Rebel Rescuer

Song of the Day, er Night.

Smooth like butter.

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Man Shopping or Why don't I have any gay friends to do this for me?

As you know PG has clawed his way up to executive status out there in the big, bad business world.  He's not naturally executive material, but apparently being a workaholic qualifies one to do whatever it is that executive dudes do.

And he and I have been playing mind games over the state of his wardrobe.  I've tried hinting, I've tried pushing, I've even flat-out told him that his clothes just aren't gonna cut it.  He's a man's man and if it isn't Wranglers, than it isn't manly enough.  But yesterday we were on the road and the conversation went something like this....

Me:  So if you were to go see a western movie and all of the actors were wearing cutoffs and swim trunks, what would you think about that?

Him:  Have you been drinking?

Me:  No, but I want to know.  Would that make the movie weird to you?  Would you think less of the movie if the actors weren't in the right constumes?  Would they seem like cowboys if they were wearing tie-dyed shirts and flip fops?

Him:  Yeah, I get your point.  (Insert giganto eye-roll here)

I saw this as a white flag of surrender and decided to strike while the iron was hot.  Now before you go thinking that I spend my time shopping and keeping up on trends, I don't.  But I am a step ahead of PG.  Mostly because I have estrogen and watch Real Housewives.  That makes me an expert, right?  Anyway with a triumphant smile, I wheeled us to the closest J. Crew.  And upon stepping through the doors, I think we both panicked and wanted to run back to the car screaming "NOOOOOO!!!!".  But like the brave guy he is, PG sucked it up and started trying on everything that I handed him. 

It went this way for hours.  We toured Nautica, Banana Republic (har har he hated that place), Eddie Bauer, Hilfiger, and any other place I could find that sported poster sized photos of male models wearing anything but Wranglers.

And strangely, PG started getting into it.  In fact, I had to reel him in a couple times to keep him from crossing a line that a straight guy just shouldn't cross.  Poor ignorant little heterosexual manly man.  And we only had one minor tiff over a pair of gray pants that I thought would look nice.  And of course, I won and he tried them on.

And he looked like a dirty old man from a sex offender registration list.  Buh bye gray pants.

So now that he has his new wardrobe underway, I have a shitload of ironing to do tonight.  He is spending this week in Maryland, and his new clothes are going with him.

I feel like my little PG has finally grown up.  Sniff sniff.

But he's keeping the Wranglers for weekends.

Fishing Trip, Yes We Are Tacky.

As you know, I'm constantly teetering on the edge of serious Redneck-dom.  Or maybe I've already fallen over the edge.  And with good reason, as I come by it naturally.  Now, in Real Life, my family and myself aren't outwardly rednecky.  We don't have plastic man-bits hanging from our trailer hitches.  We don't hunt raccoons or have couches on our porches.

But when we fish....we're all that and more.

Well, let me qualify that by saying that we have an awesome camp set-up.  We don't exactly rough it, except that we sleep in a tent.  Otherwise, we have a hand-washing station, stove, you name it.  We are just that cool.

So as I sit here typing this, my face is chipping off and falling on the floor from the worst case of wind-burn that I've ever had.  This, combined with smoking, should have me able to finally get that AARP membership, now that I'm 33 years old.

But anyway, here are some photos...

There's something about camping in some seriously cold temperatures that turns my mom into a Muslim.  I woke up, opened the flap on the tent, and found that my mom had somehow become Middle Eastern in the middle of the night.

 

This is when we start looking at each other and saying things like, "I think the clouds are gonna spit and go around us" or the ever popular "Looks like its breaking up that direction."

  

And this is what it looks like when you're wrong.

Yup, here's mom again...heading to the outhouse in the new Armless RainCoat and Matching Ziploc with Clothespins headwear, just as the rain was starting.  You'll see this look in Paris next spring, I swear it.

(The worst part is that we ran into a park ranger and nearly peed ourselves laughing.  We assured him that we hadn't been drinking.  He told us that in that cold and rain, we should be.)

 

And being that it rained off and on for something like 30 hours, we started getting really desperate to stay dry and warm.  This meant using more of our available materials as haute couture in a way that Eddie Bauer never thought of.

These two are not escapees from the nuthouse.  This would be my aunt and uncle. 

 

My uncle is dressed in the hottest new look from Milan.  It requires multiple shirts/coats/sweatshirts until one achieves the look of a Macy's balloon.  Then one must wrap their legs in pallet wrap to complete the ensemble.

My aunt is wearing no fewer than three pairs of pants, two sweatshirts, two coats, a fishing hat, and one of the walls from inside the tent.  Oh, and those are slipper socks on her hands.  This look was big in Siberia last year.

Unfortunately (haha) there are no pictures of my two-pants, two waterproof camo jacket look.  I'm afraid you'll just have to miss that one.

But here is what every suburban girl needs for a great camping/fishing excursion (with a nasty cold).  These essentials would include, NyQuil (got children's by accident, but if you take enough, it works pretty well), cigarettes, cell phone with a hot pink case, cough drops, two flashlights, orange tinted shooting glasses, two battery lanterns (for those middle of the night trips to the potty), a huge-ass camo bag to throw it all in, and a Glock (for those middle of the night trips to the potty). 

 

Anyway, a good time was had by all.  We caught some fish (and probably pneumonia) and enjoyed three days of poking fun at each other and general good family cheer.

(Now I have to figure out how to get hot pink Powerbait out of my hair.)

Never Forget

To those who've sacrificed everything, and those they leave behind.  For those that cannot be home, and those that wait for them.

Thank you.

Dawn on the pavement

Tomorrow morning, sometime before dawn, I'm grabbing up my mom and we're getting the hell out of here.  We're headed to greener pastures, well, greener mountains anyway.  We're escaping the 'burbs, the makeup, the traffic.  We're going fishing for the next three days.

My car is almost loaded with treble hooks and Bailey's, toilet paper and rubber boots.  I even have a playlist on my iPod since mom isn't a fan of some of my other music.  She's busy cooking everything from coffeecake to a true New England fish boil thing that seems to have everything in it except beef.

This cold has kicked my ass for two weeks now, and I'm beginning to realize that it may not be a common cold.  And that I maybe should've gone to the doctor.  I feel pretty good and always have.  No fever, no sore throat.  But my head is so stuffy that I can't hear out of one ear, and I spend every night coughing until I puke.  It doesn't seem to be contagious as PG is his normal, healthy self.

But I'm sure the others are gonna love sleeping in the tent with me and listening to me hack all night long.

The others would be my aunt and uncle.  Sadly Nicko has to work and isn't going this time, which sucks.  She's my best buddy, and my family thinks of her as my sister, their niece, their daughter.

I'm a little worried about leaving the house and the hounds to PG.  He's perfectly capable and will be working from home to keep an eye on things.  But I still worry.  Thankfully the vet is right down the road and he can call Nicko if he runs into trouble.  He has food, clean clothes, and I even mowed and trimmed the yard so he should be able to kick back and enjoy the peace.  (Peace, yeah right, with these hounds?!?!).

I for one will be glad to see the sunrise from somewhere other than the kitchen window.  Each morning I'll roll out of the tent, grab a cigarette and my pole and walk the 20 feet to the water.  Its times like that that heal the soul.  A lake, some bait, and that perfect glow before the sun breaks the horizon.

But before that happens, I've got to make sure my sleeping bag ends up in the dryer, that clothes end up in a bag, and that everything around here is good to go.  I must be growing soft in my old age, because I'm already missing the place.  It isn't perfect, but its my headquarters, ya know?  I'll have a good time, but I'll be glad to see it again when I roll back in, dirty and covered in algae, fish guts, and mud.

And I'll say a prayer that the Big Guy will keep an eye on my little world here while I'm gone.

I love you PG and Hounds!

I was born 33 years ago.

Today is my 33rd birthday.  And I decided that a good way to start it would be to....

Eat a ginormous bowl of cookies and cream ice cream at 8:04am.

 

And watch multiple episodes of Paranormal State.

But since I couldn't just screw off all day long, I also spent a strong (and hideous) four hours doing rescue paperwork.  And then it was on to the normal housecleaning and emailing, and shuffling dogs in and out of the house.  Speaking of the house, it was 82 freaking degrees in here today.  Good thing PG jumped up on the roof and got the ol' cooler going.

Anyway, nothing too exciting, but then 33 isn't the most exciting age to be either.

Oh!  This is what my mom got me!!  I've wanted these dishes (because I'm apparently a redneck) for a couple of years now.  I do love my new trout dishes!!!  Here they are just before diving into the dishwasher and settling into their new life of serving mediocre food here at the homestead.  I just had to show you because I think they're adorable!!!

 

Anyway, it was a good, productive day.  It was also the first time in 12 years that I didn't play poker on my birthday.  But I'm under a self-imposed poker-fast for a while, so no cards till July.  It kind of made me a sad panda, but the way I'm running right now....it was better to just stay home.

In other news......

Six new varmints are coming into rescue tomorrow night.  I'll write more about them later, as I really don't know much about them.  Hopefully I'll have a few photos tomorrow night.  Anyway, big day ahead tomorrow, so its time to chug some Nyquil and head off into the coma that follows.  That stuff should really require a license to carry in public.

Lifecoaching at 75mph

Its the weekend which means that PG and I were rackin' up the miles in the Rescue Ride.  On today's trip, we had two full hours, confined in a small space, in which to cuss and discuss the latest news in the Reb household.

And as I have been a lot lately, I was wailing and howling about how I've become God's red-headed step child.  How poker is kicking my ass sideways (Texas style, right Nicko?) and how I have six new dogs coming into rescue in 72 hours and can't drum up enough open foster homes.  God's my high school bully right now.  He hates me, or just likes to watch me squirm.

Waaa waaa, wail, moan, cry, cry.  Pooooor Me.  "Mooom, God's picking on me!  He started it!"

But mostly I was whining about how God (the trickster) used to put opportunities in my way and things were easy and I always knew where to be, what to do, and how to do it.  But lately, he's left me at the end of a cul de sac in a bad part of town at night, with no gun, a dead cell battery, a ball gag, and two broken legs. 

That's how I'm feeling these days.

So PG (in his infinite counseling wisdom) says, "Well, something will happen."

Yeah, thanks for that Nostradamus.  How about a little shoulder for me to cry on?  How about a little "here's what you should do"??

And I think he saw me glare through my ultra-cool orange polarizedfishing/shooting sunglasses, because he started brainstorming like a mofo.

Eleven years of marriage and he knows that look.

So he said, "You just need to find what you're good at, and run with it.  In The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People....blah blah blah (this is where I tune him out.  Bring up that book and I'm gone like a rabbit with a fox on its ass).

Long pause.

"So, what are some things you're good at?"

And "Poor Me" wanted to say, lip quivering, watery eyed, "Nuffing".  But then I'd have to hear about THAT book again and blah blah blah, go team, cheerleader speak, rah rah rah.

So I started listing the things I was good at.  And come to find out, I'm pretty decent at a lot of things like rescuing dogs, writing, various sexual acts (heh heh), the uses for bleach, being cynical, making iced tea, scooping dog shit, and folding underwear.

And all sorts of serious-like, PG actually says, "There ya go!  That's the spirit!  Just take one of those things and run with it!  Or better yet, take several of them and you'll be unstoppable!"

"So apparently I'm supposed to clean houses in lingerie while preaching about shelter dogs?  Maybe scoop dog shit and write children's stories about it?  Make iced tea for people in their underwear while teaching the Kama Sutra?"  I was getting loud and trying not to cry, while he was trying desperately not to not bust out in hysterics. 

Another look, this time silence as his eyes glanced towards the door handle. 

I think I need a new life coach. 

One that doesn't consider bailing at 75mph.

One Snotty Beotch

In case you hadn't noticed, I have a little trouble focusing on things for very long.  I think overall I do a pretty good job of "holding down the fort" but it isn't always easy for me to focus on certain things for hours on end.  And lately its been poker.  I played nearly daily for two straight weeks because I was on a streak. 

Yeah and that came to a screeching halt.

Why?

Because I was getting bored, making horrible plays...truly amateur stuff.  I wasn't the only one that noticed, either.  I'm lucky in that before this sudden arrival of EDD (extreme distractedness disorder), I'd made a little chunk o' change to see me through.  But last week, I was finding myself staring at the elevators, checking my phone every five minutes, taking obscenely long and frequent ciggy breaks, etc.  This just isn't like me.

Oh, and a cute guy keeps smiling at me and trying to talk and I get all de-railed and that doesn't help at all.

So I decided to put myself under house arrest this week.  The reasons were two-fold.  First, I was hoping that a week without playing cards would help me refocus, rest, and take the mechanical aspect out of it.  I needed to get my "playing from the gut" back.  And second, I was hoping that a week of catching up around the house, sitting with the hounds, and getting rid of some of that pesky "to do list" would also make it easier to focus.

But what I didn't consider is that I've never been, and never will be a homebody.

Let me tell you, its been a long, quiet, boring, long and boring week.  If this week were lunchmeat, it would be generic baloney.  If this week were a color, it would be brown (not a nice chocolate brown, but like dog shit brown).  I have been out of the house for three hours since Sunday and that was only because PG wanted to go out and celebrate a thing he did at work.

Otherwise, its been me, the hounds, the house and the laundry.

And no way to tell if its helped my game or not. 

And as the week is coming to a close, and I plan to return to the game tomorrow, I wake up this morning hacking up a lung andsnotting all over the place like a brahma bull with a nose ring.  No fever, no chills, and I feel OK.  I can't say that I'm totally surprised, because I've had a bit of a cough for a few days.  But I'd chalked that up to either A) accidentally inhaling chocolate milk the other day while driving 75 on the highway, or B) chain smoking for the better part of a week.

So yeah, this is my reward for a week of temperance, household duties, and quiet contemplation.

And I have a big tournament this weekend.  So I jump online and Google "how to get over a cold fast".  And here's the list of things I should be doing, according the good folks in cyberspace....

Eating chicken soup.  Canned is fine, homemade is better, chicken fat is the God of cold remedies.  Eat as much chicken fat as you can get your hands on.  Smear it on your chest and eyelids.  Chicken fat is magical.

Orange juice.  Drink two liters every day.  (Um, yeah until the heartburn eats away my throat).  Drink it warm, drink it cold, take it intravenously.  But for the love of God, get oj in your system.

Vitamins.  Take none, take one, take one at every meal.  Crush them up and snort them.

Onions - eat them whole, make syrup with them, eat onion soup..both homemade and canned.  Shove it up your butt....just so long as there's an onion in your being.

Echinacea, Goldenseal, and other assorted herbage.  Eat it, drink it, smoke it, wear caftans woven from it.

Wear no clothes.  Wear every item of clothing you own.  Cover up with every blanket in the house.  Crank up the heat and sweat, baby!

Rest and sleep for hours.  Workout harder than you ever have before.

Take hot baths, take no baths, rub Vicks on everything except your wee-wee.

Claritin, Sudafed, Day Quil, NyQuil, Puffs with lotion, tea with honey, Jameson's with honey, lemon, tea or right out of the bottle, hot and sour soup, wonton soup, chili peppers....and the list goes on.

But since PG and I are rarely sick, I don't normally stock those kinds of things.  So rummaging in the pantry I was able to locate one expired can of Campbell's Chicken and Stars (complete with fatty-like chunks) and a sample packet of something called EmergenC (which is a nasty fizzy little vitamin powder that one mixes with water).

8:34am - I just ate an entire can of expired soup for breakfast.  EmergenC is down the hatch and its time to crawl up in the recliner and pray that this shit is gone by morning. 

Or pray that the expired soup doesn't give me the runs.

On second thought, I think I'll stick with the cold.

 

 

 

Photo Challenge for the King

Heh heh, I issued a little photo challenge to the guy over at King of New York Hacks.  I gave him a list of things to photograph (including a hot dog vendor wearing a cowboy hat).  Shouldn't be too difficult in NYC.

Let's see if he's up for the challenge!

What are YOU wearing?

PG (being the workaholic, logical dude that he is) just did a very good thing at work. I wish I could tell you about it, but I can't because Martha Stewart went to jail and I don't understand the stock market.

Anyway, he calls and says...."What are you wearing?"  Heh heh.  Yayyyyus!!!  Its like that all up in here I thought to myself.  Random images of cooking ribs, aprons and nothing else, blahty blah blah six o'clock, bring on the wine, kick the dogs out of the bed kind of stuff.  It was like Betty Crocker strolled thorugh my sunny kitchen with Rob Pattinson in tow.  Oh yeah, I AM that housewife today, Baby!!!

Until I started actually describing what I was wearing.  What can I say?  I'm not a liar, and there's no way PG would believe that I was cleaning house in a nasty black teddy.  In fact, the only teddy I own is fuzzy and wears a little plaid scarf.

But anyway....its all semantics and he doesn't need the gory details.

Holey jeans.  But not Lita Ford holey...just plain worn out kind of holey because I've worn them for 700 years and they're on the brink of throwing themselves off a cliff in a desperate bid to end their own life.

 

A sexy tshirt.  Like this one.....

Except maybe not so perky.  And with mud down one side, and chocolate milk down the other (housecleaning aint for sissies).  But I wasn't going to tell PG that!  It would ruin the moment!

And when I told him that I would slip into something more comfortable before he got home, I doubt that he envisioned this....

 

So somehow he has an idea in his mind, which isn't even close to reality.  But a guy can dream right, and who am I to burst his bubble?  Somehow between now and six, I need to go from this.....

 

To this....

 

And to get there its gonna take a winch, some margarine, a pry bar, spray paint, duct tape and some of this....

 

Amen to that.