Monthly Archives: June 2009

Miss Carol’s new boyfriend.

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Miss Carol has a new boyfriend.

Nopey, nope it’s not the flowers. I gave Miss Carol a monthly arrangement for a year for her birthday many, many, many years ago. Little did I know that  just like herpes they just keep coming and won’t go away.

Nor is it the Australian dolphin sculpture that I scrimped for and saved for and winced for when I finally bought it for Miss Carol.

And it’s definitely not the cheapy deapy NOAA weather radio that I listen to every morning to plan my day whilst I make Miss Carol’s coffee.

Miss Carol’s new boyfriend is her brand new sleek shiny slender super sexy new iPhone 3G. She don’t know it yet, but she’s about to be smitten and carried away by it’s Appleness.

And I’ll miss her.

Miss Carol is corporate so she has had to put up with the Windows world, carefully and completely shielded from exposure to the wonderful beautifulness that is Apple and Mac. Poor, poor, Miss Carol.

But all that’s about to change and I can only hope Miss Carol remembers me.

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Forlorn.

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Mighty Whitey ain’t lookin’ too good.

Six or eight weeks into a two or three week renovation I’m guessin’ it’s a ways away. BOB swears that this is the week that the heavy lifting will be done and by Saturday Mighty Whitey will be in the spray booth.

But he said that last week.

And the week before.

And, um, well, the week before that.

As credibility curls up and dies, I’m trying to remain positive and upbeat and hopeful that someday before I can’t afford gasoline I’ll be able to take Mighty Whitey and Miss Carol and Cutter and Tug down to Hatteras one more time.

But I ain’t so sure.

Project Pitifulness.

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So another several weeks have passed and we’ve fought off both Bambi and bunnies in our relentless pursuit to watch slowly dying green plants slowly die.

I think we bought bad dirt. Can you have bad DIRT?

As if our farming incompetencies weren’t slack enough, we woke one morning to find that most of our pathetic garden had been an anemic salad bar for varmints. I rushed to Home Depot for materials and put our plants into prison. I also constructed string poles for the tired little green things we’re euphemistically calling green beans.

And then we watered and watched and watered and watched. At one point during the watching I saw our little bunny friend sitting in the yard staring at her imprisoned dinner with her ears slicked back and her big, dark, puppy dog eyes brimming with desire and I almost went out and opened the gate for her. But I didn’t. Instead, I kept waiting and watching while nothing really grows but nothin’s really dying either. It’s kinda like plant purgatory.

Miss Carol remains annoyingly bubbly optimistic about our future harvest but I’m not so sure tomato plants can survive the winter so I’ve decided enough’s enough and I’m gonna bring out the big guns. I’m gettin’ us some MiracleGro super duper plant food stuff and chemically jump start the garden.

We may glow in the dark after we eat it, but dammit, we’ll have us a tomato sometime this year.

Doggy duty.

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OK.

Granted, walking the dogs twice a day every day gives me lots and lots of time to think and not much to think about, it still surprised me when I realized that not only have I somehow internalized their doody habits but have also unconsciously built an entire framework of poop rules to deal with having to clean up after them.

Welcome to my world. It’s fun, right?

I should just stop here, but, and yet, somehow I cannot.  So.

First the dance- when it’s time Tug suddenly stops, looks confused like WTF?, and jerks around at the end of the leash like a fish on the line, looking for a bush or something to tickle his butt. Cutter, on the other hand, pulls like a locomotive, his nose to the ground, grinding his way to the perfect spot.

Then the stance. When Tug assumes the position he’s all tippy toed looking like he’s passing a Buick and slowly inches forward plopping away. Cutter just settles in like an old man reading a newspaper and, you know, poops.

As a responsible pet owner I carry crappy plastic bags to pick up the boy’s doody like it’s the treasure that it is. And as a fairly lazy responsible pet owner I’m constantly alert for ways to shirk my doggy doody removal responsibilities.

Soooo. Now that I’m waaaayyy too far down this particular road to turn around and go back for directions here we go:

1-If we’re on the beach I always, always pick it up. The only thing I want squishing between my toes at the beach is sand. Really.

2-If we’re walking on the roads and they poop in a neighbors yard I always pick it up. People know where you live. It’s a small town.

3-If we’re walking on the roads and they poop in a rental and no one is home, it didn’t happen and I walk away whistling. Life is good.

4-If we’re walking the roads and they poop in a seasonal rental and no one sees it-see #3. Ahh, yes.

5-If we’re walking the roads really late at night or really early in the morning I usually pretend I can’t see it and do the walking and whistling.

Welp, there ya gots it.

More than you could ever wanted to know about the other end of my dog’s lives. I could probably simply simplify my life and just walk my dogs and pick up their poop and honestly how pathetic is this entire post?

Jesus.

Ladies Night.

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Tonight was Ladies Night.

Again.

It’s only supposed to be once a month but lately it seems like it’s way more frequent and as usual the guy with the mirrored sunglasses and hawaiian shirt came by to pick up Miss Carol in his Corvette. 

She says he picks up all the Ladies for Ladies Night. I don’t know where they all sit, but I’m guessin’ that’s a whole nother story.

So anyway, I decided to make my killer sausage and egg burritos for dinner. Warm fleshy burritos filled with, you guessed it, scrambled eggs and hot sausage- what’s not to love?

First I assembled the ingredients.

Whoa, waitey, waitey, just a minute, I lied- first I cranked the tunes. I have some Totems in the living room that are so cool that when I turn ’em up and sing along, I sound just LIKE Steven Tyler. Really. 

THEN I assembled the ingredients

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I know the kitchen is kinda dark but the Bud Lights and Aerosmith help a lot. After cracking a coldie I browned the sausage which basically means cooking it in a pan until, well, it’s brown. Go figure.

When the sausage is nice and brownish add some eggs. And crack another coldie. And sing just LIKE Steven Tyler.

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Ooh baby. Makes you wanta stop singing just LIKE Steve Tyler and eat but wait, there’s more. As the eggs start to cook stir it all together and add whatever spices make you wonder why the Corvette dude is picking up Miss Carol for Ladies Night. I love pepper and a Caribbean mix we found down in the BVI’s. If you want the info on it, email me.

While the eggs and sausages are coming together put a burrito in the microwave for 30 seconds. When it’s done scoop a bunch of your heavenly kick ass eggs and sausages onto the burrito.

A note to burrito newbies. Do this fold. Think of it as tucking them in.

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Add hot sauce and roll it up. With the fold you can drink and sing and dance around your Miss Carol-less kitchen and not have your burrito goodness squirting out all over your faux hawaiian shirt. Not that that’s ever happened to me.

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Life is goooood.