Just Another Day at the Homestead

Y’all are going to be so happy when I go back to work and can write about the asshole people I see rather than the asshole stuff that happens around my house.  Just a few more days and I’ll be back on topic.  I promise.

If you are the least bit squeamish, don’t read any more of this post.  I’m not gonna lie, this will freak out pretty much everyone.

You’ve been warned.

A few years ago I had a potbellied pig.  She croaked.  I always wondered why she didn’t decompose.  I have the answer.

Earlier this week the neighbour’s dogs were loose and fighting with my dogs through the fence.  The irony of this is a week before, the neighbour chewed my ass for my dogs being loose, so I fixed my fence, and got out the shock collars in order to be a responsible pet owner and good neighbour.  Since I was outside with the dogs at the time of the fight, they didn’t have their shock collars on, and they were happily tearing the shit out of my physical fence and ripping down the wire for the electric fence.  I went over to the fence to stop the fight and I noticed a dead cat in the neighbour’s vacant lot.

There are hundreds of feral cats out here.  They wander in or get dumped off and then they have more feral cats.  I bring scraps home so they are the fattest feral cats in the world.  But a few die every year.  Roadkill, dog kill, old age kill, winter kill, whatever. 

This cat looked like it had been dead since early winter since it was all deflated and worn out.  The younger of the neighbour’s dogs alternated between fighting with my dogs and chewing on the dead cat.  I hoped he would take it home with him as a housewarming gift, but when she finally called them home, he left the corpse.

Today, right at this minute, I am sitting in my computer chair, looking out the window at my trespassing ducks eating the bugs from under the dead cat in a torrential downpour.  This is why the pig didn’t rot.  The ducks ate all the decomp bugs away. 

This really ruins my body disposal plan.  I always thought if the time came I could throw body parts in the yard and the ducks would pick them clean.  (The pig would do it faster AND eat the bones, but, well, she croaked so she’s no help at all.)  Now I know the ducks would pick the bugs off the parts and I’d just have mummified human bits in my yard.  Not a good thing.  Damned useless ducks.

Back to square one, I guess.


Sunday Bitch Free Edition 11/21

I’ve decided Sundays should be bitch free days, so from now on I’ll try to post something other than a rant about hating everyone.  It’s one day.  I can do it.  Right?


There is a restaurant in Taiwan called The Modern Toilet where guests are seated on toilets, served food and beverages out of miniature toilets and urinals and the dessert is chocolate soft serve which looks like poop.  Apparently, it’s doing a booming business and is expanding into other parts of Asia.  Hopefully, it stays there.  It is supposed to “confuse the senses”.  Whatever.

You can read the article here.



Absolutely not.


No way.

The Bloody Brilliant Blogger Award

The fun thing about awards is you get to show off.  Think of it as the Academy Awards for bloggers.

Awarded 9/08/10


Yes it fits, and yes I do look that good.

My normal outfit is a tee shirt, jeans, and Crocs, so when accepting this award I’ve decided to wear Cate Blanchette’s dress from the 1999 Academy Awards ceremony.

 The only difference between Ms. Blanchette and I is I have better hair.  I have time to condition my tresses, but I’m sure if she would stay home instead of making movies all over the world, she’d have beautiful hair, too.  You can’t have everything. 

Since there is no such thing as a free lunch (or a free blogger award) there are terms and conditions attached.  I have to thank the person who gave it to me, share seven things about myself and give it to others who I feel are deserving. 

 No sweat right?! 

I’m so desperate for attention, I almost wore JLo’s 2000 Grammy dress, so naturally, I’ll accept the terms and conditions.  Also, I didn’t want any of my blogger friends broken and bleeding while they fought over me showing Ms. Lopez how to make that dress work. 

Calm down, fellas. There's enough to go around.

 I received the award from two wonderful ladies, Molly Malone at Life of Cynicism and Izzy Darling at The Whatever Factor.  Both women write incredible blogs and I’m grateful for their adulation, but  if they think I’m listing 14 things about myself they are dead wrong…unless they have vodka.  A little vodka and I’ll overshare about myself AND everyone I know, plus I’ll tell you everything I think you need to know.  Good times. 

 So, seven things about myself.  It’s no coincidence that there are seven deadly sins. 

 1.  Lust–I like younger men…much, much younger. 

 2.  Gluttony–I work in a restaurant where I always have something to eat, and young men willing to feed me.  ‘Nuff said. 

 3.  Greed–I’m not greedy.  I learned to share in kindergarten, but I decide what I share.  In most things, there’s plenty to go around. 

 4.  Sloth–I am the laziest person I know.  Some days I think about waiting tables in a wheel chair. 

 5.  Wrath–DO NOT piss me off.  Your parade will turn into a shitstorm of epic proportions.  Really. 

 6.  Envy–I’m not an envious person.  I’m happy when others succeed and try to help them in any way I can. 

 7.  Pride–I am vain, stubborn, and prideful.  I will cut off my nose to spite my face and say I don’t care.  But I do care. 

 Before I leave for the round of award parties here’s a list of some of my favourite blogs.  I have great people in my blog roll too so be sure to check them out. 

 Cooking up a Revolution  Stories from the back of the house.  It’s hot in the kitchen. 

 The Only Slightly Cranky Waitress She works for a corporate restaurant and hasn’t killed a manager yet.  She deserves an award for that. 

 Vodka and Ground Beef Some of the funniest shit I’ve ever read. 

 Fuck my Table  A younger, slightly more hostile look at the restaurant business.  Think of me off my meds. 

 Tales from the Trailer Park  Trailer Park Barbie writes like I talk when I’m shitfaced drunk:  a hundred miles an hour and all over the place.  Try to keep up with her and don’t  piss yourself laughing. 

 What I Got So Far  There’s just something about him, but I’m sure he hears that a lot. 

 Thank you all for reading, I couldn’t do it without you, the fans.  Now go back to your miserable lives, keep shelling out money to buy my stuff, don’t forget I’m better than you and stop blocking the the red carpet to my limo.  I have more important places to be. 


Burial Day

Yesterday I decided I couldn’t stand the dead pig in my yard one more day.

Years ago when my daughter still lived at home, she insisted on having a pot bellied pig.  Our neighbours raised them so, oh well what the hell, (my new mantra stolen from here) we got one.  My daughter named her Gwennivere or something like that.  I called her Pork Chop, Pork Rind, Pot Roast, and sometimes Gweny.  She lived in the duck yard and it took me about two seconds to realize pigs aren’t nice.

That look right there meant I was seconds away from being knocked on my ass by a bowling ball with eyes.

 The pig HATED me.  If I went out to feed the ducks she would either charge me or she would go in the shed and let the door slam shut on me.  She was rude.

Well, she croaked a couple of years ago for no reason.  Yes, I said a couple of YEARS ago.  She has been in the duck yard, under a tarp, not decomposing for about two and a half years.  No shit, she looks just like she did when she died.  For all I know, she’s just being really lazy.

I’ve tried to get rid of her non-decomposed body, but it just never worked out.  Friends with trucks were always “too busy” whenever the subject of the dead pig came up.  Other friends suggested I drag her down to the highway and let the Highway Department take care of her carcass.  I could see a fine and possibly my name and/or picture  in the paper with that course of action.  There was no way in hell she was getting in my van since I knew she would spontaneously decompose like that guy in X-Men, right in the back seat.

Tonight, just before dark, I had an epiphany on how I was going to get rid of the pig.  There is a gigantic hole in the dog yard that was there when we moved in.  I figured I could dig a little more out, drag the pig to the hole and roll her in.  Problem solved.  My other neighbour has this massive pile of dirt (don’t ask ‘cuz I don’t know what he’s doing) and I figured I could trot over with my wheelbarrow under the cover of night (it’s always best to do these things in the dark) and get enough dirt to fill in the hole.

Overall it was a good plan and it went off without a hitch, unless you count the time I stepped on the edge of the partly filled grave and fell in.  My neighbours really should invest in a video camera. 

I wasn’t prepared for Otis’ reaction, though.  He and Maggie were around the  pig for about 2 years.  The pig hated them, too.  When I dragged the tarp to the hole and rolled her in, Otis completely freaked out.  He hit the ground all wide-eyed and panicked with his tail between his legs.  When I started shoveling dirt into the hole, he ran about 10 feet away and howled.  I think he had some concept that hole + dirt = bad news.  The other dogs were happy to have a new toy and they were digging as fast as I was filling until I threatened them with the shovel.  Otis sat by the fence, panting, shivering and howling.  When I finished Phase I (the pre-dirt stealing phase) he attached himself to my heels like he does when he’s traumatized by thunder.

Look at his scared little face.

 Maybe some animals do have a sense of what death is.

Going Postal

I make fun of people.  It’s what I do.  Therefore when it comes back around to me, I don’t get too uptight about it.

Yesterday I had to mail a package.  When I went into town for coffee, I forgot the item I needed to ship, so I couldn’t mail it from the Meeteetse post office.  They don’t let me have tape or scissors in the Meeteetse post office.  They supervise me and sometimes even offer to do it all for me if I’ll just leave.

The people at the Cody post office don’t know me.  The Cody post office has boxes and boxes and boxes.  And tape and pens.  Priority mail?  They have 37 different sizes from which to choose.  Express mail?  Don’t even go there ‘cuz I can’t afford it.  Boxes to buy that you can ship priority or parcel post?  There’s a gazillion of those. 

It took me about 13.5 minutes just to find a box to ship parcel post.  I noticed the only tape on the table was for priority mail, but there was a shipping tape dispenser on the counter with the mail clerk.  So I carried my half assembled box to the counter and asked if I could use his tape.  He told me they only had tape for priority mail and offered to check the difference in postage between priority and parcel post.  They were pretty much the same so I decided to send it priority and use the free tape.

Now, I have an issue about my hair.  I have to wear it up for work and it’s always in a bun or braid to keep it from getting damaged, but I worry that it will mold if I put it up when it’s wet.  My hair is down to the middle of my back, curly, unruly and each strand has a life of its own.  As I approached the tape dispenser my hair chuckled. 

First, I couldn’t get the tape to dispense.  The mail clerk helped me.  Then I think he summoned a co-worker from the back to watch the party.  With the tape dispenser in one hand, I tried to wrestle the box into submission so I could strap the bottom flaps closed.  The box slid off the table and the tape dispenser clattered to the floor.  Oops.

I tried again and got the bottom of the box closed.  Then I put the item in the box and taped the top flaps down…with my hair stuck to the tape.  Talk about damage.  I asked the clerk for some scissors.  “NO!”  I had to peel the tape off the box and untangle it from my hair, tie my hair back (ack!  mold!), and try again.

After I successfully got the label on the box, the mail clerk’s co-worker said, “You do know we video tape customers.”

D’oh.  Two thumbs up for me!

If that shit shows up on youtube, I will take it graciously.

The Reason I’m Warped


I’m warped.  There is no doubt about it.  For this, you can thank my mother.  I’m sure there was a time when I was a normal little kid, but I sure don’t remember it.

Here are two examples of the messed up stuff my mom has done to me:

When I was in high school I was sitting in class one afternoon, minding my own business when I realized there was something in my coat pocket.  A tuna sandwich.  I blurted out, “What the HELL?!” which got the attention of my classmates and teacher, who laughed at me.  A freaking tuna sandwich.  In my coat pocket.  Who does that shit?  My mother, apparently.  She thought I might be hungry later in the day so she packed a snack.  Tuna and mayonaise.  I walked around all afternoon smelling like warm tuna…not a good smell for a girl.  She was trying to either embarrass or kill me and to this day I’m not sure which it was.

A few years ago she invited me to go horseback riding with her.  I quit riding horses back when I was about 14 years old.  A crushed skull (“quit whining and go take a nap”), a torn up knee and a multitude of scars were enough to convince me that horses are eating, breathing, shitting death machines. 

We went for a short little ride around my parent’s ranch and she asked if I wanted to ride out and see Duster, the first colt my parents had.  I said I would be delighted to see him since I hadn’t seen him in years. 

We rode over to a little creek and she said, “There he is.”  I looked along the creek, up the hill, in the pasture and didn’t see a horse.  Then my eyes fell on a pile of bones by the creek. 


“I thought you knew he was dead.” 

“Apparently NOT.”

Well, THAT ride was over.

Whenever people tell me I’m strange I refer them to my mother.  It’s all her fault.

New Shirt Order

The restaurant does a new shirt order every spring and fall. 

This would save a lot of time.

I usually order about $70 worth of shirts to replace my grease stained, bleach spotted, faded and torn shirts.  This presents something of a dilemma.

1.  I can’t quit until I get $70 worth of wear out of the new shirts.  I’m not a quitter, but I do live my life in such a way that if someone pisses me off I can tell them to eat shit and not have my house and car repossessed. 

Home Sweet Home

One more payment and it's mine!

I have a little time to find a job before I have to start sleeping under the bridge.

It's actually cleaner than my house.

2.  I can’t get fired until I get $70 worth of wear out of the new shirts.  This means I have to be on my best behaviour.

No customer complaints.

No saying what I want to say.

No playing with my coworkers.

No staying out all night.

Are new shirts worth the pressure?  That’s weeks of good behaviour and I don’t know if I’m up for it.

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