Taboo Woof

Ok.

So apparently, people around the world have some fetishes and or rituals that I had NO IDEA existed. And of course, Americans made a television series about it. Followers, I present to you...

TABOO on the National Geographic Channel!

Umm... Woof?

The picture is a link too, for all you inquisitive types.

For those who don't care to take the jump, Taboo covers topics that are.... wait for it.... taboo. Like, drug use, bizarre burial rituals, crazy kids, etc. 

And then there's an episode entitled "Private Passions."

Yeah. That's a dominatrix chick totally walking a human being LIKE A DOG because "Tyke" likes to be a DOG for most of his daily life.

Uhh huh.

So Tyke (who is a female) dresses up in leather clothes and that leather... mask.... thing... and crawls around on all fours in their apartment. She also eats out of a dog bowl, sleeps in a cage and chases balls. In watching the show, though, I never heard her bark or see her take a crap outside.

People.... WHY?!!

I think she mentioned that being a dog made her feel safe or something?

And her owner, or whatever she is, is totally down for all of it, because I think she is a closet dominatrix. For real. She makes comments about how they met and what kind of arrangement they have, which just gets weirder and weirder. 

So yeah. I'm sitting on the couch, mouth agape, flabbergasted out of my mind, and here come my kids. Of course!

Now, the episode was about half over, and the two do not have a sexual relationship, and I always encourage my kids to learn about different people, cultures, etc. So I let them watch the rest of it with me. When it was over, the questions began...

"MOM!! WHY does she want to be a PUPPY?"

"Where did she get that mask thing?"

"Can she BREATHE in it?"

"Why does she sleep in a cage?"

"Is her owner nice to her?"

And... wait for it....

"CAN I BE A DOG FOR THE REST OF THE DAY?!"

That came from the He-Child. Before you even ask, yes, he was a puppy for the rest of the day. And the next day. AND THE NEXT.

His name was Spot.

I did not buy him a leather muzzle.

I had to address him as Spot, and he answered me in bark. I petted him but did not let him eat from a dog bowl. And yes, he used the human facilities and not the back yard because yeah I will encourage my kids to explore stuff but not LIKE THAT. 

So he was a puppy for a couple of days.

And I'm hooked on a new t.v. show.....

*All photos courtesy of National Geographic blah blah blah They're not mine.*

Jaxxon Blaze

New nephew!!

Born 07.31.2012

ISN'T HE THE CUTEST MOST UN-EXCITED LOOKING BABY EVER?!!

WAIT WAIT!!

Here's another adorable picture!!

The Potty Parrot

So my dad bought a house and is in the process of updating stuff around the place.

Making it his own, like any new home owner would do.

Very much his own.

If you have the privilege of using the facilities in his home, you will be greeted by the Potty Parrot: 

Yes, that is a Macaw wearing a beer box hat (representing his brand, yo). 

Now I don't know where he got the damned thing.

Or exactly how he snuck it past his girlfriend and into the bathroom.

Or how he made the damn hat that says "I've got your back, dude!" or something to that affect.

But if you're one of those people who tend to need a good twenty minutes per sit down, I would take care of business before heading over to Dad's.

Unless you like a colorful, silent, alcoholic bird staring at you while you do your biz.

Not that he is a horrible potty partner.

Just a little unnerving is all.

Pug

So.

We decided to get a pug.

We named her China.

And no one told us that adopting a pug is very much like adopting a two year old.

Pugs are very curious, i.e. you will need to elevate your kitchen trash can from day one. This also means that your pencils, remote controls, fishing lures and other various items are no longer safe, because pugs are curious about how things TASTE. They are especially fond of candy:

Yes. She is holding a Dum Dum and licking it.

Pugs are also very fond of different textures, like mud:

Also, it is a very little known fact that pugs actually evolved from birds. They like to perch:

They also gain weight around their middle like I do. 

Another little known fact: they have a tiny bit of sloth in their DNA. They apparently require an extraordinary amount of sleep, and they will literally fall asleep wherever they are:

Fun Fact number 877: PUGS ARE LOUD.

They FART they SNORE they SNORT they WHINE they CHUFF they make other undefinable noises.

ALL. THE. TIME.

You can Google a sound byte, it's a little late for me.

But aside from all of these little things, she is absolutely great with the kids, very patient and takes household changes very well.

We love our pug!

Grand Reopening

Well hello there!

Welcome to the grand reopening (??) of my blog!

Grab a cart! Take a look around!

There are many new items to view!

First Up....

NEW NEPHEW!!!

Introducing.... Jaxxon Blaize!

Look at that hair!!

Next....

 Hubs tore his bicep. THAT was fun.

 

But he has had surgery to reattach it and everything is better. More to come about all that. But here is a nifty link because I took the time so click on it.

Moving right along....

I got a job, sitting at a desk, at a computer, not having to talk to anyone, doing my own thing, and getting paid $10.58 an hour! Whoop!

I'm still working out at the gym.... UUGGHH.

The kids are good. Growing up and all that.

I read online that mayonnaise is supposed to be very good for the health of your hair. So you know what I did... YOU KNOW. I ran a warm bath, soaked for a few minutes, and washed my hair. I used the mayo in place of conditioner.

And you know what stinks worse than mayo? WET MAYO.

And having to let it sit in your hair for five whole minutes.

Ugh.

Do you know what smells worse than five minute old wet mayo? Five minute old wet mayo THAT WONT COME OUT OF YOUR HAIR.

Then add seven layers of shampoo and you get one tasty treat for your pug.

China was LOVING IT! She was having a fit trying to get herself into the tub.

You know what? 

MAYO STINKS FOR A WHILE.

And, pugs have an excellent sense of smell for having such a short muzzle.

And, they're already like an effing three year old on a sugar high....

So you can imagine the situation I was in for a couple of days.

Yes, I learned my lesson.

More on pug later.

 And finally....

A cute nephew story.

Kashdon is the middle nephew. He is almost four.

The other night at dinner, his mother informed him that he would not get dessert if he did not finish his carrots. To which he lowered his head and said:

"This is some BULLSHIT."

I.HEART.MY.NEPHEWS.

*Click*

My mom, sister and I (oh, and TK) hung out for a while the other day. We wondered around Hobby Lobby and a couple of other places. I'm not real sure what our intention was, probably just "bond" or whatever. Whenever we're all together someone always manages a comment or two about mom's phone.

Because she keeps it in her bra.

And I don't know why but while she was driving we all hear a *click*.

"What was that?"

--Mom turns the wheel--

*click*

"I think my phone is taking pictures!"

*click*

"Ewww! Pictures of what?!"

"I guess whatever's in my bra!"

Oh. Em. Gee.

Hey mom don't bust a u-turn, we may all get a media message we DO NOT WANT TO OPEN.

Wedgie Free

"Mom, why do I have to wear underwear that come up to my belly button?"

"Because you're ten and unmarried and that's the rule around here."

"But none of my friend's wear that kind..."

"Well, what kind do they wear?"

"I dunno...the kind that doesn't give you wedgies..."

"Okay..."

Lily and I have this conversation almost daily until I give in and buy her some new underwear. I get them home, she tries them on and glory be! Wedgie free!

You know how I know?

"Mom look!"

--shakes her butt--

"No wedgie!!"

--dances around--

"Now wedgie!!"

--lays on her back and puts her ankles behind her head--

"NO WEDGIE!!"

Yay.

Nerves of Steal

Two days ago, the kids and I were walking out of the library through those tall, "unpaid-for item" detectors and Caleb asked what they were for. Being the ever-helpful parent, I explained what they were and how they worked... to my chagrin. Next on my to-do list was grocery shopping. We passed through a set of similar detectors on the way out.

You can guess what happened next, right?

Caleb loudly exclaims:

"OH GOOD!! WE DIDN'T STEAL ANYTHING!!!"

I don't know why I wasn't tackled by security. Maybe the holiday spirit?

The Next Iron Chef....Me! NOT

I've kind of been in a "make your family healthier by providing more unprocessed foods" mood.

I said, KIND OF.

I've learned a little here and there, but one thing I've known for a while is that homemade chicken stock is THE BOMB and easy to make.

I remember making it a few years ago.

So, I gathered some boneless, skinless chicken breasts, rosemary, garlic and onion, plopped them all in a crock pot and let it simmer all day.

What did I get?

White wrinkly chicken fingers floating in a vat of garlic water.

Yum.

Hmmmm....

So after a bit of research (props for Google!) I relearned that you need the bones of the chicken to make stock. Duh. Ok.

So today I bought a whole chicken, took it home, and cut the plastic off.

And remembered why I haven't made chicken stock in five years.

They stick a WHOLE CHICKEN in there, y'all. Like, EVERYTHING. Butt, wings, legs, tail nub, everything!! Oh, and on the package it says to "remove the giblets" before cooking. 

WHAT THE HELL IS A GIBLET

and

WHERE THE HELL IS IT??

Ugh. The only place it could be is all up in the chicken's business, if you ladies know what I mean.

Barf. I did not plan on being a chicken gynecologist today.

So I opened it up and saw... something... poking out and pulled it and UGH IT WAS A NECK. 

Ack ack ack!!

I figured that wasn't all but in order to retrieve all the STUFF I needed to actually stick my hand in the cavity and FISH IT OUT. 

I needed more coffee.

So I finally closed my eyes and reached my hand in and IMMEDIATELY opened my eyes because your brain makes up some crazy shiz when it has to make it's own image of what you're sticking your hand into. It felt like cold, bony globular BARF that I could NEVER IN MY LIFE compare to anything else. EVER.

So I drug them all outta there and saw that one more was left. I tried upending the chicken and shaking it but that didn't work. UGH.

In again.

Ack!!

Ok. Made it through that.

Then I discovered that the whole chicken fit in the crock pot but didn't leave much room for water, celery, onion, etc. So I was gonna have to take off its limbs and stuff. UUUGGGHHH.

The only thing worse than cleaning out the chicken is having to grasp the slippery limbs and wrench them around in order to break the bones.

OH. MY. GOSH.

SALMONELLA EVERYWHERE.

So I got that done, and now had a limbless chicken that STILL wouldn't fit in the crock pot.

*sigh*

So I cut the body in half (there's sharp ribs in there y'all and DID I JUST CUT MYSELF?! AHH! INTERNAL SALMONELLA!!!!) and plopped it in the pot with the neck and a wing. I covered it with water and put it on to simmer. Then I washed my hands with straight up bleach (mama don't play no games), soaked the sink, knife, faucet, counter and nearly anything else within a seven foot diameter. 

Then I had to decide what to do with the other half of the chicken.

I didn't have any gallon sized baggies (of course!). But I did have foil and saran wrap. So I wrapped the stupid chicken three times in foil and three times in plastic wrap (always a pleasure to work with) because I didn't want all my hard work freezer burned. UGH.

I contemplated disinfecting everything again, just to make sure. 

But I decided on more coffee and blog.

Aren't y'all proud of me??

I made chicken stock!!!!

P.S.

Luckily the dog and cat were outside or I would have had to bathe them in bleach.

Panty Raid (Guadalupe Gilmer's first post)

In the mail quite a few weeks ago I received this shirt

and a short story booklet about an adventure of this Texas river legend from my Grandfather. I think I get my story telling skills from him. 

So I decided to start a series on this here blog, called The Adventures of Gilmer.

Or, $hit that happened while I was wearing the above T-shirt.

So without further ado, I present Guadalupe Gilmer's Panty Raid.

Every weekday morning after I drop the kids off at school, I run down the street to have coffee with my Granny. I've blogged about her before; I like old people. She lives in a retirement center (NOT A NURSING HOME!). A retirement center is a place where you can live after you retire. According to Granny it's  an apartment complex where you live surrounded by wrinkled, crotchety geriatrics waiting to die from a variety of illnesses. CLEARLY not a place for HER. She's not old, crotchety or geriatric, really. She's a 22 year old trapped in an 82 year old body.

Anywho.

People who live in the center die at a rate of about three a month, more or less, I don't keep accurate death tolls. Too morbid. And as my cousin Lauren aptly described the situation, "They're like a bunch of buzzards that hover around a dying resident, waiting to take possession of their belongings once the hearse clears the parking lot." Indeed. I've SEEN it. 

Sadly, Granny's dear friend passed away recently after a long battle with cancer. She was such a sweet lady. Granny was reminiscing about her friend one day as we were visiting Lauren and her newborn oh-so-cute chubby baby girl. She mentioned that when she and her friend arrived at the viewing, they were the only ones there. So they went up to see how good a job the mortician had done on their friend's body. What a way to shop for your future expenses, eh?

So they walked up there and inspected her. As in, CHECKED TO MAKE SURE HE INSERTED HER GOOD TEETH. As opposed to.... the wooden ones? I dunno. 

They also looked to see how well the artist had covered the shunt site on her chest.

Now, I'm assuming the dearly departed wasn't wearing a bikini.

So that meant they had to... um... LOOK UNDER HER SHIRT. 

They said he did a good job.

By the end of this adventure everyone around the table was red-faced and dying from laughter and probably embarrassment. I'm pretty sure Granny asked us to do a postmortem inspection because, you know, if you pay thousands of dollars for someone to make you look undead they better do a damn good job. I started to imagine Granny coming into my room as a ghost in the middle of the night demanding a refund from the funeral home because her bouffant wasn't as good as the girls at the cosmetology school would have done.

Such is my life.

Lauren's doing that inspection with me, by the way.

Then we're gonna go chug martini's until Granny's ghost appears.

Back to the Panty Raid.

After the funeral and appropriate waiting period (about 18 hours) the residents of the retirement center began to gather around their friend's apartment, waiting for the survivors to begin passing out or selling the deceased's belongings that they had silently called dibs on while visiting their ill friend. Friends leave with anything from recliners to canned goods to hundreds of mini bottles of lotion and body wash. Or their panties.

Yeah.

You knew I was going there right?

Not by choice, mind you.

So one morning I go to Granny's and sit down with my cup of joe and Gilmer and I start reading the newspaper when Granny comes into the living room:

"Hey Tally, I went up to (the friend)'s apartment and got a few things that her daughter was throwing away. She gave me a WHOLE WAL-MART BAG FULL of her panties. Now I washed them all REAL GOOD and they're laying there on the bed. You go in there and pick out the ones you want; I've already picked out mine. They're good panties, a little big for me but they're those expensive silk kind, you may not like them but I like them."

How do you respond to THAT?!

BESIDES choking on your coffee?!

I can't even think of what to write after that. 

Gilmer and I just kinda sat there dumbfounded. 

Then I politely declined.

I'm pretty sure Gilmer had a good laugh, first because of the situation and secondly because he knew I would have to answer because a screened image on the back of a T-shirt can't talk, you know.

I know that the generation that grew up during the Great Depression recycle, reuse and hoard. But really?

REALLY???

The Gilmer shirt is dirty, need to go start a load of laundry.