I've Never Been Accused of Being Graceful...

 I just can't win. I was telling a friend it seems like our guardian angels have left us to our own devices because we just can't not hurt ourselves. I've had some pretty moronic accidents that have left me with bumps and bruise, accidents I couldn't recreate if you paid me. My one comfort was that at least I had a fun story to share. 

Then this happened...

My toes are hidden in the shadow. Promise.

On the plus side I had just gotten a pedicure.

 

I used to have an ankle here.

Thursday last week I stepped off a curb. That's it. That's what happened. Somewhere between the curb and the pavement my foot stopped supporting me. Or maybe I just needed to lie down? At any rate, I found myself forcefully moved to the ground.

After a moment of reflection and gratuitous cursing, I hauled my hinder off the ground and limped back to the van. Miney had accompanied me on my errand, but had applied all of her attention to her phone thus she did not see me disappear from the rearview mirror. If she had, she would have already been well versed on so many, many things. My ankle was throbbing, but Miney is unlicensed so I had to drive myself home. As I gingerly loaded myself into the van, she asked where we were headed next and I said, "Home, because I have fallen." She was unconcerned because I fall all the time, so what?

Well, by the time we got home, maybe ten minutes later, my ankle had swollen to an unbelievable size and the pain had become unbearable. It hurt like a bad dog when Babe pulled my sock off. My ankle bone was the size of a softball and it hurt. A lot.

I was so certain I had broken that bugger that I had Babe run me to the Carenow, but because I half-ass everything, it wasn't broken just severely sprained. The doc splinted my ankle and sent me on my way. Babe got me ice cream on the way home.

So now I'm gimping around the house on crutches or "death sticks," if you will. My lack of grace is amplified with crutches and I'm just waiting for one of Moe's shoes to pop up out of no where, trip me up and launch me into space. My dogs have decided the best way to help me is to walk ahead of me, then decide at the last moment to move to the left, no the right. Wait! Yes, the left.

One of the pups has also decided the best place to hang out is right under the recliner where I sit with my leg propped six feet in the air. So when I have to go to the bathroom, I have to make sure she gets out of the way because the kids would be upset if I accidently killed her in the chair.

Potty breaks are a fun trip in themselves as I have to push my stack of pillow to the left, reach for my crutches and make sure the foot rest snaps snuggly in place before I stand up, or it will pop back up and smack me in my ouchie ankle because, of course it would.

We're headed to Florida next week so I'm thankful it isn't broken. I need both feet for jellyfish stings and I am capable of bring sand inside without involving a clunky cast.

Update: It has been a year since I hurt myself (that time). I still walk with a limp and my ankle swells if I walk too far or stand too long. Clearly I am of an age where once it's broke it stays that way. The trip to Florida was fun. The place we rented was super tiny so crutches were just the best. Also, the floor was tiled because sand, so the grips on the bottom of my crutches had nothing to grip, but did make for a heart stopping slip and slide ride.

I made it out to the beach the first day, but the sand was difficult to traverse on crutches (you probably already knew that, but I'm not the brightest bulb on the tree) and my splint picked up a lot of sand, so I mostly hung out in our cabana.

I want to go to Florida again, but I'll plan to stay sedentary, wrapped in bubble wrap, for the weeks preceding the trip. 

I regret nothing!

                                                            

Oh, Rats...

 Freakin' furry monsters.

Earlier this year, Judy (our beloved Toyota Sienna) was sent to the Big Farm to retire. She'd put in sixteen years of hard labor and the wear was beginning to catch up with her. We had decided last year's high dollar repair was the last repair so when she was diagnosed with another high dollar repair, we pulled the plug. This left me without a vehicle, which was fine because I never go anywhere, but because Babe is the best, he was already scouting for a replacement.

A month or two later he found me a truck. OMG! I was so excited. However, that excitement was dampened a hair when I learned we'd have to drive half way across Texas to pick it up. No joke, it was five hours round trip. So not really half, but a whole day nonetheless. We decided to make a day of it so that worked out. We toured the jail where some guy murdered some other guy and then was murdered himself, and had some "meh" barbecue. Also, the previous owner was a smoker so I drove back with the windows down. Seventy mile per hour wind is a lot of wind, just so you know, and cigarette smoke permeates EV-ERY THING.

Anyway, now I've got an awesome truck with a liner and back-up camera and everything. The back-up camera is more on the annoying side because it beeps if you get too close to the car behind you. Which means it screams bloody murder if the tailgate is down, which happens sometimes. No I don't accidently leave the tailgate down, if that's what you're thinking.

My first order of business was to get some dirt so I could load it into my truck. Woot! Also, I needed dirt for the Garden of Contention which will get some attention in another post. Anyhoo, I have since made several trips to the dump, helped my sister move and pretty much filled that bed as often as I can. If you need something hauled, just call!

So, here we are not five month later and I was helping out a friend by taking her child to gymnastics. As the site of the class was in the middle of friggin no where, I waited in the truck for the clock to run out. About half an hour into my idle, my truck kind of sputtered and then stopped. 

It started right up, so I didn't think too much about it until the next day when it threatened to die at a stoplight. I went to AutoZone to have my battery and alternator checked and they weren't the problem. I checked the air filter. It wasn't that. I made sure the gas cap was tightened, and checked the windshield wiper fluid as well as the blinker fluid, for good measure.

After running my errands, I was headed back home when all of a sudden I was coasting down the street. Thankfully, it was the street to my house so I coasted into the driveway. I tried starting the truck several times and the one or two times it turned over, it immediately died again. I could hear my debit card start sobbing from my wallet. Awesome.

After some googling, consulting with my male siblings, and hoping against hope, I was no closer to an answer. So I took Pixie (that's her name) to the mechanic. 

The drive short, but anxiety inducing. She died at the first light where I was paused to turn right. It took several tries to start her up again. Then, I found myself in a school zone so I got to creep ever so slowly and sweat ever so profusely through that. Then, I found myself behind two of the slowest drivers ever to grace this earth. I couldn't change lanes because they were in both of them. I was beginning to worry I might have to push my truck the rest of the way to the mechanic when one of the cars finally moved up enough that I could get around both of them, but Pixie was stuttering and pulling so I wasn't sure how much longer she would last. And then the check engine light popped on. The suspense was thrilling. Would I make it in time? Would I have to push my track for the last few miles? Would there be anyone to help or would they all stare wide-eyed and stupefied as they passed? Should I just leave her on the side of the road? I had a lot of time to think while I was behind those two morons.

I just made it to the garage when she died again so I coasted into a spot and let her rest. A day later, I got the prognosis. Rats had gotten up under the hood and gone to town on a few of the sensors. And I had an oil leak. 

What is it about plastic coating that rats find so delicious? 

The repair or "check for one rat's meal" cost us three car payment. Imma find that rat and take those three car payments out of it's hide. Imma skin it and hang it's pelt in the back window of my truck as a warning to it's wife and progeny. Also, now I'm a little bit paranoid it will happen again. I've heard peppermint is a deterrent. So if you smell candy canes, it's probably me. I'm also looking into sonic boom tech to cause the little rodents auditory damage. They also invaded my garden and shat in my planters so they have it coming.

Damn rats. 

Then There Were Killer Hornets...

I know Killer Hornets are old news at this point in 2020, but I was reminded, today, of my frequent and plentiful run-ins with wasps lasts summer.

For whatever reason, all the wasps in the DFW area opted to take up residence in my backyard. I found nests under fence posts, in my trees, under planters, clinging to the decorative fence and other places I was unaware of until I happened upon them. For this reason, I opted to wear long overalls and garden boots every time I went to play in the backyard/garden. I would like to remind everyone that safety measures make no difference because I tend to get hurt anyway, but those wasps were serious. So in triple degree weather, I'm tromping around in long pants and boots to avoid painful consequences. 

Lord. Help. Me.

I was working in the garden with my pal Ang, and was strolling across the yard when all of the sudden I felt a prick on my inner thigh. Suddenly, the prick began to burn and there was another prick and then another. I realized one of those fetchers had flown up my pants leg! I ran for the house, stripping my overalls off along the way and dumping them at the back door, where that little bugger flew out of my pants and into the house. I grabbed a broom and chased it into a corner where I attempted to broom it to death, but I managed to fling it into space after the first smack. The burning around my thigh and knee abruptly became my focus, so I neglected to look for the body. Five great big welts formed on the front and back of my leg. Five welts, but on closer inspection, seven holes. 

The next morning, I heard a frantic buzzing at the living room window and wouldn't you know, it was my un-dead wasp. It's mother would not even be able to identify it's body by the time I was done taking those seven stings out of its hide. Then, just to pre-empt any hive minded retribution, I headed outside and went scorched earth on every nest I found. I went through three cans of hornet spray. 

My leg was swollen and itchy for a solid week before I began to heal. I could barely bend my leg, but after that whole episode, I realized if I had been wearing shorts and flops, that damn thing wouldn't have been able to sting me seven times in a row. So the next time I went into the garden, it was in a t-shirt, shorts and flops. I also wasn't too worried about running into any more wasps because I had just mass murdered all I could find. 

It was the ones I didn't find that got me. Three more times, between my toes.

Three is less than seven so I call that a win!

That's hot

This Year...

2020 has kind of been the worst. I know, I know the virus has made things...unpleasant, but the year literally started sucking on January 1st. Babe left for the Philippines that morning for a three week work trip. In twenty years of marriage we have never been so far apart for so long a time. I was missing him before he left the van at drop off.

It was hard enough to have him gone, but it became even more unpleasant the morning he called to tell me, "don't panic, but there's a volcano erupting here." He was mighty casual for a man who has never actually experienced a volcano first hand. Even with "rocks falling from the sky," he was frustratingly calm. He's low-key freaking out about this virus though. It's almost funny how the rolls have changed. I have seen enough volcano disaster movies (Dante's Peak, Volcano, Joe Versus the Volcano, Lavalanchala) to know better than to poo-poo the raging murder fiend called "nature." Yet, I am not nearly as panicked as he is about our current situation. I went out to lunch with friends this afternoon (gasp) in public (uber gasp)! I am the harbinger of death!

Eenie moved up to Utah at the end of January. She called me this morning and told me, "don't panic, but there was an earthquake this morning." I've gotten far too many calls that begin with, "don't panic, but..." this year. It's only freakin' March. Oh, and then there's this little inconvenience by the name of COVID-19 running willy-nilly through the countryside.

The worst part of the pandemic (that's what it's been labeled) is just how horribly people are behaving in the face of this threat. I blame the media. It has become a consequence-free-for-all with the very deliberate "Just run the story, we'll fact check later, maybe," school of thought they've rabidly embraced. The problem this position has caused is a "react first, think later" position among the general public. With the announcement of Captain Tripps...I mean, Corona Virus people all around the country have lost their collective minds and have taken to panic hoarding water, hand sanitizer, sanitizing wipes and toilet paper. Toilet paper! It's a respiratory virus. The only bum issue this virus causes is the one where people have rammed their heads into their asses. Toilet paper isn't going to fix that condition. A change in perspective is only only cure for asshead.

The country is closing down to try and prevent the spread of the virus, Church and schools have been cancelled for the next couple of weeks. Restaurants, bars and lounges are closed. Facebook has become SUPER touchy, blocking any comment that maybe, might, just a teenie, tiney chance perhaps be construed as hate speech. There was a post about how Korea has managed to lock down without the panic seen here in the U.S. (they still have toilet paper on the shelves) I commented that America is the worst, because guess what gang, Americans ARE the WORST and my comment was tagged as hate speech. One of my other friends quoted C.S. Lewis (A Christmas Carols, C.S. Lewis) and his comment was tagged by Facebook. Maybe Facebook is the worst.

Just ask the people who can't find meat because of the panic. Maybe ask the woman who watched another woman shove the last pack of toilet paper into her already crammed with 12 count packs of toilet paper cart what she thinks about Americans and their ability to be rational. Or how bout the guy who decided to buy up all of the hand sanitizer for three counties so he could jack up the price and sell it on Amazon in the hopes of making a tidy sum off of the shortage.

Our cruise was cancelled. Babe is working from home for the foreseeable future. It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.

If Cussing Were Wishes...

I really, really, really wish cussing fixed the things that were broken.

If cussing granted wishes, then I wouldn't have had to drive to Home Depot three times today. I would have been able to find the drill bit that I needed because it would damn well have been where it should have been instead of where ever it currently is. Cussing would have kept the weenie drill bit I ended up using from snapping off in the board I was drilling a hole in. Cussing would have kept the exact amount of wood that I purchased intact where it was whole allowing me to utilize the eight feet cut-to-two-four feet pieces that I needed, instead of leaving me with the one four foot, one snapped-in-two-thus-useless foot pieces I ended up with.

All I wanted to do was build a fishtunkin raised garden bed. It ain't rocket science. I'm not trying for whistles or bells or convoluted watering systems, just a freakin box on legs, but everything has to be a production. It can't ever be simple. Why?

I really should have known that a four foot tall raised bed was too tall, so that's on me, but dadgum if that wasn't the least of the aggravations of the day. At least I had a handsaw to cut the legs down (so my fingers and toes were never at risk) because my only other option would have been to gnaw them down with my own teeth as my circular and jigsaw would never have made it through the 4x4 legs.

At any rate, my end goal is to delve into utter madness by pulling up my already established garden beds so that I may place them on legs thereby creating a hindrance to weeds, reduce back strain for myself, and to restrict access to vermin as the fence and other tactics I have thus far employed have failed in their efficacy.

Brilliant!!!

Here's something I'm pretty proud of. My brother and his wife came to visit and he helped me build this retaining wall on the side of the house. See, what had happened was, our house was built on a mound and as a consequence the earth had eroded to such a degree that huge sections of the foundation were exposed. That is a bad thing. So my brother and I built this retaining wall. I had decided to put plants in the bed to keep the soil in place and make it purty, but my brother's wife suggested strawberries!

This one time.

The other half of this one time.

I stuck my blueberries in there, too. They've been struggling. Maybe now they'll thrive. Or die. Honestly, at this point, I don't care. Just piss or get off the pot, man!

I haven't decided what to put in the second bed as it stays pretty shady through the day. I'm open to suggestions. So this was an amazing bond-y project to do with my bro. We have all kinds of plans for next year. So excited!

So why do I continue to put myself through such aggravation? Sometimes my projects comes out really nice. Eh, this one time it came out really nice. Ehh, this one time it came out really nice with out a mass of aggravation or multiple trips to Home Depot. Ehhh, I'll get back to you when I've figured it out.

Holy Sphincters of Horror...

I don't know how dogs ever made it in the wild because, based on what I've experienced with our three dogs, they are dumb as dirt and should have killed themselves into extinction a long time ago. Maybe someone can explain to me why, even though it makes them sick, they insist on eating the mushrooms that pop up after every rain or the residuals left over by roaming rabbits (I assume it's rabbits). Don't try to tell me I should get rid of the mushrooms, I'm irritated enough I  would be happy to smack the maker of that comment in the eye. We pluck all the mushrooms we find. Those fetchers always find the rest.

So my house has smelled like shit and vomit for weeks. I know, the language is uncalled for. Except I have cleaned up so much poo and vomit in the last few weeks, I feel like it is absolutely called for and perfectly expresses the end of my tolerance for the whole thing.

Not my dog.

It's not gross enough that they vomit and poo, but they do both in their crates. I thought there was an understood "don't poop where you sleep" rule amongst their kind. They are in collusion, but I don't know who they think they're taking down with this behavior. I'm not sleeping outside.

Then there are times when I encounter the smell of poo, but no evidence of the crime because they freaking ATE IT!!! Then because, who knew poop upsets the stomach, it comes up again. My eyes tear up I can hardly see and I can barely control my gag reflex.

All three dogs have spent multiple nights outside because I am sick of waking up to poo. They don't whine to be let out because they like the squish of poo between their toes, I guess. I don't freakin' know, but I am over it. All three morons are now in separate cages, because we couldn't figure out from whom the diarrhea sprang, because all three would dance through it and eat their share, so my kitchen looks like the city pound.

Also not my dog.

So now we send them out to potty with an escort, then they go straight back into the crate. It's a miserable existence. I'm suffering the most. I swear the smell of poo has been burned into my olfactories. They are one poorly placed poo away from being permanently "outside" dogs. Then they can eat whatever and crap wherever they want because apparently, the garbage they're eating outside is more desirable than the food we provide for them. Like, they'd literally rather eat poo (and 'shrooms) instead of what's in their bowls.

After these dogs go to the big farm with lots of room to run and play, our home will forever be pet free. Only ten more years...unless they keep eating poo.

Still not my dogs.

*All photos were captured from Google images and even though I should know how, I don't know how to link information to give proper credit. Imma hafta learn how to do that forthwith.

Oh Right, There Was Fun Stuff Too...The Cruise Pt. 2

So I remembered all I had done in my previous post was complain about Hell, and it's being other people, and junk, and forgotten there was awesome that needed to be reported as well. Like the ginger beer I drank in Jamaica, which was neither beer nor contained ginger. It was, however, very burny?Spicy? I think that's how you would describe that. Almost painfully spicy. I couldn't finish it, but I kept the label because it was such a liar.

Selfie

Also, the waters were so clear at every island, I mostly felt comfortable swimming in them because I knew I'd be able to spot any sharks and also there were plenty of people to plow through before one would get to me. I was also able to see to the ocean floor and I found a beer bottle cap that I picked up with my toes. It was only after that, that I realized the little feathery masses at my feet were fishes and not seaweed as I had originally thought, and I quickly put my water shoes back on. I also kinda lost my enthusiasm for that particular body of water and skeedaddled back to the beach.

We went to Hell and bough a postcard. Literally. The shop in Hell, Jamaica is run by a little old man from Mexico who had made a brief stop in his life's journey in San Antonio so he loves his Texas girls. At least, that's what he said, and the pictures on the wall kind of backed him up. The shop (which is almost all there is in Hell) also had Dixie cups nailed to the walls beside the bathrooms with a little sign asking for donations to pay for toilet paper. It was classy.

Hell's Gift Shop

Being that this was our first cruise ever, Babe and I booked a tour at every port (Cozumel, Grand Cayman and Jamaica) to insure the boat wouldn't leave without us. As we stepped off the ferry at Grand Cayman I saw a very large (Caymaner, Camanite?) very, very buff dude in a security uniform with a gun, sipping from a pink straw that was poking out of the coconut he was holding in his ginormous hand. It was dainty is what I'm saying.

I looked down to see two chickens just hanging out at his feet like they weren't chickens or he wasn't a security guard. We boarded the tour bus and there were more chickens. Like, in the middle of town waiting to cross the road to the courthouse. So I guess that answers that question? I saw another rando chicken and just mused out loud about the mass sightings when the tour guide mentioned the "Hurricane of 1936, so named because it happened in 1936 (before hurricanes were named) that released a bunch of chickens and roosters. Now there are wild chickens and rooster running loose on the island." That just tickled me. He also mentioned the island no longer had skittles, which I found really confusing, until he explained the government's determination to minimize skittle clouds and eradicate the Zika virus, which they had successfully accomplished. So he hadn't been talking about the candies.

Apparently this is also a problem.

There was a "rum" tasting, "tequila" tasting, and "insert some third liquor here" tasting portion on every tour, but Babe and I don't drink so we spent that time practicing our thumb twiddling technique. My thumbs are very dexterous now. I also learned that sea-sickness doesn't necessarily manifest as violent and forceful vomit. It can be just a slight discomfort, slight headache/nausea that goes away once the sufferer finds herself on solid ground. Hopefully, this little note helps as the forceful vomit was what I was looking for and it took me two trips back to solid ground to realize that I had been, in fact, a little sea sick for the first four days of the cruise.

Also, and this is a little more uncommon, landsick is a thing and one can be landsick for several days after returning from a cruise. It's called mal de debarquement syndrome or as I like to call it "insult to injury syndrome." I'm one of the lucky few to get to experience that fun time and it's just like it sounds. I was "still on the boat" for about a week after we got home. I spent a lot of time laying down before I fell down. Anyhoo, that is your PSA for the day. Learn it. It may save your life!

Just kidding. Hopefully, it'll help you recognize the sea sick sooner than I did. Also, I'm a rocket scientist so you'd probably figure that out sooner anyway. So...

It was really nice to spend time alone with Babe. He's a lot of fun and it was great to reconnect with him. We've decided we want to go again and take the kids. They are all old enough now that it can be an enjoyable experience for everyone involved.

I just couldn't eat it.

On the other hand, we left the children alone for a week...there will be a part 3.