I threaten my dogs with knives

I went home yesterday on my lunch break to put some scalloped potatoes in the crock pot so they'd be ready for dinner. The dogs were thrilled; I'm pretty sure they usually spend the day licking each others' genitals.

Thanks for sharing my shame, mother.

Anytime, baby Ernie.

Even though Dexter has a bum knee and sometimes refuses to get off of the couch for a morning potty break, that little bastard is an escape artist. In his younger days he'd climb over 6 foot fences. So when the dogs are in the backyard, I keep a close eye on them. Every so often I stuck my head out of the back door.

"Is everyone still behaving?"

It wasn't until about the 3rd or 4th time that I realized I still had my huge potato-slicing knife in hand, giving my neighbors yet another reason to doubt my sanity.

Dexter-shaped hole

Ernie and mailman are not friends. Yesterday, just as I was walking out of the door to take Ernie for a walk, the mailman was walking up the steps. Ernie started barking. Not his "Hey, I'm way excited to see you" bark, either. He busted out his "Holy smokes some shit's about to go down" bark. I pulled him back inside while my bills and SuperSaver flyer were delivered. I don't want to piss the mailman off even more. He's already screwing with my Netflix. I'll never get to watch the third "The Future is Wild" disc if I get on his badside.

Dexter is in South Carolina this week with his mom, who is on a break from her job as a stewardess on a yacht named Wanderbird. I know he's having a blast, but the house is a little empty without him. The days are longer for Ernie, since he has to spend the work day at home alone, drinking rum and barking at the mailman. Hemo prefers to spend the day sunbathing on the porch.

My bad. Just don't get run over.

On the upside, he's got more free time for finding and eating underwear.

To give myself a little Dex fix, and to prove that Ernie is not the sole target of my abuse, here are some pictures of Dex (who views the camera as a torture device) with his moose.

Hahaha, there is a moose on my back!

I grow weary of this game.

Um, he fell off. Not my fault.

You have compromised my dignity. Now give me a treat.

P.S. Please excuse the filthy floors. I do mop quite a bit, but when we get rain for a couple days in a row, the floors suffer.

The one where I give a homeless drug addict $20

I was sweeping the leaves/dirt/broken Old English bottles off of the sidewalk in front of my house yesterday when I was approached by a skinny, bald, black man.

Him: Looks like you could use some help.

Me: (laughs) I could use some help getting my grass cut.

I could use some help convincing the neighborhood lay-abouts that my front lawn is not a glass recycling bin.

Him: Well, ma'am, I'm staying at a shelter right now, but I've done some landscaping and I could cut your grass for you.

I agree to pay him $20 to cut my front and back yard with a lawnmower he'll borrow from a friend. Thunder is rumbling in the distance and it's sprinkling, so I tell him to come back tomorrow around 5:30 to cut the grass.

Him: I-I, uh, I really need that $20 today, ma'am. I have to make my rent or he's going to put me out.

Rent? Are they charging rent at homeless shelters now? And who's 'he'?

I tell the guy it's up to him if he wants to mow in the rain, and he walks down the street to get the lawn mower.

He shows up 15 minutes later with a gas-powered weed eater, which he cannot get to stay cranked long enough to cut more than 2 or 3 blades of grass. After about 45 minutes of cursing at and tinkering with the weed eater (with Ernie and I watching from the window), he admits defeat and knocks on my door.

Him: I don't know what's wrong with that thing. But I'm almost half-way done (he's not even 1/5 of the way done with the front yard), so if you pay me that $20 now I'll come back tomorrow and do the rest.

Me: Um, I can pay you $5 for what you've done, sir, but I don't feel comfortable paying you the rest until the work is done.

Him: (getting visibly anxious) Look, I'll give you my wallet and leave the weed eater here. I promise I'll be back tomorrow; I really need that $20.

Please, God, let that weed eater not be stolen.

Me: Sir, I'm sorry. I don't want your wallet, and I can't let you leave the weed eater here. If you can come back tomorrow to cut the grass, I'll be happy to pay you the rest of the money.

He leaves, and I start to feel bad. I mean, I not rich by any stretch of the imagination, but $20 on any given day is not going to make or break me. I'm thinking maybe I should have just given him the money and hoped for some good karma.

Cut to: a half hour later, Ernie is freaking out and I hear a lawnmower cranking out front. I look out the window and Mr. I-Need-That-Money-Right-Now has procured a lawnmower from who-knows-where and is cutting the grass with a shit-eating grin on his face. He sees me at the window, waves, points to the lawn mower, and gives me a thumbs up. Sweet. But now I'm faced with a dilemma. I have a 20, a 10, and four 1 dollar bills, minus the $5 I gave to him earlier. I think about trying to get the $5 back from him and giving him the $20 bill, but I know I'd probably just end up giving him all $25. A thorough search of the house reveals nary a stray dollar bill. I have to break into my precious stash of vending machine quarters to come up with the last dollar of the $15 I owe him. Apologizing for the change as I hand the money to him, I am secretly mourning the loss of those four quarters.

Making friends with the Laundry Monster

The Mutha Fudruckers will be playing host to a guest for an extended period of time soon, so in the interest of hospitality, I thought I'd do a little tidying up of the lair.

Bathroom: I don't know if I've even looked at the baseboards in my closet-sized bathroom since I moved in. I consider myself lucky if I can get into the shower without knocking my deoderant into the toilet. I talked to my sister as I scrubbed the shower, bathtub, toilet, sink, walls, fixtures, curtain--you name it, I bleached and/or ammonia-ed it. At the end of our 45 minute conversation, I was laughing hysterically about my niece being the smartest kid on the short bus. I think I was high.

Kitchen: Dishes cleaned? Counters wiped? Floor swept? This is usually where I stop. Not tonight. I moved and swept behind the stove and refrigerator. Speaking of the fridge, I cleaned it out. It now contains a) a box of baking soda; b) one 1/2 gallon of milk. I guess I'll be grocery shopping in the very near future. Unfortunately the kitchen also serves as the wet bar, so my Sailor Jerry consumption reached dangerous levels. Fortunately, there were no harsh chemicals or sharp knives to negotiate. I survived.

Next on the Hit List o' Cleanliness: The Laundry Monster.

The Laundry Monster lives in the guest room. He is generally ignored until I run out of underwear or work clothes. FYI: I'm not above wearing certain articles several times before washing (it's amazing what a little Febreeze and a steam iron can do), so he can lay dormant for several weeks. Hemo loves the Laundry Monster; when he is finally disturbed, cat hair and dander fly from the nests and tunnels she's constructed.

I hate doing laundry; I have to bribe myself to do it. Last night's bribe consisted of Sailor Jerry's and ginger ale, set to the tune of the 80's at 8:00 and the 90's at 9:00 (compliments of 102.7 WGNI). Between 8:00pm and 11:48pm, I had washed 4 loads of laundry, dried 3, put away 2, and called it a night with the last one still unfolded on the couch. We watched "Me, You, and Everyone We Know," which is a pretty decent movie; I would definately recommend adding it to your Netflix queue.

Still life: Ernie with Laundry Monster (clean)

I heart cuddly animals

Yesterday, when I went to put my trash bin on the curb, I saw this:

I did not put my trash bin on the curb. Wikipedia says it's a female Writing Spider and is not harmful to humans. While she may not be physically harmful, she is not much of a writer. She hasn't been spinning any cool messages for me into her web ("What's up, Ninja!?" or "The neighbor kids stole your Netflix again"), nor is she putting a noticeable dent in the mosquito population. This causes me me mental anguish, aka harm. Too bad Wikipedia has blocked my work IP address from editing entries.

As I was dealing with the disappointment that I was not starring in my own version of "Charlotte's Web," I noticed some kittens playing in the hedge by the trash bin. So I brought out some Hemo food for them.

They ate, and I felt good. But then I felt bad, because they wouldn't let me pet them. I got to thinking that maybe Hemo could give those alley kittens some motherly advice, like how important it is to clean your vagina in front of company during dinner thoroughly, or how to trick people into feeding you 6 times a day by pretending to be starving. But Hemo was already pissed that I have given away some of her food, so she would probably have only taught them to play tag in the street. And maybe the alley kittens don't even have vaginas.

Mockingbirds are not funny at all

I've mentioned before the annoying mockingbirds that have taken up residence in my hedge. Not content to be merely annoying, they now pose a threat to my physical well-being.

For a while they had actually fallen off my radar. It's been pretty hot in NC, so I've been spending most of my time inside, enjoying the AC and bonging beers checking out the previous tenants' newest Highlights magazine practicing my American Gladiator moves catching up on my laundry. While checking the mailbox for my new Netflix movies, I detected a faint breeze and decided to take advantage of the break in the stifling heat and enjoy a cold beer and a book in my rocking chair on the front porch.

Three-quarters of a page and 1/2 of a Bud Lite Lime (I know, I know, they are disgusting but delicious) later, I was dive bombed by a pair of mockingbirds! I'm sure you are aware that birds are not only dirty disease carrying rodents with wings, but they will not hesitate to peck out your eyes with their beaks whilst they beat you about the head with their wings! Needless to say, I freaked. I dove from my chair, spilled my beer all over the porch, and flung my book over the railing into the hedge. I don't think anyone saw me ("Hey, that crazy white girl just poured beer all down her front!"), but after I was safely inside, I looked out the window to see Hemo dozing on the porch while the mockingbirds dive bombed her, one after the other. She was unperturbed; in fact, she seemed to enjoy the breeze that ruffled her fur as they flew past.

Hemo is a Bad Mutha Fudrucker.

I heart American Gladiators

Mondays Night = American Gladiators Night. I'm not sure what it is about American Gladiators; I'm hooked. Maybe it's Hulk Hogan--I had a serious case of Hulkamania back in elementary school. Last night I was hanging out on the couch, drinking a Big Miller Lite because I am a Big Girl, eating pizza and enjoying American Gladiator's tribute to the new "Incredible Hulk" movie (which I probably won't see until I get drunk and add it to my Netflix queue sometime next year). I mean, for crying out loud, Titan painted himself green and spoke only in grunts this week. Someone else is watching this, right?!?

Am I the only one who drunkenly adds bizarre movies to my Netflix queue? God help me if I happen to be watching "I love the 80's" part VIII with a beer in my hand and catch a reference to some bizarre science fiction movie. Three days later it's in my mailbox, and I have to watch it because I am Not a Waster. Except of time, because "Westworld" was not a good movie, even if Michael Crichton did write it.

And I helped!

Ernie is a big help on laundry day.

Brotherly love

Dexter's not crazy about tug-o'-war, but I caught the boys playing this gentle version. I'm not sure who won, but I'm pretty sure the toy lost.

Pay no attention to my pile of recyclables in the background.

Egg and Mr. Nut

Meet Egg (left) and Mr. Nut (right). They are two avocado seeds I'm trying to get to root. Egg reminds me of a character on the Garfield & Friends cartoon that was a chicken who refused to come out of his shell; Mr. Nut just has a face. If I can get these two to grow, I'll have my own avocados in just 7-15 years!

Dog Smiles Part II

Ernie, with a very satisfied grin on his face. Maybe he just ate some poop.

Lunch Hour Gladiators

Thanks to the happy coincidence of the Board of Education's Attorney's office being located mere blocks from my house, I sometimes get to time my lunch break with my duties as office courier. On such happy occasions, the boys get a mid-day wrestling break. Sure beats staring out of the window and barking at the mail man.

Rehabilitation

I was at the HomeDepot last week, picking up some hardward to hang up my porch swing, when I saw these Boston Ferns on sale for $9.98. '$9.98!' I thought, 'That's a deal!' It was pointed out to me by my shopping companion that perhaps they were half-price because they were of less-than-stellar quality. I shook off such Debbie-downer negativity and brought them home. I pulled out all the dead-looking shoots and gave them a good watering, but they do seem to be struggling; I'm trying to bring them around, despite my notorious black thumb. As you can see, one side is doing better than the other. Keep Fern 1 (pictured here) and Fern 2 in your thoughts.

Recovery

The beach takes a lot out of you.

Dog Smiles

I think pit bulls win the award for smiley-est dog. Check out the big ol' smiles on the boys' faces as they wrestle around in the back yard.

Our backyard

It's been a slow day for blogging, so I thought I'd whip up a map of our backyard (except I left out the grill and the porch swing, as both have been moved to the front porch).

1. The dead zone: Don't even think about walking through here, unless you like stepping on turds, both fresh and petrified.
2. The back gate: Like raptors, the boys check this every time they go out, just to make sure it's closed and latched. Trust me, it's not fun jogging through the neighborhood asking everyone if they've seen two pit bulls running by. "Don't worry--they're nice!"
3. The dwarf telephone pole: At 4 feet tall, it is enjoying it's retirement from telecommunications duty, and now serves as a peeing post for the boys.
4. Ernie's race track: This is the figure eight Ernie runs at least 20 times a day. Dexter will chase him for about 6 laps, but then he lies in ambush in the center.
5. The lawn table: This is a glass-topped table I use as a dining room table, since I have no dining room and very few dinner guests. Sometimes it has chairs around it, sometimes the chairs have migrated to the front porch. It's main purpose is to anchor Ernie's track.
6. The bush: I wouldn't know poison ivy from a daffodil, so don't ask me what kind of bush this is, but it's where the cardinals have taken up residence. The dogs like to lay underneath it when it gets hot.
7. The back porch/back door: This is where I sit and take pictures of the boys. I also look out the back door from the kitchen to make sure they are both still in the yard, and not trolling the neighborhood for chicks. This is also where Hemo guards the house from the mocking birds.
8. The house: Nothing much to see here. Just 600 square feet of me space.
9. The forbidden zone: This would be the ideal poop spot for the boys, except for one problem: there is no fence bordering this section of the yard! A major design flaw. I'm not sure why the landlord would take the trouble to build a nice tall privacy fence around the entire yard and omit this 4 foot stretch, but the purchase of chicken wire is in my very near future.

Caste system: toys

Ernie has inside toys (clean) and outside toys (dirty). Inside toys can become outside toys, but outside toys will never make the leap back to inside (unless they can easily be cleaned, like kongs or nylabones). Ernie seems to be alright with this system, except for one toy. Pictured above is Ernie with the leg of a stuffed bear, all that remains of his Christmas present from Ms. Alice. He keeps trying to bring it inside. I guess he's not as caste-conscious as I am.

Reason #47 why I hate to mop

I love having clean floors; unfortunately I only have them for about 4 minutes before this happens. This is my kitchen floor, approximately 237 seconds after I mopped and dried it. If you look closely, you can see the doggie footprints right down the middle of the floor. Dexter has the decency to look like he's sorry; meanwhile Ernie is busy cleaning his muddy paws on my clean clothes.

Hemo the Gate Keeper

The mocking birds have been duking it out with a pair of cardinals for possession of the bushes along the side of my house. They are surprisingly loud and aggressive. Hemo is not amused; the bushes are her sanctuary. I think she's daring them to try to come inside.

She is pissed.

Dexter's tongue, vol. II

Dexter keeps potential intruders away using only his tongue.