but the Navy doesn't pay for "sex reassignment" operations.
Next is the doc. It's a "she" and she's about 5 feet tall and 8 feet wide. "You're in the Navy?" I am incredulous.
"Sure am, sweetie."
Sweetie? Ut-oh.
"The Navy thinks you're fit for combat?"
Well... that was a silly question. She sits on the enemy - they're dead. Of course, she's also a rather large target...
"I'm ready for you," she smiles.
"Great! You get to examine the Admiral first. If he survives, I'll let you examine me."
Cowboy objects. LOL!
The doc from the Planet Sappho smiles and says to jump up on the table, sweet thing, and we'll get this over with.
"Touch me and die!"
She's says she's highly insulted and leaves to get another doctor. Pardon me while I yawn.
Here comes Doc # 2.
"Ha ha," he laughs. "That was a civilian contract worker. We dressed her up just to scare you."
"Really? Gosh... I hope *you* don't scare easily."
"Sarrrr!"
Tsk.
Okay, this is the end of part 1. Will post the rest shortly.
I was thinking of writing a blow-by-blow account of my medical appointments but I'm not sure if there's a maximum word count law on each individual blog entry. So I'll try to give you the highlights.
1/ I'm fine.
2/ Score:
a/ Sar - 10
b/ Vampires - 1
c/ Docs - 2
d/ Giant Squid - IN THE STRATOSPHERE!
Normally, when I have a doctor's appointment, I try hard to disappear for a few days. The pups and I take the ferry out to the out islands and count orcas, run on the beach, eat mac and cheese and drink milkshakes and I nibble on chocolate while they consume my Twinkies and Cracker Jacks. By the time His Holiness catches up with me, he's already made formal apologies for my failure to show up at the appointment I didn't want in the first place, and made a new appointment. He's also vowed to get to the "bottom" of this "conduct unbecoming" the spouse of an officer, and in general, has uttered threatening noises into his cell phone. I don't why he does this. It's not as if I had been listening. Orca whales and chocolate bars are far more interesting than his threats of retribution, yada yada yada.
However... this time I didn't get to sneak away. He kept his evil eye on me for days... and instead of telling me to get dressed so we could go to the base - I was in a sweater and jeans - he just tossed me over his shoulder! Caveman style! And in an instant we were in the back of a Navy car and he was holding me so I wouldn't fly out the door while the car was in motion and his driver - who I will personally maim - snickered the whole time we were on the road.
I have several rules about the military. Sailors should not laugh when they are spanking their wives. Sailors should not snicker when they are driving. And of course, marines should never chortle... or call me SweetCheeks.
So we get to the base and the first stop we make is in front of the entrance to Vampires R Us! The lab tech comes out to greet us and I swear on all that's holy, the wretch was a dead ringer for Bela Lagosi! I immediately pull a huge silver cross out of my shirt and wave it in front of him. Surprisingly... he steps back. AHA!
Cowboy snorts... "You're not Catholic, Sar."
"It only works for Catholics?" Who knew?
To make a long and unpleasant story shorter, Cowboy sits in the chair meant for me, pulls me down to sit on his lap, wraps his legs around mine so I can't kick, his arms are holding my down and I yell.
"Fire!"
"Pervert!"
"Blood sucker!"
"Does your mother know what you do for a living?"
Whatever it takes...
None of us are surprised that my blood is brownish-red. Cowboy says it's all those tootsie rolls I eat.
When the ordeal is over, I smile sweetly and kick the heathen vampire in the shin. I would have kicked harder and higher but the Navy doesn't pay for "sex reassignment" operations.
Next is the doc. It's a "she" and she's about 5 feet tall and 8 feet wide. "You're in the Navy?" I am incredulous.
"Sure am, sweetie."
Sweetie? Ut-oh.
"The Navy thinks you're fit for combat?"
Well... that was a silly question. She sits on the enemy - they're dead. Of course, she's also a rather large target...
"I'm ready for you," she smiles.
"Great! You get to examine the Admiral first. If he survives, I'll let you examine me."
Cowboy objects. LOL!
The doc from the Planet Sappho smiles and says to jump up on the table, sweet thing, and we'll get this over with.
"Touch me and die!"
She's says she's highly insulted and leaves to get another doctor. Pardon me while I yawn.
Here comes Doc # 2.
"Ha ha," he laughs. "That was a civilian contract worker. We dressed her up just to scare you."
"Really? Gosh... I hope *you* don't scare easily."
"Sarrrr!"
Tsk.
Okay, this is the end of part 1. Will post the rest shortly.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Pray For Me!
It's that time of year when I'm due for a medical checkup. This does not make me happy. Doctors and I do not get along very well. They like to touch me. I don't want them touching me.
I think they should stand on the other side of the room and wave a body x-ray thingy in my general direction and get the same results.
Ya see... it's like this: First, they want me to change into a flimsy paper gown. Forget it! They're not getting free nudie entertainment from me. I'm keeping my clothes on.
A few years ago, a doc cupped my *naked* breast while listening to my heart! What's a gal supposed to do when that happens? Naturally, I decked him, stepped over his unconscious body and got out of there. I was so distraught I bought a chocolate cheesecake and ate the whole thing on the drive home.
Cowboy was worried we'd be sued but I assured him I hadn't broken any bones. The next doc wasn't so lucky when he tried to put a stethoscope under my breast... I bent his thumb back but it wasn't like he was performing surgery the next day. He yelled just like a girl, too. Tsk.
Then there are the vampires that draw blood. I had no idea they could work while the sun was out. I'm taking a vial of holy water and a wooden stake and a silver cross with me when I go to the lab.
Cowboy thinks my concerns are blown out of proportion. Oh sure, he's an admiral and when he needs to get a physical, hoards of female navy docs rush to be the one that gets to examine him. I grabbed his yummy stick and other goodies one night after he had an exam and asked, "Did she say cough?"
Tsk! The man actually blushed and gave me a swat!
Of course he thinks I can't be trusted to go to a doctor's appointment on my own. Of course I can! Last time I went, I took the rottweiler with me... the doc really kept his distance and you know what? He said I was in very good health! So there. I was almost moved to give him a chocolate bar but then sanity reared its head and I ate it, instead.
His Holiness says he's taking me to the appointment. I have the distinct feeling he's going just to protect the doc... My appointment is on the navy base at the clinic. The blood drinkers drew straws to see who gets to try to get blood out of my veins. I like to shout uncouth phrases at them while they're trying to stick that humonguous needle in my arm. You can't tell me they're not drinking it; they take enough blood to get a football player through open heart surgery. Cowboy says I have to behave or else. Folks... if they're still alive and all in one piece with only minimal bruising to show that I was there... I *am* behaving.
And for the record... it is pure rumor that two docs requested an overseas transfer prior to my appointment. Such exaggeration! It was only one doc and his excuse was that he had a family... tsk. They don't make sailors the way they used to.
I'll post a damage report if I can sit comfortably when I get home.
~Sar~
I think they should stand on the other side of the room and wave a body x-ray thingy in my general direction and get the same results.
Ya see... it's like this: First, they want me to change into a flimsy paper gown. Forget it! They're not getting free nudie entertainment from me. I'm keeping my clothes on.
A few years ago, a doc cupped my *naked* breast while listening to my heart! What's a gal supposed to do when that happens? Naturally, I decked him, stepped over his unconscious body and got out of there. I was so distraught I bought a chocolate cheesecake and ate the whole thing on the drive home.
Cowboy was worried we'd be sued but I assured him I hadn't broken any bones. The next doc wasn't so lucky when he tried to put a stethoscope under my breast... I bent his thumb back but it wasn't like he was performing surgery the next day. He yelled just like a girl, too. Tsk.
Then there are the vampires that draw blood. I had no idea they could work while the sun was out. I'm taking a vial of holy water and a wooden stake and a silver cross with me when I go to the lab.
Cowboy thinks my concerns are blown out of proportion. Oh sure, he's an admiral and when he needs to get a physical, hoards of female navy docs rush to be the one that gets to examine him. I grabbed his yummy stick and other goodies one night after he had an exam and asked, "Did she say cough?"
Tsk! The man actually blushed and gave me a swat!
Of course he thinks I can't be trusted to go to a doctor's appointment on my own. Of course I can! Last time I went, I took the rottweiler with me... the doc really kept his distance and you know what? He said I was in very good health! So there. I was almost moved to give him a chocolate bar but then sanity reared its head and I ate it, instead.
His Holiness says he's taking me to the appointment. I have the distinct feeling he's going just to protect the doc... My appointment is on the navy base at the clinic. The blood drinkers drew straws to see who gets to try to get blood out of my veins. I like to shout uncouth phrases at them while they're trying to stick that humonguous needle in my arm. You can't tell me they're not drinking it; they take enough blood to get a football player through open heart surgery. Cowboy says I have to behave or else. Folks... if they're still alive and all in one piece with only minimal bruising to show that I was there... I *am* behaving.
And for the record... it is pure rumor that two docs requested an overseas transfer prior to my appointment. Such exaggeration! It was only one doc and his excuse was that he had a family... tsk. They don't make sailors the way they used to.
I'll post a damage report if I can sit comfortably when I get home.
~Sar~
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Shiitake Mushrooms!
As a rule, I don't curse. It's true that quite a few characters in my stories have cursed a blue streak, using foul language the same way they suck in oxygen - constantly. But that's fiction. In real life, I don't curse. Okay... once in a great while "damn" or "hell" creeps into my speech but only when I'm really irritated. I don't care if other people curse; I'd rather they didn't do it around me but if they do, it's easily ignored unless... it's directed at me.
Back in our "early" days, I had a habit of saying "FARK!" when I was startled or irritated or exasperated or fuming. His Holiness said he didn't want to hear me say that so I started saying it softly so he couldn't hear it. When that didn't work, I started whispering it when he acted like a baboon butthead. A few firm swats later, he said he didn't want me to say it in front of him. So I only said it when he left the room. Unfortunately, that's not what he meant.
Then... I heard the word "fun-gooch!" Ohhhhh it is very satisfying to say fun-gooch. We were at a dinner party with a bunch of sailors and marines and their spouses and I got really excited when I saw we were having chocolate cheesecake for dessert and in my excitement, I said "FUN-GOOCH!"
One of the marines, recently returned from overseas, almost choked on his wine. You'd think he never saw a chocolate cheesecake before. Tsk.
Cowboy almost choked, too. Between you and me, I don't think they make sailors and marines the way they used to. I mean... it was just a chocolate cheesecake - not a loaded grenade.
Later, someone mentioned that fun-gooch was a slang expression in Portuguese and it was a very rude expression. Wellll, how was I supposed to know that? Much later, Cowboy said it was a rude expression in *any* language. Sheesh. Another perfectly good word down the toilet.
Fortunately, it didn't ruin my appetite for chocolate cheesecake. I ate my piece and while Cowboy was apologizing to our hostess, I ate his.
Then there's the "F" word. So impolite to use that word. I was under the impression that it was an acronym. "For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge." Ya know... sometimes, when you've been antsy all day (=horny) and you can't wait one minute more for your beloved to get home... and he/she finally sails through the doorway... Well, what happens after you tear each other's clothes off isn't always a sweet and mellow sexual union. Sometimes, it's just plain ol hot and heavy "For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge-ing." Okay, we're married so it's not unlawful. But the way it happens... raw and wild and naked and on top of the clothes dryer or in the foyer or halfway up the staircase... with the dogs watching... and the cats so startled, they've stopped washing themselves... and they stare... married or not, that's "For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge-ing."
Ever been to a Vietnamese restaurant? A great place for the "F" word. So many things on that menu have "pho" or "phuk" in it. The first time I saw "phuk" on the menu, I thought it was a typo. Cowboy laughed at me when I pointed it out to him. But when I realized I had the pronunciation right... well, that word just has so much "oomph" in it. I love ordering dinner in those places. ~ sigh ~ I notice he doesn't take me there very often.
As some of you know, I love to cook and bake. His Holiness is Italian on his mother's side and English (Cornwall) on his father's side. I learned to cook Italian from my mother-in-law and we enjoy those dishes several times a month. A common ingredient in a lot of Italian dishes is mushrooms. There are many varieties of mushrooms, of course. I favor Criminis and Portabellos but my favorite is the Shiitake mushroom. A cooking demonstration I attended years ago had a guest chef from Spain. He was all in favor of using "sheet-tahkey" mushrooms in his cuisine.
So now... when I'm incensed beyond reason and desperate to scream FARK! Or Fun-gooch! I now yell SHIITAKE Mushrooms!
Would you believe His Holiness is not amused?
Tsk.
~Sar~
Back in our "early" days, I had a habit of saying "FARK!" when I was startled or irritated or exasperated or fuming. His Holiness said he didn't want to hear me say that so I started saying it softly so he couldn't hear it. When that didn't work, I started whispering it when he acted like a baboon butthead. A few firm swats later, he said he didn't want me to say it in front of him. So I only said it when he left the room. Unfortunately, that's not what he meant.
Then... I heard the word "fun-gooch!" Ohhhhh it is very satisfying to say fun-gooch. We were at a dinner party with a bunch of sailors and marines and their spouses and I got really excited when I saw we were having chocolate cheesecake for dessert and in my excitement, I said "FUN-GOOCH!"
One of the marines, recently returned from overseas, almost choked on his wine. You'd think he never saw a chocolate cheesecake before. Tsk.
Cowboy almost choked, too. Between you and me, I don't think they make sailors and marines the way they used to. I mean... it was just a chocolate cheesecake - not a loaded grenade.
Later, someone mentioned that fun-gooch was a slang expression in Portuguese and it was a very rude expression. Wellll, how was I supposed to know that? Much later, Cowboy said it was a rude expression in *any* language. Sheesh. Another perfectly good word down the toilet.
Fortunately, it didn't ruin my appetite for chocolate cheesecake. I ate my piece and while Cowboy was apologizing to our hostess, I ate his.
Then there's the "F" word. So impolite to use that word. I was under the impression that it was an acronym. "For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge." Ya know... sometimes, when you've been antsy all day (=horny) and you can't wait one minute more for your beloved to get home... and he/she finally sails through the doorway... Well, what happens after you tear each other's clothes off isn't always a sweet and mellow sexual union. Sometimes, it's just plain ol hot and heavy "For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge-ing." Okay, we're married so it's not unlawful. But the way it happens... raw and wild and naked and on top of the clothes dryer or in the foyer or halfway up the staircase... with the dogs watching... and the cats so startled, they've stopped washing themselves... and they stare... married or not, that's "For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge-ing."
Ever been to a Vietnamese restaurant? A great place for the "F" word. So many things on that menu have "pho" or "phuk" in it. The first time I saw "phuk" on the menu, I thought it was a typo. Cowboy laughed at me when I pointed it out to him. But when I realized I had the pronunciation right... well, that word just has so much "oomph" in it. I love ordering dinner in those places. ~ sigh ~ I notice he doesn't take me there very often.
As some of you know, I love to cook and bake. His Holiness is Italian on his mother's side and English (Cornwall) on his father's side. I learned to cook Italian from my mother-in-law and we enjoy those dishes several times a month. A common ingredient in a lot of Italian dishes is mushrooms. There are many varieties of mushrooms, of course. I favor Criminis and Portabellos but my favorite is the Shiitake mushroom. A cooking demonstration I attended years ago had a guest chef from Spain. He was all in favor of using "sheet-tahkey" mushrooms in his cuisine.
So now... when I'm incensed beyond reason and desperate to scream FARK! Or Fun-gooch! I now yell SHIITAKE Mushrooms!
Would you believe His Holiness is not amused?
Tsk.
~Sar~
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Happy Pepperoni!
It's only January 4th and I'm already exhausted from being so good. Cowboy says I have another 360+ days to behave. I had no idea they taught squids to count. I always thought "3" was as high as he could go and get the numbers in the right order. When His Holiness and I were first married, he'd count to 3 when he thought I was doing something I shouldn't be doing. The premise is the parent/child thing. Today's kids know when mommy or daddy gets to 3, their world is going to come to an end... ergo, a spanking ensues. The first time he did that, I had no idea why he was counting. Nobody ever did that when I was growing up and if they had, we would have laughed. Where I lived, you hit me and I retaliated ten-fold no matter how much bigger you were. Not too many people hit me twice. So... the squid counts to 3 and I hint that 4 is next.
"Then 5, then 6. I think that's as high as you should go till you practice a little," I told him.
SWAT!
Truly, the man is sensitive about his counting skills.
Now, on the rare occasion he forgets that counting is something I ignore, and yells "ONE!" I roll my eyes and try not to mutter "Outstanding! Do I have a bid for two? This is a gem, folks. How about the gentleman in the back - did you want to bid again, sir?" Inevitably, I finish my little speech from the "over his shoulder" position and if I'm really feeling like a warrior princess, I still mutter when he upends me.
Run Amok Week was a huge success if I do say so myself. I won't incriminate myself by spilling details but suffice to say, MsHairUpHerAss, my nosy neighbor, has enough cat litter to "toilet" a dozen cats for a year. Now... to get her a dozen cats...
I heard David, a senior ranked officer in the US Marine Corps, is checking out the benefits of enlisting in the Air Force. FOFL! VISA charge, $100 for the gay men's chorus singing telegram; a photo of his startled homophobic face when they "touched" him while singing - PRICELESS! This is all hearsay, of course - 5th amendment and all that. Is this country great or what? I didn't want him to feel badly when I learned all these details so when he came over to spend a night with us - he lives on one of the islands in the San Juans - I made his favorite chicken and dumplings dinner with Boston Creme pie for dessert. Of course, I also short-sheeted the bed.
I discovered that one of the Christmas gifts the wretch gave to Cowboy was a long-handled wooden bathbrush. Egads! I immediately turned that into firewood. David casually mentioned that cheese boards and large wooden trivets make interesting "implements." Interesting? More firewood and now I will cut the cheese on a fiberglass tray and purchase very small trivets... iron. I think we won't need to buy an extra cord of wood this winter. I am such a thrifty housewife.
Ohhhh, did I mention Santa was very good to me this year? He was and I thanked him in ways he really liked. I plan to get my first 2006 letter composed to him shortly. I like to update him quarterly; it's just so efficient to keep him in the loop.
So, last night... we ordered pizza for dinner. I've been cooking and baking for eons and needed a break. We got 1 extra large mushroom and pepperoni pizza for me and the squid, 2 extra large pizzas for the 4 pups. (The outside pups aren't going to let us get away with eating pizza and not get some.) All of us want extra cheese and when the pies were delivered, I faithfully cut 2 of them in half, gave half to each pup and saved a small wedge for each cat.
Then Cowboy gets a phone call he says he has to take.
I'm starving.
The phone call goes on for a few minutes.
I'm getting hungrier by the second.
The pups have finished their pizza and are eyeing the pizza on the counter.
Cowboy is still on the phone in another room.
I'm salivating along with the pups.
I sneak a piece of pepperoni off the pizza, give one to each of the 2 indoor pups (outside pups back in the yard) and quickly close the pizza box.
Cowboy is still on the phone.
That one piece of pepperoni has my stomach growling.
Ergo: The pups and I eat ALL the pepperoni off the pizza.
I disappear upstairs to brush my teeth, dragging the dogs with me and spray their mouths with Binaca to hide the evidence.
Cowboy finally finishes his phone call and... did you happen to hear a sound that was similar to a jet hitting Mach 2 last night? That was Cowboy when he discovered the pizza only had mushrooms... Oops.
He calls the pizza place, makes loud noises into the phone, mumbles, and about 30 minutes later, voila! Another pizza is delivered - free of charge - and it has LOTS of extra pepperoni.
He tips the driver.
I, of course, have suddenly become mute and am an innocent bystander. Folks, please remember that the first rule of survival is "never admit guilt" - not even to your lawyer. The second rule is "Deny! Deny! Deny!" If all else fails, act indignant and then, sniff audibly and shed a tear or two. This doesn't always work, but it's always worth a try.
"Sarrrrrrrrrrrrr." Cowboy growls after we eat.
"What?"
"I'm gonna count to 3."
"Is that as high as a squid can count?"
Have I mentioned that the wretch can laugh and spank at the same time? I have no earthly idea why the man automatically assumes I was the guilty party. It's enough to make me think I should run amok 52 weeks a year.
Oh wait. I think I already do that.
~Sar~
"Then 5, then 6. I think that's as high as you should go till you practice a little," I told him.
SWAT!
Truly, the man is sensitive about his counting skills.
Now, on the rare occasion he forgets that counting is something I ignore, and yells "ONE!" I roll my eyes and try not to mutter "Outstanding! Do I have a bid for two? This is a gem, folks. How about the gentleman in the back - did you want to bid again, sir?" Inevitably, I finish my little speech from the "over his shoulder" position and if I'm really feeling like a warrior princess, I still mutter when he upends me.
Run Amok Week was a huge success if I do say so myself. I won't incriminate myself by spilling details but suffice to say, MsHairUpHerAss, my nosy neighbor, has enough cat litter to "toilet" a dozen cats for a year. Now... to get her a dozen cats...
I heard David, a senior ranked officer in the US Marine Corps, is checking out the benefits of enlisting in the Air Force. FOFL! VISA charge, $100 for the gay men's chorus singing telegram; a photo of his startled homophobic face when they "touched" him while singing - PRICELESS! This is all hearsay, of course - 5th amendment and all that. Is this country great or what? I didn't want him to feel badly when I learned all these details so when he came over to spend a night with us - he lives on one of the islands in the San Juans - I made his favorite chicken and dumplings dinner with Boston Creme pie for dessert. Of course, I also short-sheeted the bed.
I discovered that one of the Christmas gifts the wretch gave to Cowboy was a long-handled wooden bathbrush. Egads! I immediately turned that into firewood. David casually mentioned that cheese boards and large wooden trivets make interesting "implements." Interesting? More firewood and now I will cut the cheese on a fiberglass tray and purchase very small trivets... iron. I think we won't need to buy an extra cord of wood this winter. I am such a thrifty housewife.
Ohhhh, did I mention Santa was very good to me this year? He was and I thanked him in ways he really liked. I plan to get my first 2006 letter composed to him shortly. I like to update him quarterly; it's just so efficient to keep him in the loop.
So, last night... we ordered pizza for dinner. I've been cooking and baking for eons and needed a break. We got 1 extra large mushroom and pepperoni pizza for me and the squid, 2 extra large pizzas for the 4 pups. (The outside pups aren't going to let us get away with eating pizza and not get some.) All of us want extra cheese and when the pies were delivered, I faithfully cut 2 of them in half, gave half to each pup and saved a small wedge for each cat.
Then Cowboy gets a phone call he says he has to take.
I'm starving.
The phone call goes on for a few minutes.
I'm getting hungrier by the second.
The pups have finished their pizza and are eyeing the pizza on the counter.
Cowboy is still on the phone in another room.
I'm salivating along with the pups.
I sneak a piece of pepperoni off the pizza, give one to each of the 2 indoor pups (outside pups back in the yard) and quickly close the pizza box.
Cowboy is still on the phone.
That one piece of pepperoni has my stomach growling.
Ergo: The pups and I eat ALL the pepperoni off the pizza.
I disappear upstairs to brush my teeth, dragging the dogs with me and spray their mouths with Binaca to hide the evidence.
Cowboy finally finishes his phone call and... did you happen to hear a sound that was similar to a jet hitting Mach 2 last night? That was Cowboy when he discovered the pizza only had mushrooms... Oops.
He calls the pizza place, makes loud noises into the phone, mumbles, and about 30 minutes later, voila! Another pizza is delivered - free of charge - and it has LOTS of extra pepperoni.
He tips the driver.
I, of course, have suddenly become mute and am an innocent bystander. Folks, please remember that the first rule of survival is "never admit guilt" - not even to your lawyer. The second rule is "Deny! Deny! Deny!" If all else fails, act indignant and then, sniff audibly and shed a tear or two. This doesn't always work, but it's always worth a try.
"Sarrrrrrrrrrrrr." Cowboy growls after we eat.
"What?"
"I'm gonna count to 3."
"Is that as high as a squid can count?"
Have I mentioned that the wretch can laugh and spank at the same time? I have no earthly idea why the man automatically assumes I was the guilty party. It's enough to make me think I should run amok 52 weeks a year.
Oh wait. I think I already do that.
~Sar~
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Fleeing for my life!
Err... well... for my tush anyway.
Here I am, having been saintly for soooooo long and ZAP! In an instant, all my saintliness flushed down the commode. It's almost enough to make me give up Twinkies.
The giant squid is acting like a baboon butthead! And I told him so. So there! And let me just add that was not the smartest thing I've ever said to someone who is 6 feet 5 inches tall and has a hand as large as any I've ever seen. Truly, it's a very sad state of affairs.
It's "Run Amok Week!"
And he doesn't care.
I care.
Ya see... it's like this: Santa has completed his annual trek around the globe and is resting...
Mrs. Claus has shredded the 2005 "naughty vs nice" list. The new list doesn't begin until January 1, 2006.
Which means...
December 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, & 31, 2005 = 6 days when Santa isn't keeping track of who is naughty and who is nice!
It's a FREE zone!
We are free to run amok without fear of retribution! And since Santa isn't taking notes, then it's obviously a run amok/spank-free week.
I look forward to this week all year long and His Holiness, who is currently grumpy about something is being very "ghost of past run amok weeks" because... hmmm... because... well... there was that time when I was mad at him and put a little too much dye in the washing machine and his white boxers ended up more carmine than pink and he was in summer whites at the time and it was Christmas in July... sort of... and... For fear he would match my tush with his boxer shorts, I... um... took a leisurely ride - about 6 hours away - to the end of the earth on this side of the planet. And even though I feared I'd fall off the edge... that didn't scare me half as much as the giant squid's excessively hard and heavy hand painting my tush carmine.
Oyyyyy, I've lost my train of thought. A tush painted the color of his port wine does that to me. By the time he caught up with me, I was in deep doo-doo but he was so happy to see me, I got lots of cuddling and loving. The spanking that followed wasn't as bad as it might have been. He was more upset about my taking off for a few days than his deep red boxer shorts. Err... he had to buy more undies so he could get through the summer without being snickered at. He must have dozens of boxers... maybe I should buy more dye... just in case. Hmmm.
One "run amok" week I managed to get David's email password - don't ask - and I sent a "Nobody loves me" email to a few websites... the kind that cater to men loving men. Two years later, the sexy devil dog still gets offers. (Frankly, I think I'm way too good to this man.) The giant squid accused ME of sending that email! Can you believe that? Err... the question was rhetorical; you don't have to reply.
If that wasn't bad enough, Herr Baboon Butthead also accused me of sending a large spinning top to the base commandant for Christmas. (The base commandant is ALWAYS spinning his; everyone says so.) Not true! I made sure it arrived *after* Christmas.
And then... the piece de resistance of "run amok" weeks was the weekly flower bouquet I sent myself with love notes attached. His Holiness was furious! And jealous! And demanded to know who they were from. I told him I sent them, of course - which I had - but he didn't believe me! Oh! That was so much fun. After much contemplation, the giant squid decided I needed far more attention and gave me the kind I wanted.
Um... let me add that it's possible I shouldn't have charged all those flowers to his credit card... When the bill arrived I just happened to be at the mall waxing enthusiastic over the shoes on sale and then the chocolate shoppe across the aisle had samples of imported goodies and by the time I got home - with shoes and chocolate... Is there a better combination than that? I was flying pretty high.
He never said anything else about the flowers but he did warm my butt over the bill - tsk. He did add that he wanted to match the color of my tush to the color of the flowers but hey! I didn't just fall off a turnip truck! I had ordered *white* flowers and a just a few that were very very lightly stained pink. Whewwww. The butt warming I got for the bill stung like the dickens but there's something to be said for feeding one's ardor on a bed of petals. ~ sigh~
Soooo when I announced it was "run amok" week, he rolled his eyes and unfortunately, also rolled his sleeves. Aacckkk! I might have to run away again.
~Sar~
Here I am, having been saintly for soooooo long and ZAP! In an instant, all my saintliness flushed down the commode. It's almost enough to make me give up Twinkies.
The giant squid is acting like a baboon butthead! And I told him so. So there! And let me just add that was not the smartest thing I've ever said to someone who is 6 feet 5 inches tall and has a hand as large as any I've ever seen. Truly, it's a very sad state of affairs.
It's "Run Amok Week!"
And he doesn't care.
I care.
Ya see... it's like this: Santa has completed his annual trek around the globe and is resting...
Mrs. Claus has shredded the 2005 "naughty vs nice" list. The new list doesn't begin until January 1, 2006.
Which means...
December 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, & 31, 2005 = 6 days when Santa isn't keeping track of who is naughty and who is nice!
It's a FREE zone!
We are free to run amok without fear of retribution! And since Santa isn't taking notes, then it's obviously a run amok/spank-free week.
I look forward to this week all year long and His Holiness, who is currently grumpy about something is being very "ghost of past run amok weeks" because... hmmm... because... well... there was that time when I was mad at him and put a little too much dye in the washing machine and his white boxers ended up more carmine than pink and he was in summer whites at the time and it was Christmas in July... sort of... and... For fear he would match my tush with his boxer shorts, I... um... took a leisurely ride - about 6 hours away - to the end of the earth on this side of the planet. And even though I feared I'd fall off the edge... that didn't scare me half as much as the giant squid's excessively hard and heavy hand painting my tush carmine.
Oyyyyy, I've lost my train of thought. A tush painted the color of his port wine does that to me. By the time he caught up with me, I was in deep doo-doo but he was so happy to see me, I got lots of cuddling and loving. The spanking that followed wasn't as bad as it might have been. He was more upset about my taking off for a few days than his deep red boxer shorts. Err... he had to buy more undies so he could get through the summer without being snickered at. He must have dozens of boxers... maybe I should buy more dye... just in case. Hmmm.
One "run amok" week I managed to get David's email password - don't ask - and I sent a "Nobody loves me" email to a few websites... the kind that cater to men loving men. Two years later, the sexy devil dog still gets offers. (Frankly, I think I'm way too good to this man.) The giant squid accused ME of sending that email! Can you believe that? Err... the question was rhetorical; you don't have to reply.
If that wasn't bad enough, Herr Baboon Butthead also accused me of sending a large spinning top to the base commandant for Christmas. (The base commandant is ALWAYS spinning his; everyone says so.) Not true! I made sure it arrived *after* Christmas.
And then... the piece de resistance of "run amok" weeks was the weekly flower bouquet I sent myself with love notes attached. His Holiness was furious! And jealous! And demanded to know who they were from. I told him I sent them, of course - which I had - but he didn't believe me! Oh! That was so much fun. After much contemplation, the giant squid decided I needed far more attention and gave me the kind I wanted.
Um... let me add that it's possible I shouldn't have charged all those flowers to his credit card... When the bill arrived I just happened to be at the mall waxing enthusiastic over the shoes on sale and then the chocolate shoppe across the aisle had samples of imported goodies and by the time I got home - with shoes and chocolate... Is there a better combination than that? I was flying pretty high.
He never said anything else about the flowers but he did warm my butt over the bill - tsk. He did add that he wanted to match the color of my tush to the color of the flowers but hey! I didn't just fall off a turnip truck! I had ordered *white* flowers and a just a few that were very very lightly stained pink. Whewwww. The butt warming I got for the bill stung like the dickens but there's something to be said for feeding one's ardor on a bed of petals. ~ sigh~
Soooo when I announced it was "run amok" week, he rolled his eyes and unfortunately, also rolled his sleeves. Aacckkk! I might have to run away again.
~Sar~
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Happy Holidays!
Quick Note
Cowboy here - the imp is in the kitchen putting final touches on our holiday dinner and more than likely sneaking treats to the dogs. They sit under the kitchen table when she's cooking ready to sample what she's making. Bull is here and he is sitting at the same table and telling her he needs to give her food a taste test. David is adjusting young Patrick's new stationery bicycle. I'm drinking my Merlot in peace for a change.
Traditionally, Sar and I spend Christmas Eve alone. She always makes a special dessert for the 2 of us and we sit in front of the fire and sip a little wine and remember other times. We open just 1 gift then and save the rest for Christmas morning. The imp spends a great deal of time deciding which one to open. She is usually overwhelmed by what is there and I have to pick 1 for her.
I don't know if she will tell you this but on Christmas Eve - before we get settled in front of the fire and before I come into the room - Sar gives me my first gift. She wraps a large red bow around her hips and another around her breasts. When I come into the room I find her under our tree and waiting to be unwrapped. It is the best gift I ever receive and each year it just gets better. I have said this before. I will say it again. I am a lucky man.
I want to thank you for your gift of friendship to Sar and to me. I also add my thanks to those of you who read my wife's writing. I am very proud of her even when I am included in her stories as a Neanderthal. Rest assured I love her very much.
Here's to a happy holiday season and a New Year with greater peace!
Cowboy
Cowboy here - the imp is in the kitchen putting final touches on our holiday dinner and more than likely sneaking treats to the dogs. They sit under the kitchen table when she's cooking ready to sample what she's making. Bull is here and he is sitting at the same table and telling her he needs to give her food a taste test. David is adjusting young Patrick's new stationery bicycle. I'm drinking my Merlot in peace for a change.
Traditionally, Sar and I spend Christmas Eve alone. She always makes a special dessert for the 2 of us and we sit in front of the fire and sip a little wine and remember other times. We open just 1 gift then and save the rest for Christmas morning. The imp spends a great deal of time deciding which one to open. She is usually overwhelmed by what is there and I have to pick 1 for her.
I don't know if she will tell you this but on Christmas Eve - before we get settled in front of the fire and before I come into the room - Sar gives me my first gift. She wraps a large red bow around her hips and another around her breasts. When I come into the room I find her under our tree and waiting to be unwrapped. It is the best gift I ever receive and each year it just gets better. I have said this before. I will say it again. I am a lucky man.
I want to thank you for your gift of friendship to Sar and to me. I also add my thanks to those of you who read my wife's writing. I am very proud of her even when I am included in her stories as a Neanderthal. Rest assured I love her very much.
Here's to a happy holiday season and a New Year with greater peace!
Cowboy
Monday, December 19, 2005
T - 6 Days and Counting!
Remember that bit about being saintly? I'm not sure how long one has to be saintly to be canonized but I'm sure I'm close. I thought I'd call the Catholic priest at the church that Cowboy occasionally visits and ask him. To say he was frightened that I had called is an understatement. Not sure if he was scared I might want to join his flock and influence the other parishioners or if he thought he was having a conversation with someone who was not nearly as saintly as purported.
Tsk.
There was quite a bit of background noise while we were talking. Err... I was talking; he was giving his Rosary beads a pretty good workout... I was afraid he'd stroke out so I decided to google saints and canonization. Google had a lot of information but nothing on being saintly so long just prior to Christmas.
Then I had an epiphany! No, didn't call the Greek Orthodox priest - I called Ms.KeptWoman a.k.a. Lady Chatterly. She lives in my neighborhood and is "kept" by a very wealthy man who visits her monthly. He lives in Europe and comes here on business. I've seen him a few times; very debonair and silver-haired and obviously well-off. He's very generous to her and what they do behind closed doors is not anything she talks about. I have a fertile imagination. I can guess what they do.
Anyway, Lady Chatterly gets a LOT of presents ALL the time. So I invited her over for coffee and babka and asked her about saints and canonization. She assured me that canonization wasn't all it's cracked up to be. She says you get to be sought after for a day now and then and after a year or so, people forget to pray to you. Bummer!
She said it's better to be slightly naughty because that makes "Santa" give you far more attention and that the attention you get invariably leads to "stuff" and new leather boots and pretty lingerie and the latest best selling books and plenty of imported chocolates.
Ohhhh... I could live with that.
"What kind of naughty things do you suppose I should get into?" I asked.
"Just be yourself, Sar. I'm sure that will do it."
Hmmm... was that a dig... or was she being complimentary? Tsk. I might not give her that chestnut cheesecake for Christmas, after all.
So... thinking naughty might be the way to go... I just happened to hear the giant squid get out of bed in the wee hours. When he didn't come right back, I got up to investigate. There was a light on downstairs. Just as my feet reached the last step on the staircase and I was ready to sneak into the family room to see what he was up to...
"That better be one of the pups coming down the stairs and not an imp who should be in bed," the soft but firm voice announced.
Jeez!
"And if I catch you," his voice got just a little louder, "you'll be sleeping on your belly!"
Crumb! Who knew Santa could be so stern? I rushed back to bed and when he came upstairs, I feigned sleep.
"I know you're awake, Sar."
SWAT!
Mumble... groan... whine... complain...
The temperature has really dropped so the next morning the giant squid was in the backyard checking the heaters in the kennels. I knew that would take a while so I decided to check the downstairs closet in case Santa had made an early delivery. I was standing on a chair... reaching up to one of the top shelves... certain there was a huge box there I didn't remember seeing before.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Good God! The man has radar!
Before I could even think of a reason for being there... dusting the cobwebs, dear... rearranging stuff... thought I heard a noise...
I was over his shoulder and his grizzly paw was pounding away like a little drummer boy! How is it the man can laugh and spank and climb stairs at the same time? This is not my idea of multi-tasking and I told him so.
Oy! Bad idea.
It's one thing to get spanked for fun and another to get a firm swat just because the target was available as he was passing by. But to get spanked because His Holiness thinks I might be up to something naughty... even if I was? Double tsk!
"Do you know why I am spanking you, imp?"
Yes, it's because you're anal retentive.
"Because you're a baboon butthead!"
"Wrong answer."
SWAT!
Jeez!
"Poke your nose into places it has no business being and your tush is gonna be as red as Santa's suit."
"You're jumping to conclusions," I told him. "I needed to get something out of that closet."
"You're a terrible liar, Sar," the Neanderthal chuckled as he delivered another firm swat.
"Hey!" I protested. "I've been an absolute saint!"
"A what?"
Would you believe he had the nerve to laugh?
"That was really very rude of you," I said, rubbing my butt as he turned me over on his lap.
"Is this rude, too, baby?" he asked, his hands and mouth beginning to do very naughty things.
~ sigh ~
The band played on... "stuff" ensued and I still have to get into that closet to see what's in that big box.
~ Sar ~
6 days = 144 hours = 8,640 minutes = 518,000 seconds until Santa's sleigh lands on my roof, slides off because of black ice and the jolly ol fat man lands on his butt in my backyard where my two attack-trained Rottweilers will nose around in his giant bag to see if he brought them liver flavored biscuits.
Tsk.
There was quite a bit of background noise while we were talking. Err... I was talking; he was giving his Rosary beads a pretty good workout... I was afraid he'd stroke out so I decided to google saints and canonization. Google had a lot of information but nothing on being saintly so long just prior to Christmas.
Then I had an epiphany! No, didn't call the Greek Orthodox priest - I called Ms.KeptWoman a.k.a. Lady Chatterly. She lives in my neighborhood and is "kept" by a very wealthy man who visits her monthly. He lives in Europe and comes here on business. I've seen him a few times; very debonair and silver-haired and obviously well-off. He's very generous to her and what they do behind closed doors is not anything she talks about. I have a fertile imagination. I can guess what they do.
Anyway, Lady Chatterly gets a LOT of presents ALL the time. So I invited her over for coffee and babka and asked her about saints and canonization. She assured me that canonization wasn't all it's cracked up to be. She says you get to be sought after for a day now and then and after a year or so, people forget to pray to you. Bummer!
She said it's better to be slightly naughty because that makes "Santa" give you far more attention and that the attention you get invariably leads to "stuff" and new leather boots and pretty lingerie and the latest best selling books and plenty of imported chocolates.
Ohhhh... I could live with that.
"What kind of naughty things do you suppose I should get into?" I asked.
"Just be yourself, Sar. I'm sure that will do it."
Hmmm... was that a dig... or was she being complimentary? Tsk. I might not give her that chestnut cheesecake for Christmas, after all.
So... thinking naughty might be the way to go... I just happened to hear the giant squid get out of bed in the wee hours. When he didn't come right back, I got up to investigate. There was a light on downstairs. Just as my feet reached the last step on the staircase and I was ready to sneak into the family room to see what he was up to...
"That better be one of the pups coming down the stairs and not an imp who should be in bed," the soft but firm voice announced.
Jeez!
"And if I catch you," his voice got just a little louder, "you'll be sleeping on your belly!"
Crumb! Who knew Santa could be so stern? I rushed back to bed and when he came upstairs, I feigned sleep.
"I know you're awake, Sar."
SWAT!
Mumble... groan... whine... complain...
The temperature has really dropped so the next morning the giant squid was in the backyard checking the heaters in the kennels. I knew that would take a while so I decided to check the downstairs closet in case Santa had made an early delivery. I was standing on a chair... reaching up to one of the top shelves... certain there was a huge box there I didn't remember seeing before.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Good God! The man has radar!
Before I could even think of a reason for being there... dusting the cobwebs, dear... rearranging stuff... thought I heard a noise...
I was over his shoulder and his grizzly paw was pounding away like a little drummer boy! How is it the man can laugh and spank and climb stairs at the same time? This is not my idea of multi-tasking and I told him so.
Oy! Bad idea.
It's one thing to get spanked for fun and another to get a firm swat just because the target was available as he was passing by. But to get spanked because His Holiness thinks I might be up to something naughty... even if I was? Double tsk!
"Do you know why I am spanking you, imp?"
Yes, it's because you're anal retentive.
"Because you're a baboon butthead!"
"Wrong answer."
SWAT!
Jeez!
"Poke your nose into places it has no business being and your tush is gonna be as red as Santa's suit."
"You're jumping to conclusions," I told him. "I needed to get something out of that closet."
"You're a terrible liar, Sar," the Neanderthal chuckled as he delivered another firm swat.
"Hey!" I protested. "I've been an absolute saint!"
"A what?"
Would you believe he had the nerve to laugh?
"That was really very rude of you," I said, rubbing my butt as he turned me over on his lap.
"Is this rude, too, baby?" he asked, his hands and mouth beginning to do very naughty things.
~ sigh ~
The band played on... "stuff" ensued and I still have to get into that closet to see what's in that big box.
~ Sar ~
6 days = 144 hours = 8,640 minutes = 518,000 seconds until Santa's sleigh lands on my roof, slides off because of black ice and the jolly ol fat man lands on his butt in my backyard where my two attack-trained Rottweilers will nose around in his giant bag to see if he brought them liver flavored biscuits.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Saintly!
You're all a bunch of voyeurs. I'm not saying that's a bad thing but I have this feeling you're just waiting for me to stop being so saintly... and do something that will get the giant squid's attention so that a hand-to-tush dialogue takes place.
Tsk.
Bunch of voyeurs.
The other day I was especially saintly. I had a roast in the oven, all the side dishes ready to be warmed up and the table set for the two of us. I even put candles on the table and fresh flowers. Is that saintly? Ubetcha! Of course, I sacrificed my own health to make sure His Holiness had plenty of veggies. I gave him my share along with his. Talk about saintly!
So, I'm in my sewing studio and auditioning fabrics on my design wall for a wonderful new creation that currently resides only in my head. In the course of continuously bending down to select fabric swatches, the drawstring on my sweat pants came loose. Wouldn't you know that the moment my pants fell to my ankles... the giant squid came into the room! I was bent over, my tush - ivory at that particular moment - was obviously a target he couldn't resist!
SWAT!
Jeez! It's a good thing he caught me or I would have flown right into my design wall! And it's a new design wall and I would have uttered more than a few indelicate comments if it cracked.
As it is, I remembered I was being saintly and refrained from telling him he was a first class baboon butthead!
The wretch laughed and upended me and swatted me again and said it was my own fault since I rarely wear undies. Err... when I'm home and working that is.
Tsk.
Fortunately, his hands did other things to distract me from the impromptu spanking and "stuff" ensued and now I have to re-wash the fabric that was still on the floor because... um... because.
~~~
We went to a cocktail party the other night and met the hostess from hell - platinum blonde hair that was lacquered with Elmer's glue I think - a bosom that was desperately trying to leap from her tight bodice, and collagen lips that would frighten a blowfish.
The hors de oeuvres a.k.a. horses ovaries were veggies! There was a platter of crackers and some stinky cheese and very salty nuts. I stuck to the wine and the crackers and His Holiness stuffed himself on veggies. Talk about no couth! Of course, I was saintly and only smiled at the witch when she offered me a veggie ovary from her very own plate. I had an overwhelming urge to stuff it down her throat while simultaneously throttling her. Egads! I hope Santa was watching to see how good I was. The giant squid was watching me, too. He arched a brow in my direction when I politely declined the evil morsel the woman was trying to force on me. Later, I reminded him how saintly I had been.
The wretch snorted! Tsk. Admirals can snort with the best of them.
I would like to add that more than a few of us drank a LOT of wine to get through the evening. I had no intention of inviting these people to our home for any of the holiday festivities we will be hosting but the wretch I live with did the inviting before I could tell him I didn't want them.
Just to be sure I remain "Christmas good," I'll be serving lots of high calorie, high cholesterol, high fat, and high sugar content foods... hope the "vegan" doesn't choke.
Am I saintly or what?
~Sar~
10 days = 240 hours = 14,400 minutes = 864,000 seconds till the jolly ol fat guy burns his butt coming down my chimney.
Tsk.
Bunch of voyeurs.
The other day I was especially saintly. I had a roast in the oven, all the side dishes ready to be warmed up and the table set for the two of us. I even put candles on the table and fresh flowers. Is that saintly? Ubetcha! Of course, I sacrificed my own health to make sure His Holiness had plenty of veggies. I gave him my share along with his. Talk about saintly!
So, I'm in my sewing studio and auditioning fabrics on my design wall for a wonderful new creation that currently resides only in my head. In the course of continuously bending down to select fabric swatches, the drawstring on my sweat pants came loose. Wouldn't you know that the moment my pants fell to my ankles... the giant squid came into the room! I was bent over, my tush - ivory at that particular moment - was obviously a target he couldn't resist!
SWAT!
Jeez! It's a good thing he caught me or I would have flown right into my design wall! And it's a new design wall and I would have uttered more than a few indelicate comments if it cracked.
As it is, I remembered I was being saintly and refrained from telling him he was a first class baboon butthead!
The wretch laughed and upended me and swatted me again and said it was my own fault since I rarely wear undies. Err... when I'm home and working that is.
Tsk.
Fortunately, his hands did other things to distract me from the impromptu spanking and "stuff" ensued and now I have to re-wash the fabric that was still on the floor because... um... because.
We went to a cocktail party the other night and met the hostess from hell - platinum blonde hair that was lacquered with Elmer's glue I think - a bosom that was desperately trying to leap from her tight bodice, and collagen lips that would frighten a blowfish.
The hors de oeuvres a.k.a. horses ovaries were veggies! There was a platter of crackers and some stinky cheese and very salty nuts. I stuck to the wine and the crackers and His Holiness stuffed himself on veggies. Talk about no couth! Of course, I was saintly and only smiled at the witch when she offered me a veggie ovary from her very own plate. I had an overwhelming urge to stuff it down her throat while simultaneously throttling her. Egads! I hope Santa was watching to see how good I was. The giant squid was watching me, too. He arched a brow in my direction when I politely declined the evil morsel the woman was trying to force on me. Later, I reminded him how saintly I had been.
The wretch snorted! Tsk. Admirals can snort with the best of them.
I would like to add that more than a few of us drank a LOT of wine to get through the evening. I had no intention of inviting these people to our home for any of the holiday festivities we will be hosting but the wretch I live with did the inviting before I could tell him I didn't want them.
Just to be sure I remain "Christmas good," I'll be serving lots of high calorie, high cholesterol, high fat, and high sugar content foods... hope the "vegan" doesn't choke.
Am I saintly or what?
~Sar~
10 days = 240 hours = 14,400 minutes = 864,000 seconds till the jolly ol fat guy burns his butt coming down my chimney.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
16 More Days to Suffer
I don't mind telling you this "being good" business is hard work. I'm so good I don't recognize myself in the mirror. Who is that person? I've always prided myself in being good in 15-minute stretches, mostly when I'm asleep. However, I actually outgooded myself the other day. How do I know this? Well...
We were sitting down to dinner when Cowboy stopped talking in the middle of a sentence. "What?" I asked.
"You've got a piece of broccoli on your fork, imp. You feeling okay?"
EGADS! I've gone to hell and didn't even know it!
To make matters worse, I didn't even try to feed the dogs at the table and we were having beef bracciola (Italian beef rolls.) It's one of their favorite things to eat. And I always slip them a bite or two. Cowboy was so alarmed he reached over to feel my forehead to see if I had a fever. Jeez! I checked it myself.
Then I remembered... Christmas Eve is only 16 days away. This being good business in December is pure torture.
His Holiness also told me that the U.S. Navy has Santa's email addy. It's top secret but he said if I send him my email to Santa, he'd make sure it was forwarded to the North Pole. Truly, I suspect the giant squid will doctor the email to include things I don't want like socks and pajamas, but on the other hand, it's hard to resist an opportunity to be one of the few that has a direct link to the jolly old guy. I'm giving this serious thought.
Our friend Alli called to say her cat, Hissy Fit, who spent Thanksgiving with us, remains traumatized from her visit to our house. Hissy is a Maine Coon cat and of course, her ancestors were worshipped as gods by the Egyptians. Hissy continues to be worshipped and honestly, I had no idea so many Egyptians had migrated to our New England states. She (I think Hissy is a "she;" I neglected to look.) demands attention and I gave it to her, swatting her off my clean counters and zapping her with Lysol disinfectant until she got the idea. Both of my cats shunned her, common peasants that they are. The Rott, true to form, tried to drown her in the commode, but BullyBoy treated her to even more hideous torture. He washed her face with his lethal slobber and the poor cat spent hours yelling "Unclean! Unclean! and washing herself. It could have been worse; BullyBoy could have dunked her in his water bowl which someone had filled with cold Budweisers.
We have snow! We rarely get more than a dusting of the white stuff but it came down in buckets and we have about 2-3 inches of it. I rushed out to make snow angels and then I made anatomically correct snow people. It's a wonderful way to use up carrots and Brussels sprouts and prunes. Of course, I built them in the front yard so my neighbors could enjoy looking at them when they drive by. With any luck, my neighbor - Mrs. HairUpHerAss - will waddle over to complain. That woman was toilet trained far too early in life. Tsk.
We had so much snow I built a snow fort and stocked up on snowballs. And when Cowboy came back from his morning jog, I hit him right between the eyes! Boy! Was he surprised at my aim!
I've been practicing.
I bombarded him!
It was wonderful!
He was covered in snow!
Um... did you know that former Seals can still run fast?
And I don't mind telling you they fight dirty.
And they are totally lacking in couth.
He must have played percussion instruments when he was younger because he can spank with *both* hands and still hold me down.
"STOP!" I yelled. "Not my fault you can't throw a snowball to save your life!"
"That was for the snowman with all the dangling bits!" he laughed. "The next spanking is for the snow-woman with the big boobs and Brazilian cut."
Tsk.
"And later tonight, the spanking will be for the snowball fight."
Double tsk.
"And tomorrow, the spanking will be for the snow angels. Didn't I tell you I didn't want you laying in that stuff? You'll catch pneumonia!"
You know, it's a terrible thing when His Holiness automatically assumes I am at fault. I mean, anyone could have made the snow angels. Of course, they were in the backyard... which is fenced and has locked gates.
16 days = 384 hours = 23,040 minutes = 1,382,400 seconds. Santa better not be late; my "goodness" isn't gonna last forever.
~Sar~
We were sitting down to dinner when Cowboy stopped talking in the middle of a sentence. "What?" I asked.
"You've got a piece of broccoli on your fork, imp. You feeling okay?"
EGADS! I've gone to hell and didn't even know it!
To make matters worse, I didn't even try to feed the dogs at the table and we were having beef bracciola (Italian beef rolls.) It's one of their favorite things to eat. And I always slip them a bite or two. Cowboy was so alarmed he reached over to feel my forehead to see if I had a fever. Jeez! I checked it myself.
Then I remembered... Christmas Eve is only 16 days away. This being good business in December is pure torture.
His Holiness also told me that the U.S. Navy has Santa's email addy. It's top secret but he said if I send him my email to Santa, he'd make sure it was forwarded to the North Pole. Truly, I suspect the giant squid will doctor the email to include things I don't want like socks and pajamas, but on the other hand, it's hard to resist an opportunity to be one of the few that has a direct link to the jolly old guy. I'm giving this serious thought.
Our friend Alli called to say her cat, Hissy Fit, who spent Thanksgiving with us, remains traumatized from her visit to our house. Hissy is a Maine Coon cat and of course, her ancestors were worshipped as gods by the Egyptians. Hissy continues to be worshipped and honestly, I had no idea so many Egyptians had migrated to our New England states. She (I think Hissy is a "she;" I neglected to look.) demands attention and I gave it to her, swatting her off my clean counters and zapping her with Lysol disinfectant until she got the idea. Both of my cats shunned her, common peasants that they are. The Rott, true to form, tried to drown her in the commode, but BullyBoy treated her to even more hideous torture. He washed her face with his lethal slobber and the poor cat spent hours yelling "Unclean! Unclean! and washing herself. It could have been worse; BullyBoy could have dunked her in his water bowl which someone had filled with cold Budweisers.
We have snow! We rarely get more than a dusting of the white stuff but it came down in buckets and we have about 2-3 inches of it. I rushed out to make snow angels and then I made anatomically correct snow people. It's a wonderful way to use up carrots and Brussels sprouts and prunes. Of course, I built them in the front yard so my neighbors could enjoy looking at them when they drive by. With any luck, my neighbor - Mrs. HairUpHerAss - will waddle over to complain. That woman was toilet trained far too early in life. Tsk.
We had so much snow I built a snow fort and stocked up on snowballs. And when Cowboy came back from his morning jog, I hit him right between the eyes! Boy! Was he surprised at my aim!
I've been practicing.
I bombarded him!
It was wonderful!
He was covered in snow!
Um... did you know that former Seals can still run fast?
And I don't mind telling you they fight dirty.
And they are totally lacking in couth.
He must have played percussion instruments when he was younger because he can spank with *both* hands and still hold me down.
"STOP!" I yelled. "Not my fault you can't throw a snowball to save your life!"
"That was for the snowman with all the dangling bits!" he laughed. "The next spanking is for the snow-woman with the big boobs and Brazilian cut."
Tsk.
"And later tonight, the spanking will be for the snowball fight."
Double tsk.
"And tomorrow, the spanking will be for the snow angels. Didn't I tell you I didn't want you laying in that stuff? You'll catch pneumonia!"
You know, it's a terrible thing when His Holiness automatically assumes I am at fault. I mean, anyone could have made the snow angels. Of course, they were in the backyard... which is fenced and has locked gates.
16 days = 384 hours = 23,040 minutes = 1,382,400 seconds. Santa better not be late; my "goodness" isn't gonna last forever.
~Sar~
Monday, November 28, 2005
26 Days & Counting!
Thanksgiving was absolutely stupendous! A number of old friends flew in from Chicago to stay with us. Our house was wall-to-wall company and I was reminded why most of our sofas are also pull-out beds. Between those and some sleeping bags, we managed to sleep 15 of us. We even had a "pup" tent in the living room for 8-year old Patrick, a special young friend of ours.
Feeding that many people for 5 days wasn't as horrendous as I thought it might be. I had cooked and baked a lot before they got there and everyone pitched in. Cleaning up after that crowd was an absolute snap. First, I used paper plates whenever it wouldn't look like we wouldn't be considered couthless; then the pups did a "pre-wash" before I tossed dishes into the dishwasher. Err... actually "tossed" a few dishes... Now I have to find that online china shop that carries old dish patterns from the dark ages (when His Holiness was a boy) so I can replace them. Groan... mumble... whine... complain.
On the up side, there were lots of chocolates and pies and cakes and sweet crepes and other goodies. On the down side, some of these people actually EAT green vegetables! I know, I know. Shocked me, too. At first, I was momentarily stunned; later, I just pretended I was having a Halloween moment every time someone waved a piece of broccoli in my direction. (Some guests truly lack couth.) Cowboy suggested (in front of EVERYBODY) that I have a serving of green things...
I'm not crazy about green beans, which my neighbor brought over. "Green bean casserole is traditional for Thanksgiving, Sar," she smiled sweetly as she handed it over.
"Good Lord!" I exclaimed, appalled that the little green devils might crawl out of the platter and jump on my plate, then caught my husband's arched brow aimed directly at me. Tsk.
"And look!" she pointed. "I also brought green peas and pearl onions so you'd have a variety."
"You are an absolute saint," I smiled at the generous witch... err... lady and pictured Saint Joan de Arc. Didn't she get burned at the stake prior to becoming a saint? One can only hope...
Cowboy strongly suggested I take a bite of a couple of green things. It was a direct order and I didn't want to disappoint him in front of so many guests so I complied. I ate 2 green peas.
We had 20 guests for Thanksgiving dinner and everyone of them ATE like there was no tomorrow. I roasted 4 turkeys and 2 honey baked hams and there weren't any leftovers. I should mention that Bull, the Chrysler Building-sized Marine, was at my table and I roasted turkey # 4 just for him. He ate non-stop most of the day. When I asked him if he wanted mashed potatoes and offered the punch bowl sized serving dish... he took the WHOLE thing! I wonder what it costs the U.S. Marine Corps to feed this guy? On a sweet note: Since returning from Afghanistan, he's slowly mending, both physically and emotionally and it fills my heart to hear him laugh again. Three other marines from Bull's unit joined us for the day and so did my 97-year old neighbor, Peeper Patterson. His daughter is visiting from Kansas and she came along, too. She thinks I'm a bad influence on her father... just because I occasionally dance naked outdoors to celebrate the full moon. Tsk. I wonder if that's why she always makes the sign of the cross before she enters my house... double tsk.
Cowboy and others were responsible for each breakfast and we feasted on his various pancakes and waffle concoctions, all of which were wonderful. Glory made Dim Sum for one of our lunches - swoon - and Vi, who could live in a house without a kitchen - made her infamous hot cocoa and "special tea." Infamous because if you drink too much of either, you'll be 3 sheets to the wind in no time. We made sure the younger guests got real hot cocoa. Max kept a 48-cup coffee urn filled with chicory coffee each day which pleased me no end since I'm addicted to it.
"How much of this coffee have you drunk, imp?" Cowboy asked out of the blue as I refilled my mug for the upteenth time.
"Hmmm..." I hummed. That's a loaded question. I haven't "drunk" any... I just sort of take a few sips here and there. Okay, nonstop sips, but sips nonetheless.
"Well?" he demanded, his grizzly paw... err... excessively large hand at my waist squeezing a little.
Tsk.
"She be thinkin," Max chuckled. "When she lived with us, she never did like to answer that question. Best you just let her have this bit of fun. Time to be good again when we go back home."
"I don't want her drinking so much caffeine," the occasionally anal retentive heathen said.
"Man, you got a death wish?" Max snorted. "This be the woman that makes the food you eat! Let it be and live another 50 years!"
I thought that was great advice and poured a fresh hot cup of chicory coffee and sashayed out of the room. With any luck, His Holiness' memory will fade by the time the holiday weekend is over.
Glory, Max and Vi, and Cowboy and I went shopping before my other out-of-town guests arrived. I kept the ladies busy while Max picked out a few things and paid for them. Then Cowboy kept Max distracted while the ladies selected things for him. Max insisted I accompany him to the food court while Glory and Vi and Cowboy disappeared, then they demanded that Cowboy sit with them while they rested and Max and I made ourselves scarce. It was pure slapstick - figuring out who was doing what with whom as we made some Christmas selections for those we loved.
When our friends, Alli and Paul arrived with their 4 boys, we did it all over again but in greater numbers. I'm super organized so I had a list of who was doing what and with whom while we shopped. We strayed from the planned schedule and kept bumping into each other, but had so much fun that we're going to laugh about this again and again. All the out-of-town gifts were shipped directly from the stores so Cowboy and Paul and Max didn't have a lot to carry home...
Cowboy mentioned that I might be close to maxing out my credit card so he suggested I use his. Ut-oh... I haven't told him that I *was* using his credit card... err... both of his credit cards. Ahhhh well, as Max says: "Life be short and you best be 'preciatin it for all it be worth." I hope that theory applies to credit cards.
And I sincerely hope your holiday was filled with lots of good things. Time to start Christmas preparations.
~Sar~
P.S. 26 days till ol St. Nick tries to climb down my chimney. Eight-year old Patrick said we should leave a note on the top of the chimney to tell Santa to use the front door.
"Why is that?" Cowboy asked.
"'Cause Sar said if he comes down the chimney and there's a fire, he's gonna burn his ass."
"SAR!"
Sheesh! That child repeats EVERYTHING he hears!
P.P.S. I was extraordinarily good the whole time we had company. It just about killed me!
Feeding that many people for 5 days wasn't as horrendous as I thought it might be. I had cooked and baked a lot before they got there and everyone pitched in. Cleaning up after that crowd was an absolute snap. First, I used paper plates whenever it wouldn't look like we wouldn't be considered couthless; then the pups did a "pre-wash" before I tossed dishes into the dishwasher. Err... actually "tossed" a few dishes... Now I have to find that online china shop that carries old dish patterns from the dark ages (when His Holiness was a boy) so I can replace them. Groan... mumble... whine... complain.
On the up side, there were lots of chocolates and pies and cakes and sweet crepes and other goodies. On the down side, some of these people actually EAT green vegetables! I know, I know. Shocked me, too. At first, I was momentarily stunned; later, I just pretended I was having a Halloween moment every time someone waved a piece of broccoli in my direction. (Some guests truly lack couth.) Cowboy suggested (in front of EVERYBODY) that I have a serving of green things...
I'm not crazy about green beans, which my neighbor brought over. "Green bean casserole is traditional for Thanksgiving, Sar," she smiled sweetly as she handed it over.
"Good Lord!" I exclaimed, appalled that the little green devils might crawl out of the platter and jump on my plate, then caught my husband's arched brow aimed directly at me. Tsk.
"And look!" she pointed. "I also brought green peas and pearl onions so you'd have a variety."
"You are an absolute saint," I smiled at the generous witch... err... lady and pictured Saint Joan de Arc. Didn't she get burned at the stake prior to becoming a saint? One can only hope...
Cowboy strongly suggested I take a bite of a couple of green things. It was a direct order and I didn't want to disappoint him in front of so many guests so I complied. I ate 2 green peas.
We had 20 guests for Thanksgiving dinner and everyone of them ATE like there was no tomorrow. I roasted 4 turkeys and 2 honey baked hams and there weren't any leftovers. I should mention that Bull, the Chrysler Building-sized Marine, was at my table and I roasted turkey # 4 just for him. He ate non-stop most of the day. When I asked him if he wanted mashed potatoes and offered the punch bowl sized serving dish... he took the WHOLE thing! I wonder what it costs the U.S. Marine Corps to feed this guy? On a sweet note: Since returning from Afghanistan, he's slowly mending, both physically and emotionally and it fills my heart to hear him laugh again. Three other marines from Bull's unit joined us for the day and so did my 97-year old neighbor, Peeper Patterson. His daughter is visiting from Kansas and she came along, too. She thinks I'm a bad influence on her father... just because I occasionally dance naked outdoors to celebrate the full moon. Tsk. I wonder if that's why she always makes the sign of the cross before she enters my house... double tsk.
Cowboy and others were responsible for each breakfast and we feasted on his various pancakes and waffle concoctions, all of which were wonderful. Glory made Dim Sum for one of our lunches - swoon - and Vi, who could live in a house without a kitchen - made her infamous hot cocoa and "special tea." Infamous because if you drink too much of either, you'll be 3 sheets to the wind in no time. We made sure the younger guests got real hot cocoa. Max kept a 48-cup coffee urn filled with chicory coffee each day which pleased me no end since I'm addicted to it.
"How much of this coffee have you drunk, imp?" Cowboy asked out of the blue as I refilled my mug for the upteenth time.
"Hmmm..." I hummed. That's a loaded question. I haven't "drunk" any... I just sort of take a few sips here and there. Okay, nonstop sips, but sips nonetheless.
"Well?" he demanded, his grizzly paw... err... excessively large hand at my waist squeezing a little.
Tsk.
"She be thinkin," Max chuckled. "When she lived with us, she never did like to answer that question. Best you just let her have this bit of fun. Time to be good again when we go back home."
"I don't want her drinking so much caffeine," the occasionally anal retentive heathen said.
"Man, you got a death wish?" Max snorted. "This be the woman that makes the food you eat! Let it be and live another 50 years!"
I thought that was great advice and poured a fresh hot cup of chicory coffee and sashayed out of the room. With any luck, His Holiness' memory will fade by the time the holiday weekend is over.
Glory, Max and Vi, and Cowboy and I went shopping before my other out-of-town guests arrived. I kept the ladies busy while Max picked out a few things and paid for them. Then Cowboy kept Max distracted while the ladies selected things for him. Max insisted I accompany him to the food court while Glory and Vi and Cowboy disappeared, then they demanded that Cowboy sit with them while they rested and Max and I made ourselves scarce. It was pure slapstick - figuring out who was doing what with whom as we made some Christmas selections for those we loved.
When our friends, Alli and Paul arrived with their 4 boys, we did it all over again but in greater numbers. I'm super organized so I had a list of who was doing what and with whom while we shopped. We strayed from the planned schedule and kept bumping into each other, but had so much fun that we're going to laugh about this again and again. All the out-of-town gifts were shipped directly from the stores so Cowboy and Paul and Max didn't have a lot to carry home...
Cowboy mentioned that I might be close to maxing out my credit card so he suggested I use his. Ut-oh... I haven't told him that I *was* using his credit card... err... both of his credit cards. Ahhhh well, as Max says: "Life be short and you best be 'preciatin it for all it be worth." I hope that theory applies to credit cards.
And I sincerely hope your holiday was filled with lots of good things. Time to start Christmas preparations.
~Sar~
P.S. 26 days till ol St. Nick tries to climb down my chimney. Eight-year old Patrick said we should leave a note on the top of the chimney to tell Santa to use the front door.
"Why is that?" Cowboy asked.
"'Cause Sar said if he comes down the chimney and there's a fire, he's gonna burn his ass."
"SAR!"
Sheesh! That child repeats EVERYTHING he hears!
P.P.S. I was extraordinarily good the whole time we had company. It just about killed me!
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Tsk!
As usual, I'm doing too many things.
Halloween was great fun. Thankfully it's over. I don't think I could have eaten one more Tootsie Roll. When I finally came down from that sugar high, I slept like a log. Unfortunately, I overslept and was late for an appointment.
Naturally, I whipped out of the house in record time, foregoing breakfast and sped down the highway to my appointment. That evening, His Holiness mentioned that I left the house with barely a kiss on the cheek so he knew I was in a hurry.
"Were you speeding?"
Speeding? Hmmm.... uh... um... errrr... this might be one of those "semantic" moments. I, personally, wasn't speeding. I was sitting... the car I was in was sort of going fast but that's what cars do, right? I mean, it's like a ship in port, I explained to the man who can go dumb at the most inopportune moments.
"Ships are safe in port but that's not why ships were built."
SWAT!
Tsk.
"Are you taking the leftover Halloween candy to the food bank?"
We have leftover candy?
"Sure."
"I don't want you eating all that junk, Sar."
Tsk.
"I like candy."
SWAT!
Tsk.
"Don't you have to go do "admiral" things?"
SWAT!
Double tsk!
Moving right along... the two Rotts we're fostering from Hurricane Katrina are doing nicely. Clyde had a bad habit of nipping my butt when I told him "no." I made noises about the glue factory... He doesn't do that any more. Bonnie, on the other hand, remains a slut. Every time one of the other male Rotts looks at her, she quickly turns into a Parisian courtesan celebrating Bastille Day. Regardless, both have learned manners; they passed their obedience trials for on and off lead.
I proudly told His Holiness of their progress. He had the gall to say I wasn't as proficient "off lead."
Tsk.
We have company arriving from Chicago - Max and Vi and Glory, who I've written about. I've cooked and baked and the house is spic 'n span. I haven't seen them in almost three years and am really excited they're going to stay for a couple of weeks. I told Cowboy he better not be thinking about spanking me when they get here. The wretch said he wouldn't be thinking... he'd be doing and followed that statement with a demonstration.
SWAT!
Tsk.
We were at the airport early. Our guests were due in at 11 p.m. but their plane was late, not arriving until just after midnight. By the time we hugged and kissed, found their luggage, drove home and finished hugging and kissing, it was close to 3 a.m. I was pooped. We all slept in and Cowboy made his famous cream cheese waffles for breakfast. Glory supervised; she loves giving orders to an admiral and mixed a little brandy with the ice cream. Then she fried it and plopped a huge dollop onto each waffle. Delish!
We also had chicory coffee which Max made cause no one makes it as good as he does. He still teases me about how much of it I drink. I really like it and it's even more decadent when you drop chunks of white chocolate in it.
Vi wanted breakfast in bed but Max insisted she eat with us so he made her comfortable on the couch and served her there. Then he insisted that Glory put her feet up and served her as well. Cowboy and I filled our plates and the five of us stopped talking long enough to stuff ourselves.
The cats - DomTom and Miss Emmy - decided that Max was their new best friend; he wasn't pleased. BullyBoy, the Bull Mastiff, sat on the floor next to Vi who isn't crazy about dogs, but he won her over with his adoration. I didn't have the heart to tell her the dog was really interested in her ice cream waffle.
SweetPea, the Rottweiler, stayed in the kitchen and gobbled up as many waffles as he could steal. By the time I discovered this lapse in behavior, he was already looped on the brandied ice cream.
I, of course, was the epitome of goodness. Cowboy wondered - out loud - how long that was going to last. Would you believe everybody laughed? Tsk.
~Sar~
Halloween was great fun. Thankfully it's over. I don't think I could have eaten one more Tootsie Roll. When I finally came down from that sugar high, I slept like a log. Unfortunately, I overslept and was late for an appointment.
Naturally, I whipped out of the house in record time, foregoing breakfast and sped down the highway to my appointment. That evening, His Holiness mentioned that I left the house with barely a kiss on the cheek so he knew I was in a hurry.
"Were you speeding?"
Speeding? Hmmm.... uh... um... errrr... this might be one of those "semantic" moments. I, personally, wasn't speeding. I was sitting... the car I was in was sort of going fast but that's what cars do, right? I mean, it's like a ship in port, I explained to the man who can go dumb at the most inopportune moments.
"Ships are safe in port but that's not why ships were built."
SWAT!
Tsk.
"Are you taking the leftover Halloween candy to the food bank?"
We have leftover candy?
"Sure."
"I don't want you eating all that junk, Sar."
Tsk.
"I like candy."
SWAT!
Tsk.
"Don't you have to go do "admiral" things?"
SWAT!
Double tsk!
Moving right along... the two Rotts we're fostering from Hurricane Katrina are doing nicely. Clyde had a bad habit of nipping my butt when I told him "no." I made noises about the glue factory... He doesn't do that any more. Bonnie, on the other hand, remains a slut. Every time one of the other male Rotts looks at her, she quickly turns into a Parisian courtesan celebrating Bastille Day. Regardless, both have learned manners; they passed their obedience trials for on and off lead.
I proudly told His Holiness of their progress. He had the gall to say I wasn't as proficient "off lead."
Tsk.
We have company arriving from Chicago - Max and Vi and Glory, who I've written about. I've cooked and baked and the house is spic 'n span. I haven't seen them in almost three years and am really excited they're going to stay for a couple of weeks. I told Cowboy he better not be thinking about spanking me when they get here. The wretch said he wouldn't be thinking... he'd be doing and followed that statement with a demonstration.
SWAT!
Tsk.
We were at the airport early. Our guests were due in at 11 p.m. but their plane was late, not arriving until just after midnight. By the time we hugged and kissed, found their luggage, drove home and finished hugging and kissing, it was close to 3 a.m. I was pooped. We all slept in and Cowboy made his famous cream cheese waffles for breakfast. Glory supervised; she loves giving orders to an admiral and mixed a little brandy with the ice cream. Then she fried it and plopped a huge dollop onto each waffle. Delish!
We also had chicory coffee which Max made cause no one makes it as good as he does. He still teases me about how much of it I drink. I really like it and it's even more decadent when you drop chunks of white chocolate in it.
Vi wanted breakfast in bed but Max insisted she eat with us so he made her comfortable on the couch and served her there. Then he insisted that Glory put her feet up and served her as well. Cowboy and I filled our plates and the five of us stopped talking long enough to stuff ourselves.
The cats - DomTom and Miss Emmy - decided that Max was their new best friend; he wasn't pleased. BullyBoy, the Bull Mastiff, sat on the floor next to Vi who isn't crazy about dogs, but he won her over with his adoration. I didn't have the heart to tell her the dog was really interested in her ice cream waffle.
SweetPea, the Rottweiler, stayed in the kitchen and gobbled up as many waffles as he could steal. By the time I discovered this lapse in behavior, he was already looped on the brandied ice cream.
I, of course, was the epitome of goodness. Cowboy wondered - out loud - how long that was going to last. Would you believe everybody laughed? Tsk.
~Sar~
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
The Good Seed
Halloween is less than a week away and I still haven't finished "sampling" all the candy to offer the wee goblins that show up at my door. I abhor the thought of sharing chocolate... there are sacrifices and there are sacrifices. I have no intention of making that particular sacrifice. Chocolate is something the trick or treaters are going to get in large measure from neighbors with less discriminating palates; they don't need to get it from me. I mentioned this to the giant squid and he said...
"Last year, you gave them wrapped taffy and when they weren't looking, you stole chocolate from their Halloween bags."
Tsk. I did no such thing. And besides... I only took the chocolates that I really liked; I didn't touch the plebian stuff.
"And this year, I'm answering the door to make sure the kids actually get some chocolate."
Double tsk. I might have to put the dogs outside the front door to scare the little buggers away.
I bought Reese's peanut butter cups - for me.
I bought Hershey nuggets - for me.
I bought Butterfinger and Heath bars - for me.
I bought Babe Ruth bars - for me.
I bought ZERO bars - for me.
I bought dark chocolate bars for the giant squid.
And... I got Jujubees and gumdrops and licorice and little packets of Indian corn and brand new boxes of crayons for the little kids.
My idea of Halloween is to have a party that includes pretty trays filled with crackers and raw veggies and lots of interesting dips.
And wine.
Then, when everyone is snookered on the wine, they won't realize they're gobbling up all the veggies the giant squid buys. While they're doing that, I can eat my chocolate in peace. I tried that one year and the next day, His Holiness told me I couldn't eat chocolate in the house for a whole week.
ROFL! Uh huh. Sure, yep, whatever you say.
So... for a whole week, I ate my chocolate out on the back deck.
Last year, I ate so much chocolate pre - during - and post Halloween that when I went to the doctor for an annual checkup, the squid said he wouldn't be surprised if I tested positive for Tootsie Rolls. Tsk.
Have you ever noticed the teeth on the technicians who draw the blood? Very fang-like. I'm almost positive they're related to vampires.
The giant squid said he wouldn't mind how much chocolate I consumed if I gained a little weight. Ummm... he also mentioned I should be nicer to the dentist. The dentist is a naval officer... I live with a sailor who was a Seal. Navy dentists aren't much of a challenge and because His Holiness is an admiral, they go out of their way not to hurt me.
Yesterday, I broke down and cleaned out the downstairs hall closet. Oh boy! I counted 8 duffel bags! Some of them were full so I opened them and peeked inside. One has several nicely wrapped presents! See! Writing to Santa early really *does* pay off! I put that duffel bag right back where I found it.
Another had a stash of chocolate I forgot about - ate that.
I found a paddle in one! A paddle! That couldn't possibly be for me! I immediately took it out to the garage and chopped it up for firewood. After I did that, I wondered if that might have been the frame thingy for his tennis racket. Oh well... better to be firewood than to take a chance.
The dogs got very interested in another duffel bag. It had a stench to it that attracts the canine nose - eau du dirty socks. I dumped those in the wash. And last, I filled an extra large plastic bag with old clothes, among which were some of the giant squid's belts. I mean... how many does he really need?
I am so pleased with the prettily wrapped presents that I'm going to dash off another letter to Santa. This is a good day to do it because I've been extraordinarily good today and won't have to fudge facts. Tomorrow could be a whole other story.
~Sar~
"Last year, you gave them wrapped taffy and when they weren't looking, you stole chocolate from their Halloween bags."
Tsk. I did no such thing. And besides... I only took the chocolates that I really liked; I didn't touch the plebian stuff.
"And this year, I'm answering the door to make sure the kids actually get some chocolate."
Double tsk. I might have to put the dogs outside the front door to scare the little buggers away.
I bought Reese's peanut butter cups - for me.
I bought Hershey nuggets - for me.
I bought Butterfinger and Heath bars - for me.
I bought Babe Ruth bars - for me.
I bought ZERO bars - for me.
I bought dark chocolate bars for the giant squid.
And... I got Jujubees and gumdrops and licorice and little packets of Indian corn and brand new boxes of crayons for the little kids.
My idea of Halloween is to have a party that includes pretty trays filled with crackers and raw veggies and lots of interesting dips.
And wine.
Then, when everyone is snookered on the wine, they won't realize they're gobbling up all the veggies the giant squid buys. While they're doing that, I can eat my chocolate in peace. I tried that one year and the next day, His Holiness told me I couldn't eat chocolate in the house for a whole week.
ROFL! Uh huh. Sure, yep, whatever you say.
So... for a whole week, I ate my chocolate out on the back deck.
Last year, I ate so much chocolate pre - during - and post Halloween that when I went to the doctor for an annual checkup, the squid said he wouldn't be surprised if I tested positive for Tootsie Rolls. Tsk.
Have you ever noticed the teeth on the technicians who draw the blood? Very fang-like. I'm almost positive they're related to vampires.
The giant squid said he wouldn't mind how much chocolate I consumed if I gained a little weight. Ummm... he also mentioned I should be nicer to the dentist. The dentist is a naval officer... I live with a sailor who was a Seal. Navy dentists aren't much of a challenge and because His Holiness is an admiral, they go out of their way not to hurt me.
Yesterday, I broke down and cleaned out the downstairs hall closet. Oh boy! I counted 8 duffel bags! Some of them were full so I opened them and peeked inside. One has several nicely wrapped presents! See! Writing to Santa early really *does* pay off! I put that duffel bag right back where I found it.
Another had a stash of chocolate I forgot about - ate that.
I found a paddle in one! A paddle! That couldn't possibly be for me! I immediately took it out to the garage and chopped it up for firewood. After I did that, I wondered if that might have been the frame thingy for his tennis racket. Oh well... better to be firewood than to take a chance.
The dogs got very interested in another duffel bag. It had a stench to it that attracts the canine nose - eau du dirty socks. I dumped those in the wash. And last, I filled an extra large plastic bag with old clothes, among which were some of the giant squid's belts. I mean... how many does he really need?
I am so pleased with the prettily wrapped presents that I'm going to dash off another letter to Santa. This is a good day to do it because I've been extraordinarily good today and won't have to fudge facts. Tomorrow could be a whole other story.
~Sar~
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Grumpy
His Holiness said we were going to take a few days to relax and regroup. I've been putting in long days working and evenings have been filled with making holidays plans. We're military - as a senior ranked Naval officer, the giant squid gets to do a bit of holiday hosting and even if we cater a meal, there's still a lot of planning.
I threw a few things in a duffel bag - sweats, shorts, running shoes and packed stuff for the pups. They get all excited when they see their leads and sweaters go in a bag. BullyBoy, the mastiff, can open the fridge by himself... dropped a 6-pack of Budweiser into the duffel. That dog is a lush and desperately needs Canine AA. SweetPea, a ferocious attack-trained rottweiler, slipped his "sleepy ragdoll" into the bag. I crammed it with chocolate bars and let the squid pack his own gear.
I was all prepared to leave early on a Saturday morning. I was not prepared to be awakened at 2 AM! Well, that didn't last long. As soon as we got in the car, I went back to dreamland. The squid knows the way to the ferry docks. We have a small cabin on one of the smaller islands in the San Juans and the ferry traffic that time of night is restricted to Lopez, Orcas and the larger San Juan Island. We ferry to one of those and take a charter the rest of the way. We arrived in time for breakfast and the pups and I stuffed ourselves and went back to bed so the squid could take a nap.
I really wanted to run on the beach but His Holiness said no in such an ominous tone... tsk. We waited till he was sleeping deeply and crept out of the cabin as quietly as 2 legs and 8 paws could go.
Unfortunately... the former Seal... still has good hearing and we got about 20 feet away from the cabin before I heard "SAR!"
Jeez! It's not like we were running away.
The pups whined.
I grumbled.
His Holiness muttered something unintelligible. Honestly... for a commanding officer, you'd think he could be more articulate.
A woman has to stand up for herself so when he arched a brow and pointed a finger in the direction of the cabin, I crossed my arms over my chest and arched my own brow. Ummm... I also positioned the mastiff and rottweiler in front of me...
Oy! That didn't work.
To make a long story short, the view of the surf from over his shoulder wasn't the scene I had in mind and one very well placed smack convinced me that I needed to rethink my plans. He sure gets grumpy when he's tired. I made a simple comment: "Do you smack your subordinates when you're grumpy?"
~Sigh~
Another smack and I decided not to ask any more questions. Did I say grumpy? *Really* grumpy.
The pups and I weren't interested in napping so while the squid caught up on his zzzzzz's, we polished off a few boxes of Cracker Jacks, a few Twinkies and I made up some menus for the holidays. When 'ol Grumpy finally got his act together, we took that run on the beach. We usually jog 5 miles and walk 5 miles back but the squid felt like running and since he won't let me do more than 5 miles, he carried me piggy back on the return route. I like to yell "Ride 'em Cowboy!" when he does this but apparently I'm the only one who finds this amusing. Tsk. He stayed grumpy a little while longer.
I told him if he didn't do something about his attitude I was gonna smack him good. I mean, it wasn't my idea to get up at 2 AM...
"Oh yeah?" he muttered and came after me.
Tsk.
I set the dogs on him and took off running down the beach like a bat out of hell. When he got the dogs off of him, he gave chase and tackled me on the sand and a serious tickling session and "good stuff" later, he wasn't grumpy any more.
He made pancakes and chicory coffee for lunch. I think I'll keep him.
~Sar~
I threw a few things in a duffel bag - sweats, shorts, running shoes and packed stuff for the pups. They get all excited when they see their leads and sweaters go in a bag. BullyBoy, the mastiff, can open the fridge by himself... dropped a 6-pack of Budweiser into the duffel. That dog is a lush and desperately needs Canine AA. SweetPea, a ferocious attack-trained rottweiler, slipped his "sleepy ragdoll" into the bag. I crammed it with chocolate bars and let the squid pack his own gear.
I was all prepared to leave early on a Saturday morning. I was not prepared to be awakened at 2 AM! Well, that didn't last long. As soon as we got in the car, I went back to dreamland. The squid knows the way to the ferry docks. We have a small cabin on one of the smaller islands in the San Juans and the ferry traffic that time of night is restricted to Lopez, Orcas and the larger San Juan Island. We ferry to one of those and take a charter the rest of the way. We arrived in time for breakfast and the pups and I stuffed ourselves and went back to bed so the squid could take a nap.
I really wanted to run on the beach but His Holiness said no in such an ominous tone... tsk. We waited till he was sleeping deeply and crept out of the cabin as quietly as 2 legs and 8 paws could go.
Unfortunately... the former Seal... still has good hearing and we got about 20 feet away from the cabin before I heard "SAR!"
Jeez! It's not like we were running away.
The pups whined.
I grumbled.
His Holiness muttered something unintelligible. Honestly... for a commanding officer, you'd think he could be more articulate.
A woman has to stand up for herself so when he arched a brow and pointed a finger in the direction of the cabin, I crossed my arms over my chest and arched my own brow. Ummm... I also positioned the mastiff and rottweiler in front of me...
Oy! That didn't work.
To make a long story short, the view of the surf from over his shoulder wasn't the scene I had in mind and one very well placed smack convinced me that I needed to rethink my plans. He sure gets grumpy when he's tired. I made a simple comment: "Do you smack your subordinates when you're grumpy?"
~Sigh~
Another smack and I decided not to ask any more questions. Did I say grumpy? *Really* grumpy.
The pups and I weren't interested in napping so while the squid caught up on his zzzzzz's, we polished off a few boxes of Cracker Jacks, a few Twinkies and I made up some menus for the holidays. When 'ol Grumpy finally got his act together, we took that run on the beach. We usually jog 5 miles and walk 5 miles back but the squid felt like running and since he won't let me do more than 5 miles, he carried me piggy back on the return route. I like to yell "Ride 'em Cowboy!" when he does this but apparently I'm the only one who finds this amusing. Tsk. He stayed grumpy a little while longer.
I told him if he didn't do something about his attitude I was gonna smack him good. I mean, it wasn't my idea to get up at 2 AM...
"Oh yeah?" he muttered and came after me.
Tsk.
I set the dogs on him and took off running down the beach like a bat out of hell. When he got the dogs off of him, he gave chase and tackled me on the sand and a serious tickling session and "good stuff" later, he wasn't grumpy any more.
He made pancakes and chicory coffee for lunch. I think I'll keep him.
~Sar~
Friday, October 07, 2005
Pushing limits...
I hate to say it, but I'm tired. I've been working long hours and it's finally catching up with me. I've always been high energy but even the Energizer Bunny needs a new battery once in a while. The problem is that I'm wiped out at the end of the day but having a bout of insomnia... not a good combination.
Long time readers of my web site know that I'm a fiber artist, mostly art quilts and sometimes, other art created from textiles - book covers, one-of-a-kind handbags, and soft cloth dolls to name a few. I take just a few commissions a year and spend a great deal of time creating wall art for auction. Some of those pieces are used to raise money for charitable foundations, i.e., local cancer institute, children's hospital, the tsunami relief fund, hurricane Katrina, etc.
A group of quilters here in the Pacific Northwest committed a really large number of quilts to the hurricane Katrina families and I have been working with them for several weeks. We're making simple quilts but it takes a lot of time to make so many. I have other projects going on at the same time and then there's the giant squid...
The man wants to eat EVERY day! There is no end to it! Adding insult to injury, he wants me to include vegetables in the meals! Really folks! Home cooked meals are one thing - I do like to cook and bake - but vegetables? Why couldn't he be a "meat and potatoes" kind of guy? And when he says "make something green to go with dinner," I can't understand why pickles are unacceptable... Last night I added lime sherbet for dessert... Was that appreciated? Tsk.
We foster "rescue" dogs, specializing in large breeds because they're the hardest to foster. I have BullyBoy, a Bull Mastiff, and SweetPea, a Rottweiler as personal companion dogs. Our outside pups are Tank and Panda, two more rotts. So when the Rottweiler Rescue League asked if we'd foster two rotts rescued from hurricane Katrina, we said sure. We'll keep them until their owners can be located and resettled. If, after a year, they haven't been found, we'll put them up for adoption.
They came with microchips but no name tags so I gave them temporary names - Bonnie and Clyde. Clyde has no manners... and Bonnie is a slut.
Moving right along... Clyde growled at me when I told him "no." I've been training dogs in obedience for a while now... I grabbed his muzzle, squeezed... and growled back. He won't do that again.
When I grabbed Clyde, Bonnie charged me. Tsk. I lifted my knee right into her chest. Bonnie won't do that again, either. My own pups were all over the newbies and reinforced the one and only rule I have.
Behave and eat LARGE. Misbehave and eat kibble. Very effective rule.
So why doesn't that work on me? Funny you should ask. I do most of the cooking...
His Holiness (a.k.a. the giant squid, Cowboy, the Admiral) says I'm working too hard and he wants me to scale back.
Uh huh. Sure. Right away. Aye, aye, Sir! (Rollin' me eyes.)
He says if I don't scale back soon - like starting tomorrow - I'll be standing for dinner.
Oh goody! He's taking me out to a restaurant that has a buffet!
~Sar~
P.S. Your comments are welcome.
P.P.S. There's a link back to my web site at the top of this screen over on the right. --->
Long time readers of my web site know that I'm a fiber artist, mostly art quilts and sometimes, other art created from textiles - book covers, one-of-a-kind handbags, and soft cloth dolls to name a few. I take just a few commissions a year and spend a great deal of time creating wall art for auction. Some of those pieces are used to raise money for charitable foundations, i.e., local cancer institute, children's hospital, the tsunami relief fund, hurricane Katrina, etc.
A group of quilters here in the Pacific Northwest committed a really large number of quilts to the hurricane Katrina families and I have been working with them for several weeks. We're making simple quilts but it takes a lot of time to make so many. I have other projects going on at the same time and then there's the giant squid...
The man wants to eat EVERY day! There is no end to it! Adding insult to injury, he wants me to include vegetables in the meals! Really folks! Home cooked meals are one thing - I do like to cook and bake - but vegetables? Why couldn't he be a "meat and potatoes" kind of guy? And when he says "make something green to go with dinner," I can't understand why pickles are unacceptable... Last night I added lime sherbet for dessert... Was that appreciated? Tsk.
We foster "rescue" dogs, specializing in large breeds because they're the hardest to foster. I have BullyBoy, a Bull Mastiff, and SweetPea, a Rottweiler as personal companion dogs. Our outside pups are Tank and Panda, two more rotts. So when the Rottweiler Rescue League asked if we'd foster two rotts rescued from hurricane Katrina, we said sure. We'll keep them until their owners can be located and resettled. If, after a year, they haven't been found, we'll put them up for adoption.
They came with microchips but no name tags so I gave them temporary names - Bonnie and Clyde. Clyde has no manners... and Bonnie is a slut.
Moving right along... Clyde growled at me when I told him "no." I've been training dogs in obedience for a while now... I grabbed his muzzle, squeezed... and growled back. He won't do that again.
When I grabbed Clyde, Bonnie charged me. Tsk. I lifted my knee right into her chest. Bonnie won't do that again, either. My own pups were all over the newbies and reinforced the one and only rule I have.
Behave and eat LARGE. Misbehave and eat kibble. Very effective rule.
So why doesn't that work on me? Funny you should ask. I do most of the cooking...
His Holiness (a.k.a. the giant squid, Cowboy, the Admiral) says I'm working too hard and he wants me to scale back.
Uh huh. Sure. Right away. Aye, aye, Sir! (Rollin' me eyes.)
He says if I don't scale back soon - like starting tomorrow - I'll be standing for dinner.
Oh goody! He's taking me out to a restaurant that has a buffet!
~Sar~
P.S. Your comments are welcome.
P.P.S. There's a link back to my web site at the top of this screen over on the right. --->
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