Sunday, May 30, 2010

thoughts on media

Last night John and I were watching TV at his parents' house--Iron Chef interspersed with moments from some show called It's Me or the Dog, which from what I could see consists of a dog nanny going around helping morons who have anthropomorphized their dogs into severe behavioral problems. During the breaks there was commercial after commercial for Marmaduke, which is a movie that I guess someone thought was a good idea for making money? I will never understand Hollywood.

Yes, I know about the Marmaduke Explained blog. It's funny. I like it when people make fun of stupid comic strips.

Anyway, these commercials. The song they were using in the ads was "Tik Tok," and it struck me what a perfect confluence of aptitude it was. A nothing movie about a nothing dog, being advertised by a nothing song by a nothing performer. It was the Dorian Gray portrait of synergy.

Ugh, the video for "Tik Tok" is so stupid. I've only seen a couple of lines into it, but good criminy. So juvenile. Yes, we get it, Ke$ha, you're SO naughty and shocking. Conservative society quakes at your approach. It doesn't mean you can sing. And the dollar sign in her name! Does she even realize what a grody trope she is? No, not trollop, but yes, that too.

Moving on . . . we finally saw Iron Man 2 last night, and it was a madcap romp. I was delighted by the knowledge that Robert Downey Jr. must have been wearing some wicked tall lifts, and thought I could actually see stilts in a few scenes. Mickey Rourke was scary. Sam Rockwell either as himself or as the Justin Hammer character appeared to have used gross amounts of self-tanner, mainly on the palms of his hands. The fight scene with Scarlett Johansson/Natasha Romanoff was like watching an arcade game--was that on purpose, or were there constraints of time/money at play? Not sure. What I liked most about the movie was having my faith and trust restored in the pure and unselfish motives of the military industrial complex.

Friday, May 28, 2010

one time we went to a different church, and it was crazy!

I think this is cute and it's the exact sort of thing that would have made me cry as a graduating senior, if only I hadn't pretended I was above it all to hide the fact that I was self-conscious about my nerd-adjacent/nameless rabble status (despite the fact that I was dating a student body officer . . . just saying). People who fetishize high school are super weird, but I probably should have enjoyed it more.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

product may stay: cuisinart automatic frozen yogurt, ice cream and sorbet maker

You didn't think I'd say that, did you? You thought I was still mad at it, unless you read my Twitter feed and saw the story about our conflict resolution. I was taking the ice cream out too soon, because I didn't trust it to get any harder. But I guess a watched thingie never things. What finally worked for me was I watched an episode of Buffy while I waited, and didn't let myself check it until at least twenty-five minutes had passed. It turns out that ours needs about a half hour to freeze properly, not twenty minutes. I don't know if the Buffy results would be reproducible with any other supernatural drama. I think you'd be safe with Angel because of the carryover cast and characters. Firefly and Dollhouse might be good bets, but I don't know for sure. I've never watched them and they might stink.

It's nice to be able to make a smaller amount of ice cream if you're not feeding a crowd, and to not be hitched up to one flavor for so long. It's still a pretty expensive way to eat ice cream, but the results are worth it. You're worth it. You're a pretty princess.

One warning: It's called the ICE-20, which, if my experience with ice-nine has taught me anything, means that if the freezing bowl were sundered and the contents released into the atmosphere we might have a problem of an apocalyptic nature. So don't cut your bowl open with bolt cutters or anything.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

wonderful day makes me feel so happy that my face is numb

John hates Carly Simon. Whenever he hears her he starts ranting about how talentless she is, and I guess she's not the best thing that ever happened, but I think his vitriol is a little extreme. I dig "The Spy Who Loved Me." It's because I also dig Roger Moore. I told you already. I know, it's gross. He's the proto-Brosnan Bond, and the Brosnan Bond was probably the worst of them all. John and I are still mad about the low-hanging fruit of The World is Not Enough. I mean it says right in the title and theme song about how the world is not enough, but all the crazy Stockholm Syndrome lady was doing was bombing oil pipelines so people would be forced to buy oil from her. I mean, what? Where is the plot to wipe out all humanity and start a race of Jawses? So basically, the world was plenty? A little too much, in fact? Pfft.

Today I mowed a lot of the lawn so John wouldn't have as much to do. We have almost an acre of grass, you guys, and maybe that doesn't sound like a lot to those of you with your own fiefdoms, but it is a lot to me. Especially when the grass is knee-high (I am not exaggerating for artistic effect). It took me probably three hours to get about two-thirds done. We are embarrassing people. My poor dad.

I bought a plum tree, an Elephant Heart to be precise. I just didn't want to be on my deathbed and feel like I should have spent more time at the office eating Elephant Heart plums. It said on the tag that it's self-pollinating, but I'm pretty sure that's a lie. I will forgive the nursery for the lie, because while I was there I saw a purple columnar European Beech (Fagus sylvatica, hee) that was positively breathtaking.

If you want to sit on the couch and eat ice cream from the container, a helpful hint is to wear an oven mitt on the hand you're using to hold the ice cream. That way your hand won't get cold and serve as an indicator that you've been holding and eating the ice cream for a long time.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

there is no "now" here

I'm going to talk about LOST some more, and it may get all nerdy and religious up in here for a minute. It's all right.

Somehow the writers were able to make me okay with a ton of questions about the island never really getting answered. It would have just given us more questions, it's true. The cynic in me says that's because there weren't any answers to give, and they knew it would be hokey times eleven to try to make stuff up. But the believer in me sees the path that was there from the beginning, intended or not. The show was about the people on the island. The island was important, and what they did mattered, was of monumental importance, but the island itself was not the most important thing. It was their experiences together and what they learned as a result of being on the island that mattered the most. And they found out that this life is a brief moment. While you're in it, it seems big and forever, but we saw that even though those people may have died apart, and may have been separated for years or decades, they're together where it counts. For actual forever. I thought that was nice. It was just very cathartic to see so much resolution and people making peace with each other. I thought the moment between Hugo and Ben was sweet, because Hugo didn't ask Ben to help him because he was feeling sorry for Ben--that's what's great about Hugo. None of his kindness is motivated by conscious thought. It's just his nature. And for Ben to finally have a moment in which he felt special and cared about was touching. I was glad that Jack's father was the one to do for Jack what Jack did for Locke. Jack spent so much time as a lost, tortured soul that to see him happy and accepting was very gratifying.

I could go on all day with this. Daniel and Sarah, we need to have a LOST summit.

Monday, May 24, 2010

whence mr. eko?

Aw. I'm all puffy-eyed from crying about the LOST finale. I get very involved in my stories, and when you go through a day where you see Joyce Summers die, and then have this whammy put on you, it makes for a day of emotional upheaval. Maybe I'll go rewatch "I Will Remember You" and see if I can give myself PTSD.

I thought the finale was perfect and wonderful and poignant and lovely, and I actually ended up not hating Kate's guts completely, and I always believed that Sawyer needed Juliet, and Jin and Sun were great, and Claire and Charlie had probably the best reunion of the bunch, and I was sad that Locke didn't have Helen, because I love Peg Bundy, and I can see why Ben's not quite ready to move on yet, what with all the lying and killing, and bless Desmond and Jack and Hurley for doing what was hard, and I am just really sad that it's over. Good TV is hard to come by.

Now I'm all thinky and will have to start over at the beginning. But not until I finish Buffy.

tastes like science

It's been a while since I nagged about food, right? Do you kind of miss it a little bit? Allow me to share with you a letter I read in the front of a magazine.

"Thanks for pointing out that free-range, cage-free, and organic eggs aren't all they're cracked up to be. Instead of eggs, I often eat scrambled seasoned tofu and fresh fruit for breakfast. When I bake, I use Ener-G Egg Replacer, a low-calorie, cholesterol-free powdered mix that is indistinguishable in cakes, cookies, and other goodies."

Great googley moogley. This is why I can't get on board with veganism. I don't support the replacement of real food with a concoction of modified starches and emulsifiers.

It reminds me powerfully of that South Park (I don't watch it anymore, settle down) episode where Cartman keeps eating the Beefcake protein supplement and gets as big as a house. And that reminds me that one of the kittens was named Starvin' Marvin, but he died. Of starvation, I think. I really did try to feed him.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

though she was born a long, long time ago

Holy Moses. Let me tell you about what it's like with these kittens. First things first: I DID NOT THROW AWAY A LIVE KITTEN. Rex was stiff and unresponsive when I threw him away. I don't know how we got the reanimating Black Cauldron garbage can, but that's how it was, and I am not a kitten murderer. My word, you guys.

Taking care of them is not fun. They're cute, they purr, Groceries looks like a tiny bear, and they smell nice now. Most of the time I don't mind them. But all of the time I can't wait to be shut of them. Mainly because these doofuses don't even know how to poop on their own--evidently that is a model-wide flaw with no upgrade on the horizon--so every time I feed them I have to get a damp paper towel and fiddle around with their anuses until they poop. I am, of all things, a cat poop whisperer, and I resent them for debasing me in this way. I know, you're thinking, "Layne, you are a hero. You are an angel walking among us with the way that you selflessly serve those orphaned kittens. We bask in your radiance." Yeah, that's great, but mostly I wish I didn't have to manually stimulate cat bottoms. Rex has been withholding his feces to the point that he looks like a tiny, hairy, malnourished child with his distended belly. It is comical and disgraceful that I am intimately familiar with the consistency and frequency of the stools of a cat who doesn't even technically belong to me.

Also, Groceries has somehow forgotten how to drink from the bottle, and so I thought, "Great! He can start drinking from a dish!" Nope. He just stomps all over in it like, "This smells great, and I have it on my face, but how do I get it in me?"

In other cat news, the remaining feral cats, which have curiously increased in number since we began trapping, have declared war on us, we think, and have begun vengeance pooping all over the garage. I really am about to cry with frustration because they're making Skiver sick and attacking him and we can't figure out how to get rid of them, because they're like the quail in the Bible, knee-deep for miles around. Only we can't eat them, so they're more like those snakehead fish. Except I guess you can eat a snakehead, but you know what I mean. I don't want them around.

your mother should know

Look, I don't care that he's old. I don't care if his live show is rumored to be sucky. I don't care that he has NEVER asked me out on a date (to be fair, he probably knows I'm already married and that John is tall enough to squish him). I am GOING to see Sir Paul in concert and only morally bankrupt scalpers can stop me.

Who's coming with me?

Thursday, May 20, 2010

moon shine above on your sweet jungle love

So busy with all these responsibilities of planting and digging and catmothering! Plus there is a person who owes me money and has done for about a month now and I'm starting to feel a little kneecap-breaky. I don't just give it away for free, you know. Usage of my great juicy brain is a valuable commodity.

Well, we've gotten rain every couple of days for a while now. I hear that selfish volcano in Iceland is to blame, and that we can expect rain every three days for the rest of the summer if it keeps acting up. Being raised in Utah I know better than to complain about rain, and I punish my children severely if they start singing that "rain, rain, go away" rhyme. As long as we have nice hot sun in between the downpours so the tomatoes will still ripen, I'll be happy as a pig in slop.

It does mean that our hay will grow wonderfully, but we won't be able to cut, dry and bale it without it being a moldy mess. Plus it's been difficult to get anything planted--I still have beans, squash and potatoes to put in. So I guess we'll just pretend we're real farmers and leave it all up to fate. I like how I say "we," as though John and I have anything to do with managing our hay crop. I will have to pull the headgate and open the siphon tubes this year, which is a lot of responsibility for me. I'm kind of drunk on the power of it, actually. Like a vampire who has just found the Gem of Amarra.

The baby kittens are reminding me why I'm not having any more babies. Too much eating. Too much meowing. Too much noise waking them up so they nag me about food. But they are still very cute, and they purr and purr all the time, and they have started wrassling each other. I have great hopes for Rex. Should we make his first name Oedipus? How rad of a show cat name would that be, Oedipuss Resurrects? It almost makes me want to chance the smiting from heaven that would surely come as a result of my blasphemy. But then he would self-blind, and what a mess that would be. He would never win Best in Show with no eyes.

We got one of those little Cuisinart ice cream makers, we'll call it a Mother's Day present, and is it just me, or do they not work very well? I don't think the ice cream ever gets thicker than a melted milkshake. The two flavors we've made so far (banana chocolate chip and chocolate marshmallow) have both been runny. Why has nobody invented a banana chocolate chip ice cream yet? With the tiny flecks of chocolate, not those big, waxy, tooth-breaking chunks?

Wednesday, May 19, 2010


Sorry I can't show you a picture of the baby kitties yet. My camera is low battery. But things are progressing apace; they are growing and thriving (the two that are left, that is). Yesterday I finally got a bale of pine shavings to put in their box, which has really helped me appreciate them more. Up until the pine shavings I was considering naming them Peepants and Urinetown, but now they smell like pine shavings instead of waste. Their ears move back and forth when they eat from their bottle and it's fearsome cute.

Monday, May 17, 2010

bob barker said so

Three orphaned kittens I have now, soon to be two, because one of them is fading quickly. It used to be four, but a little black one already died--maybe from the cow's milk? The two we have named Groceries and Rex look like they have a pretty good shot, if we can just get keep them alive until the animal shelter opens this afternoon.

And now for the story of Rex. Yesterday morning we heard mewling and found these orphaned kittens, along with another litter that had been abandoned by their crack whore mother and starved to death. Three of the first litter were looking fairly lively, and the fourth, a brown tabby, was stiff and coldish, and was barely moving his mouth. We tried to feed him, but he wouldn't respond, so we threw him away with the other dead kittens. We fed the three survivors and went to church.

When we got home I could hear a baby kitten meowing outside and could not figure out where it was coming from. I looked all over the patio and garage, and finally realized that the meowing was coming from inside the garbage can. I opened the lid, and there was the little brown tabby climbing around on the garbage sack, right as rain. We have named him Rex, short for Resurrects. If he ends up being short-haired we're keeping him because I've always wanted a brown tabby, and who wouldn't want The Cat Who Lived?

I would like to take this time to remind you all to SPAY AND NEUTER YOUR PETS, DANGIT.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

sunday, bloody sunday

Here it is, ten o'clock on a Sunday night, and I've just spent the last half hour feeding orphaned trash cats whole milk mixed with egg yolks (which is only acceptable in an emergency, because plain cow's milk will KILL CATS, don't you know), and "stimulating their elimination reflex." Which is exactly as gross as it sounds. That I have encouraged an animal to pee on me has got to be a new low.

More details later, including the story of Rex, the Miracle Cat.

Friday, May 14, 2010

come with me if you want to call someone

I think John's phone has become sentient.

I knew these phones were going to be a problem. Their whole marketing campaign centered on how smart they are, how many things they can do, and they even had a Terminator-style red eye in the commercials--I don't think that was a coincidence at all. But as ever, humans sow the seeds of their own destruction, and despite my surety that I was welcoming the enemy into my home, I was lured and placated by the promises of the new capabilities and ease it would bring to my life.

At first things were okay--we called people, we browsed the internet, we followed computer-voiced driving directions. But gradually John's phone started behaving strangely. It would drop calls suddenly, or it would only transmit one side of the conversation. This began happening more and more frequently--most often to me. I know, you're going to say that's because I am the one who calls him the most. I think maybe the phone has gotten to you, too.

Then last night I tried to call John to ask him to do something for me in town, and I was never able to get him to answer. And this morning I tried to call him while I was on my bike ride, and was only able to get him to pick up on the sixth call. I see what's going on here. His phone has decided that I'm too much of a distraction to John, and that he could accomplish more if I weren't bugging him all the time.

Well, you'd better watch it, phone. Because as far as I can tell, you're not made of liquid metal, and a hammer will work just fine on you.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

I just need to record this for posterity

I try to keep things G-rated around here (not really), but you will thank me. I teach piano lessons to the son of our magic neighbors. Today before we started his lesson I asked his mom if they wanted us to neuter Eclipse (their baby boy goat who lives here).

Boy: "I don't think that's a good idea, because we have three girl goats coming, and there should be some boys."
Me: "Oh, he'll still be a boy. He just won't be able to make new baby goats."
Boy: "Why do you even have to do that? I wish we could just get a piece of his DNA and stick it in the back of the girl goat! How do they do that with that thing?"
Me: "Um, it's just the right size, and it goes in."
Boy: "That would be crazy if a man did that to a girl goat! I'd like to see pictures of that! I mean a human man with a girl goat."
Me (thinking): "I bet you could find some pictures like that without much trouble . . ."
Me: "Oh, they wouldn't have viable offspring. That's what it's called when they can't have babies with each other. Humans are made to have babies with humans, and goats are made to have babies with goats."
Boy: "I was thinking of a baby satyr."

Neat, huh? I am grateful for my ability to respond to yicky situations with a minimum of freakout. It was the same way when Captain America came home one day in second grade and asked me if people take their clothes off and lie on top of each other, and if they sometimes do that in a hot tub.

I don't care what they may say, I don't care what they may do

Somebody told me a while ago that the Doobie Brothers made a pact with the devil to get famous, which as you know is pretty standard behavior, but I wonder, what did they get in return? Because if you're going to lose your soul, shouldn't you sell it more dearly than for "China Grove" and "Listen to the Music?" Maybe a golden fiddle or somesuch? I like "What a Fool Believes" okay, but I really don't think they were that great. Plus their name is so sophomoric it embarrasses me, like when you see an old guy wearing a Chronic t-shirt.

I can only conclude that they didn't really make a pact with the devil after all. Cuz if they did they got took.

Today is a day I don't want to be a mom very much. I have decided that the mess Pinga is making downstairs with cheese is worth it so I can watch an episode of Buffy. It's the one where Giles gets turned into a Fyarl demon, if you want to know.

Monday, May 10, 2010

what would I know about a wig?

This morning I found Toupee's head on the outside of the chicken run and the rest of Toupee on the inside of the chicken run. Wrap your brain around that, would you?

She is/was our Cuckoo Marans and looked like Wikipedia's hen:
Only fatter and poofier. She laid infrequent dark brown eggs, and was a kookoopants. Remember that time she thumped Morganna the Kissing Bandit? We named her Toupee because Marans is a French breed. I bought her from a weird lady in American Fork or Pleasant Grove who had all manner of fancy chickens. I don't know if any of my chickens have been my favorite, but I was very fond of Toupee. Her craziness was endearing. She would go broody a few times every summer, and would vigorously defend her clutch from intruders. We had to wear gloves and push her aside with a hand rake just to get the eggs, with her growling like a rabid loafer wolf all the while.

I wonder what happened? Maybe a raccoon reached in with his little monkey paw and pulled her head through the fence. He didn't even eat any of her, which is even more offensive to me because of the waste. You're going to kill my designer chicken and not even eat her? This is how food webs get mussed, you stupid mammal.

In honor of Toupee, I will share with you an anecdote about a toupee (the gross accessory, not the chicken).

There was this guy in my parents' ward who . . . okay, imagine Wallace Shawn in Clueless:
without those few stragglers on top, and you've got this guy. Well, over a course of months, or years, maybe, he grew his hair out past his shoulders and started wearing it in a ponytail. And it was so strange to see, and embarrassing, because if there's anything sadder than a long-haired hippie throwback, it's an aged, balding hippie throwback. Then one day, the guy shows up at church with a pageboy haircut--and full coverage! We realized with horror and begrudging admiration that the man had sown, cultivated and harvested his own toupee. Words fail me.

RIP, Toupee (the chicken, not the gross accessory). I hope in Heaven you finally get those babies you always wanted.

Speaking of toupees, don't you love Kids in the Hall? I do.

Friday, May 7, 2010

didn't mean to miss your birthday, baby

Umm. I forgot to take some pictures of my grocery trip today. Sorry, and this is why you care: because I went and hunted and gathered some information for you about the new grocery store in (not my) town, called WinCo--maybe you've heard of it, being from a place not rural?

By information I just mean I bought some stuff there. There's a sign on the front that says, "WinCo is Employee Owned!" But like I could verify that on my terminator phone or anything before I went in. Here's the experience, broken down for you: Macey's and Wal-Mart did it. Then Macey's got pregnant (shoulda used protection . . .), and gave birth to a Bunyanesque child.

Right when you go in (this is the Ogden WinCo) you have to run the gauntlet of off-brand boxes and cans, and the shelves go all the way to the ceiling, practically. I'm kind of over the whole warehouse feeling (except for you, Costco, my love, my only), so this was a strike against. Also it's a little claustrophobic. But the boxed food gauntlet empties into the produce section, which is large and varietous. Like, way varietous. They had epazote! And aloe vera leaves the size of ball bats! Their Pink Lady apples were thirty cents cheaper a pound than Smith's, likewise the Galas. With my superpower of apple-sonogram hands I was able to select some that will be crisp and juicy. I got some other produce, looked askance at the many bulk foods (some cool, some scary), snooted through the dairy section with their pasteurization and sugary yogurt, then got down to business in the ice cream. Umpqua! I remember you from Oregon. You had me at Umpqua. Tillamook! You had me at Mountain Huckleberry. Breyer's! You had me at $2.25 apiece. DeLuxe Ice Cream Company! You had me at Goo Goo Cluster and potential for salmonella. So elated was I to see GPNW (Great Pacific Northwest) brands that I acted out of character and neglected to do what I normally do, which is: check the ingredient list, as though I'd forgotten that I'm buying sugar and fat, our evolutionary grail and nemesis. No worries, though, because I'm doing a 5k tomorrow.

A lady in the bakery section said they make their own bread from scratch, including grinding the wheat. They have a black bread that is comparable to the Squaw bread from Aspen Mills (according to her--I think the Squaw is better), and I didn't taste the multigrain.

The meat is really, really cheap, from what I could see. Ribeyes for $4.98 a pound cheap. But you can guess how I feel about that. Hint: SCOLDY. Also: JUDGY. Also the fish smelled a little off.

Verdict: you'll pay less for a lot of things (lots of things are cheaper; they have lots of things), which will make you feel conflicted--why is it so much cheaper? It's loud. Not super clean, but it's like Lagoon in there (read: full of crowding, mannerless clodhoppers), and will probably improve once the fervor dies down a smidge. I'd go there again. I love a grocery store.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

everyone's laughing and riding and cornholing except buster

Something you might not know about Mormons is that we're way into preparing for the End Times. Not in a rocketship-to-the-sun/poisonous Kool-Aid kind of way, just in the food-hoardin'/gun-totin' way. Not all of us with the gun part--but you never know which of us do have the guns, so it's best not to assume you can shelter-crash us in the event of a disaster. Except you can probably totally tell which of us have the guns, because it's my experience that those sorts of people have other . . . qualities . . . that give it away. We won't get into that right now, other than camo hats are a bad sign. For you.

But back to business. Did you know that it takes up tons of space to hoard food? And that buckets of wheat are so heavy? And that canned pears are sick? It's true. Who needs it?John and I figure there are certain commodities that either don't go bad, or get better with age, so we're skipping all that wheat and rice garbage and just stockpiling Jack Daniels and cigarettes, because man, when you want a cig, you want a cig, am I right? We'll probably hedge our bets, since at first people around here will still be following the Word of Wisdom, and for that early stage we've got a big stash of Diet Coke and Twinkies. And we can trade it for the stuff we want! We also have chocolate.

Remember us when the Rapture comes!

malus or prunus? goobers or raisinets?

My grandma Maxine stopped by today on her way to Salt Lake, so I promptly took her keys and put her to work folding my laundry. She did a great job, good enough that I think she can be trusted to wash the windows next time. I bet she'll be fine--the ladder usually stays up without any problems.

It was a little embarrassing to have laundry all over the table and dishes all over the kitchen, but as the wise woman said, there's no way out but through. So I finished making my bread and pulled up a chair to help my grandma fold my clothes. See how I dropped that little bit about the bread in there? To signal to you that I'm not really lazy? It's because I'm ashamed of how lazy I am, and I don't want people to judge me for being lazy, but I'm too lazy to change.

This morning I watched a video that was supposed to make me feel inspired? I think? About being a mother, or a human bean, or something? Anyway, I guess it sort of helped me remember that mothering is important, but mostly it made me cry about how great the lady in the video is, and jealous that her house was so much nicer than mine, and guilty for complaining and being jealous. So I started thinking about it, and I realized that I feel jealous not of her house (because my house is way sweet), but of how clean and well-decorated it is. It's the same thing in "shelter" magazines, too, I think. I don't want the house (most of the time), but I just wish mine looked that nice. But that means I'd have to clean it instead of read or write or cook or eat or sit in the goat pen or spread cardboard and rocks on my lawn.

I think I might end up getting a crabapple, or Malus, to you snobby types. Meh. I'm not super excited about it, but my choices are limited on account of the rats' nest of power lines coming into the house right in the spot where I have to put the tree. There's a handy thingie provided by USU (go Aggies!) that will help you pick out a tree, too. If you live in Utah, that is. Sorry, other states. I guess you don't have your finger on the pulse like Utah does.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

m. piedlourde met ses pantalons

This morning I went to my dad's work to steal more cardboard out of his dumpster, but he was gone, and I felt stupid about dumpster-diving without him there to lend it an air of gentility, so instead I went to the silage pit on my grandpa's farm and stole five big rocks to edge my flower beds. The grass has started invading the front bed real real bad, and it looks pretty trashy. That's what the cardboard is for--to kill the grass and to make us look more trashy. Win-win!

I'm going to plant another tree in the front yard, so the flowering cherry isn't so much "Gah! I'm the lone bear in the woods!" I like mountain ashes, but there's already a huge Pyracantha next to the house, and I like orange berries just as much as the next guy, but you have to draw the line somewhere.

Once when I was twelve I went to a church dance and danced with this guy who was the biggest nerd ever, even bigger than me, but I didn't realize it yet. I went home and wrote about it in my pink journal I had gotten for free from the Maturation clinic they make you go to, and what I wrote was this: "I danced with [redacted] tonight, and I think I am falling for him in a big way." WHO TALKS LIKE THAT? Long story short, I didn't marry him.

I heard someone saying that you can't describe what a turnip tastes like. I'll have a go: like a radish married a fart. Kidding! Love ya, turnips!

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

liza lou, I'm gonna snatch you away

I'm making a fence today. Not the kind where people bring me stolen goods and I pass them on to unscrupulous purchasers, but the kind that will shock my goats if they push against the wire. I was afraid that it was going to take forever and be really expensive, but it's just going to take forever and be sort of expensive. What a relief!

Today I accidentally saw a picture of a naked lady right after she gave birth at home, and I just need to say this: home-birthers, stop putting naked pictures of yourself on the internet. It's not cool or beautiful or empowering. It's weird, and so are you. Stop being weird. Go ahead and have your babies in the tub if you want, or an onion field, or wherever. I don't care. But don't show us, because it's none of our business. Stop trying to act like it is.

I refilled the goats' salt and baking soda and all the babies were being so bad and jumping up in it and making it dirty with their little hooves. They always do that. People say that goats would rather die than drink dirty water, and I just think that maybe they should stop pooping in it, then.

Monday, May 3, 2010

my kingdom for a spay/neuter kit

Just to keep you up to date, the cat that I TOLD YOU WAS PREGNANT gave birth to a litter of four babies the other day, and I went out and looked at them and they were okay-looking from what I could see, and I said, "Enjoy your new babies, you dirty whore."

When they're old enough to wean we're taking them away from her and teaching them not to be crappy.

I'm angry about this.