Category: Uncategorized

You may remember an earlier post regarding my issue with squirrels.  The story below was recently in the news.   Let’s not be deterred by PETA wingnuts or local gun laws banning automatic assault rifles.  This is war.  Read on:

The small gray squirrel in Bennington, Vt., has broken the peace that existed between humans and the small woodland creatures. In separate incidents, the pugnacious rodent has bitten and scratched neighbors without provocation, local station Fox 23 reported.

“[It] just latched on to my shoulder, and I went back and it’s a gray squirrel,” victim Kevin McDonald told the TV station.

McDonald was shoveling snow outside his home when the sneak attack began. “He was holding on. He wouldn’t let go. I was finally able to get him off, and as soon as I got him off, he just jumped right at me again.”   The feisty critter inflicted several scratches on McDonald last week.

A small woodland creature?  Ummm…that’s Thumper and his little friends in Bambi.  These are thugs dangling from bird feeders like they own ’em and then fornicating in the front yard.  That’s what we in the Heartland call a Yard Terrorist.

Happy spring Fur Face (FYI…..this is not for the lady working in the drive-up at the Burger King who needs to be introduced to Sally Hansen Wax Strips), your days are seriously numbered.  Yeah, I’m talking to you.

I’m not sure and never really have been from the get-go, where I intended to go with this blog.  Ideally, a syndicated column or a book deal (with a really big advance like Danielle Steele gets so we can get a new paint job on the McMansion) but that’s pie in the sky kind of thinking.  I’m just gonna keep plugging away and we shall see where the wind decides to blow.  But…….TODAY I TOPPED A THOUSAND HITS!!!  Why am I shouting?  Cuz that’s about 999 more times that somebody read what I wrote in the last two months than before.  A biggety deal to me.  Thank you, thank you, thank you (with a mucho gracias and merci beaucoup to my followers in South America and France….I kid, I kid) for taking time to stop by and read my ramblings.  I’m doing the happy dance and dreaming about all things pie.

Last nite, my friend and I were talking about the disaster in Japan.  She said, “Did you notice that there’s no looting?”  I had and that people are standing in line for hours on end to find the basic supplies to live and nobody seems to be losing their temper.  Quite a difference from what we’ve seen in other places, especially our own country.

When I came home, my husband was watching the news with American journalists reporting on the crisis at the nuclear plant and what would happen if that occurred here.  Could our nuclear power plants stand up to an earthquake?  What are our safety precautions?  Would high winds near the plant in Japan cause an increase in radiation levels in this country?  California stores are selling out of iodine tablets for that very reason. 

I’ve watched footage of the tsunami over and over.  In one video, there’s a little white car speeding along a distant road and as you’re watching this wall of water move, you know that the people inside won’t make it.  Each time, my heart races for that car and its occupants.

I live in a place known for tornadoes.  If you’re on the coasts it could be hurricanes.  Out west it’s wildfires.  None of us are immune from the wrath of Mother Nature but the people of Japan have been hit so hard with such devastating impact that it is impossible to imagine.  

Maybe our news stories should stay focused on the country in crisis and not our own.  Maybe we should sacrifice our iodine tablets for people we will never meet.  Maybe we’ve seen with our own eyes that Japan is a country full of little white cars in trouble, stoically trying to get to higher ground.

A couple of years ago, our air conditioner went out and we replaced it with a heat pump. Cha. Ching. When it was installed, we also got a new digital thermostat. It was the Mercedes of thermostats and I guess I should have been impressed but I could care less about that kind of stuff.

Two and a half years later on a dang cold, Friday night, our Mercedes didn’t seem to be working right. The temp went up to 70 at night and dropped to 64 during the day. I got out the trusty manual, read all 27 pages and checked the breaker. Big Daddy got involved which meant banging on it, giving it the finger and then walking away and saying, “Don’t worry about it.” I wasn’t worried so much as I was freezing my ass off.

On Sunday, I called Honeywell Customer Service and they walked me through some steps with no results. Finally, the rep said, “Your thermostat has likely become touch sensitive. You need a new one.”  Huh?  She told me that if you touch it too much it reverts to and locks into a program even though you didn’t schedule it. I’ve worked customer service type jobs for most of my life so I know that being a smart ass is not helpful in resolving a problem but……..it’s a frickin’ thermostat.  Its sole purpose is to be adjusted up and down to maintain comfort. 

On Monday I called our repairman, they installed a new one and Can I Hear An Amen, it was still under warranty. Now we’ve got a new Mercedes and I touch it far less and very, very lightly so as to not disturb the delicate, nervous, high-strung, prozaced, sensitive nature of it. If it has to be replaced again, it’ll be on us.

I think I was Amish in another life.  A dial to turn right or left would suit me just fine.

Our youngest, Mallie Bee, is the youtube queen and newest, unpaid consultant for A Speckled Trout.  She knows every funny, outrageous video on the web and can often be heard in the computer room giggling away.  This one cracks her up every single time.  I like her to play it just so I can hear her laugh.  Raise your hand if you like clowns.  That’s what I thought.  Enjoy…

This was the weekend we got to spring forward and set our clocks an hour ahead to gain an extra hour of sunlight.  I’m what you’d call a low achiever.  Falling behind is what I’ve done my whole life.

According to the new time I went to sleep and woke eight hours later.  Why then did it feel like I was hit with a baseball bat all day long?  I drank cup after cup of coffee.  Then I ate the rest of the day but was confused about whether to eat breakfast food (yes if you’re going by old time) or lunch (no if you’re going by new time) so I stuck with  chips and salsa.  I ran an errand that seemed to take awhile but not according to the clock in the car.  Five miles later when I returned home, an hour had passed.  We ate dinner at 8:00 (7:00 if you’re going by old time) and finished in time to get ready for bed at 9:00 (8:00 if you’re going by old time).  It felt too early to go to sleep so I laid in bed for a couple of hours and finally got up at midnight (still Sunday and 11:00 if you’re going by old time).

This was the weekend we got to spring forward to gain an extra hour of sunlight.  The forecast is for 3″ of snow allowing us to frolic in the wintry mix past dinner.  It’s been a long winter and I’m not in the mood to look at more snow in the extra light of day.  Maybe in a couple of weeks, if I work really hard at it, I’ll get the hang of this new time/old time thing.

Sadly, my status as a low achiever remains intact.

“It is probably something I’ll remember for the rest of my life. I can’t say that about my Econ 202 class.”

-student who witnessed a mechanical device demonstrated in a human sexuality class

By now you’ve probably heard of the Human Sexuality professor at Northwestern University who had an after-class, live demonstration of a sex toy that drew quite a crowd.  In his defense, he told his students that the demonstration would be very graphic and not for everyone.  Well, no shit, Sherlock.

I’ve been thinking about going back to school but this has me reconsidering that idea.  What if the participants were chosen at random?  What if the old people who were returning to campus life to finish some credit hours were the ones picked to show how sex toys work?  Would anybody show up?  Would I care?

Ummm….yeah I would.  Nobody likes to give a party and have it be a dud even if all you have to show your guests is saggy ta-tas and a hail damaged ass.  Thru the years, I’ve learned that being a good hostess requires plenty of food and beverages.  Including a sexual device is something I hadn’t thought of before but why not add it to the kegs and foot long subs.

The fact that Grandma’s in the house and needs to earn some extra credit will barely be noticeable.  Right?

This week marks the return of The Housewives of Orange County.  The original reality show that led to Bravo finding similar housewives in NY, New Jersey, Washington D.C., Atlanta and soon Miami.

The Orange County Housewives are my favorite.  The other nite while my husband was watching the news,  I tiptoed up the the stairs to watch a little PBS, CNN, Charlie Sheen, heaping pile of crap to relax.  So what’s the appeal?  Here’s my analysis:

They’ve got as much in common with housewives as I do with the Dallas Cheerleaders.

They love breast implants, botox, collagened glossy lips, big jewelry, expensive cars and their equally shallow boyfriends/husbands.

They’re sluts when they drink and they drink all the time.

They live for drama.  They create it, fake it, love it, deny it.

Best of all, though, they can’t friggin’ stand each other.  They go out for dinner, go to each others “charity” events and act supportive when one of them is having a problem (like their implants are a C cup instead of a D).  But truth be told, they’d throw each other under the bus in an LA minute.  They’re catty, bitchy and nasty to each other.  Is this entertainment?  Is this how real women behave?

Hell to the no but I sure would like to be them for a day.

My daughter is a first year 5th grade math teacher.  It is not unusual for her to call me and be upset.  In fact, at the end of most of her days she cries.  She teaches at a school in a neighborhood that most of us would never go in.  Ninety kids move through her room in the course of a day.  Ninety kids.

She has not quit.  Yet.

The toll this year has taken on her can’t be measured.  At the end, about the best you’ll be able to say is that she survived and that’s not a stellar way to start a career.  To watch her struggle like this is a daily kick in my gut as all I can offer is a sympathetic ear and that’s not much help.

She has a school phone and her students can call her until 9:00 p.m. for homework help.  They call her thru the nite and I have listened many times to her talk to them.  She walks them through the problem and helps them make sense of it.  She praises them when they figure it out.  She tells them how proud she was of their class behavior or that she expects better the next day.  She never loses patience with them even when she’s been at it for more than twelve hours.

She’s exhausted.  She’s frustrated.  She’s burnt out.

In light of the events in Wisconsin, it has become popular among some people to criticize teachers, their easy schedule, the union who protects them and the perception that they’re breaking the bank with their salaries and pensions.  How many of us spend our days motivating and teaching a group of people whose various personal issues include ADD, ADHD, autism, biopolar disorder, asperger’s, anger control and emotional disorders, sleep deprivation or hunger?  Times ninety.

There’s a reason teachers have the summer off.  If they didn’t they’d likely never return to do it all over again.

If my husband sees a a squirrel at one of his bird feeders or in his vegetable garden, he’ll yell, “Son of a bitch,” and go tearing after it. When he comes back he tells me he how much he hates those furry little bastards. I thought his obsession with them was over the top and I’ve told him so, but they eat his bird seed and tomatoes and he’s out for revenge. One summer he trapped ’em and drove ’em out of town to reside in a new zip code. Like every single day.

I took the car in for some routine maintenance and when they lifted the air filter it was full of acorns. Seems those furry little bastards like the engine of my car when they’re cold. Tough shit, ya freeloaders. I’m not going to let that happen so I’ve teamed up with my husband. You could say we’re a NATO force in the War on Squirrels.

If those furry little bastards were nervous around my husband wait until I get a hold of them. Sarah Palin may have coined the “Grizzly Mama” term (and believe me, I hate to give her credit for anything but being a gold digger) but I’m going to show him how it’s done.

My old man make look crazy when he’s out there screaming at those furry little bastards. I am crazy.