Bitching and Moaning

I am sad to report that Foghorn Leghorn & his drunk girlfriend made it all the way to Tennessee and back without one drunken encounter with law enforcement.  I have to believe the police aren’t trying hard enough.

On to the bitching and moaning…I quit smoking and I’m not the least bit happy about it.  I came down with some nasty virus and when I ran out of cigarettes I was too sick to go to the store to buy more.  People at work started making a big deal about it, so now I feel like I’m an unwilling participant in something I didn’t plan on doing.  It has been 9 days since I’ve had a cigarette, 9 days of hating the world.  

I started smoking when I was 43 years old.  Until then I was the most hateful anti-smoker around.  I never thought I would be a smoker, but one night at the Harribalsac I asked for a cigarette, and just like that a bad habit was born.

So for the last 5 years I’ve been a smoker.  I smoked about a pack a day for a year, then I smoked half a pack for a while, then I smoked 4-5 a day.  For the last two years I’ve smoked 3 cigarettes a day:  one on the way to work, one half way through my shift, and one on the way home from work.  Now I see no reason to go to work, no reason to take a break, and no reason to drive home. 

I don’t want to be a quitter! 

I hear previous smokers say how much better their lives are now that they quit:  food tastes better, their sense of smell improves, they are suddenly healthy and vital, unicorns fly out of their ass.  Whatever.  It’s all a bunch of bullshit designed to make their smoking friends just as miserable as they are.

I feel like punching a kitten.


Wasting Time

I don’t know what it is about the Outlaw, but some people think I have nothing but time on my hands.  Granted, the cafe is small and there may be only one or two tables of customers at a time, but what customers don’t see are the half a dozen tickets from the bar side.  I seldom have time to slap my ass with both hands let alone play games with people.

One night Bagheera was busy making pizza dough and I was cooking for/waiting on a couple of tables when two older women came in.  I gave them menus and asked if they wanted anything to drink.  They didn’t.  I went to the kitchen for about 5 minutes and went back out to take their order.  They hadn’t even looked at the menu.  I went to the kitchen for 5 more minutes.  When I returned to their table they still hadn’t decided, but wanted me to describe half of the menu.  I went back to the kitchen for another 5 minutes and received four or five more tickets from the bar.  Before I started the bar orders I went back to the women, hoping to get their order.  They laughed, said they still hadn’t decided, but if I would bring them Cokes they would be ready when I got back.  I wanted to beat them senseless with the menus.  What is going to change in the minute it takes me to grab Cokes?  I gave them 15 minutes to think about their Cokes before I went back.  They ordered two cheeseburgers.  Fucking hags.  I wasn’t sitting on my ass in the kitchen, I was juggling food in between playing their stupid game of wasting my time. 

I am very passive/aggressive.  You want to waste my time, I’ll waste yours.

Another night we were overwhelmed with pizza orders.  Bagheera was trapped at the pizza station so I went out to wait on a large table.  They ordered 3 pizzas and when I asked if they wanted anything else, one guy said, “Go put that order in, and come back.  I’ll tell you then if I want a salad or not.”  Seriously?  Fuck you.  You know NOW whether or not you want a salad, you are just playing games.  I did what he said.  I prepped his 3 pizzas (5 minutes each) then went back to see if he wanted a salad.  He was all out of joint because I didn’t come back immediately.  I explained that I did exactly as he said, I put the order in and came back, bad on him for assuming I was the waitress with time to waste instead of the cook.

Don’t play games.

Saturday night I was busy as hell on the bar side, but dead on the cafe side.  On those nights I let Bagheera go home since there isn’t much she can do for me.  Suddenly though, two tables walked in the cafe at the same time Foghorn Leghorn brought me a handful of tickets from the bar.  I got the order for the first table and went to see if the second table was ready to order.  “No!” one of the women snapped at me.  They were passing cell phones around looking at pictures and videos.  Her husband suggested I come back.  I smiled and said, “I have six orders from the bar so I’m going to go start them.  I’ll be back when I reach a stopping point…I’m guessing 10 to 15 minutes.  Okay?”  Holy shit.  They were certainly ready to order.  Again, fuck you.  If you want to have home movie night, do it AFTER you order.  You aren’t just wasting MY time, you are wasting EVERYONE’S time.

And I guess that’s why it pisses me off so much.  I’m paid to be there.  I’m paid to wait on/cook for people.  However, when one table holds me up there’s a cascade effect and everyone suffers.  I view it as inconsideration beyond belief.  The more time I spend playing games with one table, the longer it is for another table to get their food.  Order your damned food so everyone can eat.   


It’s a Beautiful Day

Why is it a beautiful day, you ask?  Because my shit heel, inbred, redneck, fucktard neighbours moved out.  Of course, they left in the night like any good criminals, and I stood on my deck as they drove away to make sure they didn’t poison my animals, slash my tires, or sugar my gas tank, but I figured the Uhaul was some sort of a cruel joke.  However, when I woke up at the crack of 2 in the afternoon and looked out my window, reality sunk in and I did a happy dance.  If the world suddenly feels like it has more air it’s because everyone in my neighbourhood let out a huge sigh of relief.

I live in a mobile home subdivision about a mile and a half out of town.  We have dirt roads, undrinkable water, and questionable property lines.  I’ve been here for 8 years.  It’s quiet.  There are nine houses, seven of them occupied.  Everybody minds their own business.  Everybody gets along.  Nobody goes out of their way to piss off the neighbourhood.  

The rednecks, mom/dad/adult daughter/adult son-in-law/10 year old daughter, moved in sometime in May.  First, they put up an ugly privacy fence around the lot next to the neighbours across the street from me.  Then they filled that quarter acre lot with horses.  Seven horses fighting, running into the fence and drawing flies.  I stood on my deck and wondered who allowed this shit.  Our CC&Rs forbid livestock, but since no one enforces the CC&Rs I figured I was going to have to suck it up and learn to love flies and the smell of horse shit.

About a week later they moved their house in.  All of our houses sit in rows, with the short sides roughly facing east to west.  This gives a break from the wind that howls all winter.  These Arkansas douchebags planted their house facing north to south.  I sat on my deck and hoped they enjoyed getting broadsided by the wind.  Nothing like trying to fit in with the neighbourhood.  The placement of their house was another violation of the CC&Rs, but, well, you know…

Then one “morning” as I drank coffee on my deck and struggled to wake up, I noticed garden hoses running from their house, across 2 lots to the lot with the horses.  We had a bit of a drought this summer.  I looked at my back yard that never gets watered, then I looked at their lots.  Mine was brown and dead, theirs looked like Ireland.  WTF?!  Our water isn’t metered, we pay a flat rate of $35 per month, per lot, for domestic use.  This means you can have a garden, a yard, do your laundry, wash your car, and take as many showers as you want on ONE lot.  You can NOT use the water for irrigation.  You can NOT  pay $35 a month and use enough water for 4 lots, which is how many lots they own.

So the water district got involved.  The rednecks refused to pay for water on all four lots.  They burned out the well pump.  No one had water.  After the pump was replaced, they continued to use so much water that half of the subdivision didn’t have water.  The water district threatened to shut off their water.  They parked a truck over the shut off valve and chained it to a fence.  The water district called for a locate on gas and electric lines across the street from their house in order to shut them off there.  They took shovels and rakes and erased the locate lines.  This went on for two fucking months.  The water district finally got the locator and the backhoe to arrive at the same time and shut their water off.  The next morning, the rednecks dug a trench and turned their water back on.

Meanwhile, everyone in the neighbourhood signed up with an attorney to file an order to have the horses removed, and we formed a home owners association.  The rednecks answered this by petitioning the county commissioners to annex out of the subdivision.  They also filed stalking protection orders against everyone on the water district board and four of the people on the HoA.  The sheriff spent so much time out here I wondered why he didn’t move in with them.  It got to the point that if anyone drove or walked by their house, they called the sheriff.  Their house is on the same PUBLIC road as my house.  It was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen. 

In September, two of my women neighbours, Theresa and Mary, approached me because they were terrified of the rednecks.  Their husbands were gone a lot, the rednecks filed stalking orders on them, and they were afraid to leave their houses.  They heard I was a little on the mean side and could I help them?  By this time I was pissed.  I HATE bullies, and that’s exactly what these assholes were.  Plus, in every rebuttal against the HoA, they cited my ducks as a precedent for their horses.  Stupid fuckers.  Ducks aren’t livestock.

My neighbours gave me the paperwork from their stalking protection orders.  It was some scary shit.  The redneck bitch included her journal entries, and it read as a “who can we sue next” manuscript.  It involved several different families, people with money, from the community.  I immediately called everyone named in the journal and told them to sever contact with these people.  I made copies of the journal and gave it to everyone concerned.  They had photos and dated written documentation of Theresa & Mary’s every move.  I didn’t know that if you spy on your neighbours and take pictures of them, they are stalking YOU.  This is what I mean by scary shit.

(I guess I should add that Theresa and her husband are quite wealthy and Mary and her husband won half a mil on a slot machine in Deadwood a year ago.)

While reading through the “sworn” testimony I found a passage stating that I told the redneck kids Theresa’s dog had tried to bite me (never happened, never said it happened).  They were using this as stalking evidence.  See if you can follow their logic.  Apparently Theresa’s dog tried to bite me, so we weren’t friends.  But in August we became friends because Theresa was turning me against them.  That’s stalking.  WTF?!  

Needless to say, I saw red.  I was furious that they were trying to drag me into their bullshit.  The next day I was outside talking to Theresa when the redneck bitches careened up the hill towards our houses.  I said something to Theresa and I remember her screaming, “SHE’LL RUN OVER YOU!” as I walked out in front of the speeding car.  The bitch stopped, I leaned in, got right up in her face, introduced myself, told her to make sure she spelled my name correctly when she filed a protection order against me, and proceeded to tear her a new asshole for naming me as a witness against my neighbours.  She never made eye contact and stammered that she didn’t have a problem with me.  You do now.  Then she told me that she didn’t have a protection order against me.  You should get one.

I turned around and Theresa was gone.  Rabbited right back to her house.  She wasn’t lying about being afraid, but of them or me I wasn’t sure. 

Of course, the bitch called the sheriff on me.  He graduated high school with my brother.  I asked if I was going to get a protection order because I felt pretty left out.  He said that yelling at someone wasn’t against the law.  Yeah, I know.  He told me the rednecks didn’t like me talking to Theresa.  I reminded him I have the right to assemble.  Uh…yes, yes you do.  I told him I also have freedom of speech.  Uh…yes, that’s true.  Then I enlightened him on all the bullshit going on with the water district and how their actions crossed the line of criminal behaviour.  Of course he knew nothing about it.  I pointed out that the protection orders and his constant presence on their behalf made him seem more than a little biased, and one would think that maybe he wasn’t the best person to service our neighbourhood.  Uh…  He was dumbfounded because he hadn’t read the paperwork he served, and I guess he thought no one was paying attention to his visits.  He obviously took the time to read it, and he took my subtle threat against his job seriously because he suddenly refered all calls to another sheriff.

So, to wrap up this very long story:  the rednecks looked like asses in court for the stalking protection orders.  Stalking is very clear cut.  Did either of these women call you?  No.  Did either of these women send you harassing letters?  No.  Did they send you texts or emails?  No.  Did they hang around your place of employment?  No.  Did they hang out around your house?  No.  Cases dismissed.  Assholes.

The rednecks looked like asses for the county commissioners when 15 people showed up to fight their petition to annex out of the subdivision.  They were not allowed to annex out, but were allowed to combine their four lots into one.  The commissioners stressed that the CC&Rs run with the land, no matter who you bought it from, no matter how many times it’s been sold.  They brought up my ducks.  There was a chorus of “ducks aren’t livestock” in the meeting room.  The commissioners explained that the essence of CC&Rs is “don’t annoy your neighbours”.  Everything is acceptable until someone complains and if the majority complains, you have a problem.  Assholes.

Lucky for them they didn’t win the petition to annex out because I was leading the crusade to have them removed from our septic system and banned from our road in the event they did.  You can’t be part of the “community” septic system if you’re not part of the community, and you can’t drive on the road the home owners pay to maintain if you aren’t part of the home owner’s association.  Let’s see how you like walking to your house and shitting in a bucket with no water to rinse it out, which brings us to…

The rednecks looked like asses when most of the neighbourhood showed up to support the water district in shutting off their water.  They adopted a “we’ll show you” attitude by filling two cisterns and running garden hoses from them to their house…until the temperature dropped to zero last week and froze their hoses.  Aww…so sad.  Currently, they owe the water district nearly $3,000 for multiple shut-offs and past due water bills.  A lien is attached to their property.  Assholes.

Honestly, in all of this I waffled on my opinion of the rednecks.  My first thought was that they moved here and set all of this in motion in order to sue Mary & her husband for damages and make off with a quick hundred thousand or so.  Once they realized Theresa and her husband had money, the rednecks added them to the plan.  But they were so d.u.m.b.  Maybe they were just stupid and misunderstood.  How can they be con artists when they have a group IQ of ‘duh’?

My opinion cemented when they called the sheriff on me two days before they fled town for sitting on my deck, drinking coffee and talking on the phone while they took down the ugly privacy fence across the street.  I saw their buddy sheriff go to their house.  I saw them in their yard pointing at me.  I saw him shake his head and drive away.  Smart man.  Telling me I can’t sit on my deck is one conversation he doesn’t want to have.

The final score?

Rednecks:  YOU LOSE.

Crossed Arrows Home Owners:  Lesson Learned.

The Gravy Nightmare

We have two types of gravy, brown and white.  During the summer when we are overworked and understaffed we are supposed to have one type of gravy, white.  However, Speedy insists “you can’t run a restaurant with only one type of gravy” and continues to make brown gravy.  When Bagheera and I said we were getting rid of it Speedy ordered 3 cases of that shit.

I’ve told all of the bartenders that customers DO NOT get a choice of gravy.  They get what I give them, which is usually white.  The last thing I want is a ten top all ordering different potatoes and gravy.  Fuck that shit.

Is this a hard concept?

Every time I work with Foghorn Leghorn (4 nights a week) I have to tell him, “Customers don’t get a choice of gravy!  They get what I have.”  He then looks utterly confused as if it’s news to him.

I got my ass handed to me on Saturday night.  For some reason it was steak night and everybody wanted a different temperature…rare, mid rare, sort of pink, not pink but not burned, well done, well done, but very tender…I wanted to scream.  This was going on in the bar and in the restaurant.  I was ready to curl up in the fetal position by the trash can and find my Happy Place.

Then Foghorn Leghorn started the gravy choice shit.  I was polite for the first two or three tickets, then I started screaming at him.

During this madness, for reasons unknown to me, people started poking their head over the swinging doors to the kitchen and yelling their orders to Bagheera, rather than sitting down and letting her take their order. 

I lost my fucking my mind.

Then I ran out of white gravy.  I scrambled around and found a container of brown gravy from the day before.  I told Foghorn Leghorn we were now serving brown gravy and again, STOP GIVING PEOPLE A GRAVY CHOICE.

The very next ticket he brought in the kitchen was for fries with country gravy.  I wadded it up in a ball, screamed, “WE DON’T HAVE ANY FUCKING WHITE GRAVY!” and threw it in his face.  He stammered that he didn’t know what “country gravy” was, which made me wonder:

  1. Does he think we have three types of gravy?
  2. Is he really that dumb?
  3. Is he trying to push me over the edge?

  Bagheera told him to get out of the kitchen.  As in now.  I was going to kill that little fucker, but I couldn’t find my knife.

Then there was some issue about cheese on the fries instead of gravy we didn’t have.  Bagheera told him to leave the kitchen and not come back until he pulled his head out of his ass.

The only smart thing he did all night was he stopped a customer from coming in the kitchen to ask for white gravy.

Every time I tried to fall asleep Saturday night, I woke up asking myself, “What the fuck is his problem with the gravy?”  I was awake until 6 in the morning.

Sunday was a slow day and Bagheera and I spent the day cleaning and relaxing.  Foghorn Leghorn spent his day off drinking in the bar.  When we closed we wandered over to the bar and right in front of several of our regular customers, Bagheera asked Foghorn Leghorn, “So…did you ever figure out the deal with the gravy?”  Everyone started laughing because apparently they could hear me yelling at him all the way over in the bar.

Foghorn Leghorn said, “We had a gravy choice until you started working here.  I just haven’t adjusted to it yet.”

I said, “I’ve been here 6 months.  How much more time do you need?”

I didn’t hear his answer over all the laughter.


Today’s Deadly Sin: Envy

More than a month ago Speedy Gonzales and I got into a big assed fight and I haven’t spoken to her since.  Speedy is 74 years old, looks 55 and acts like she’s 12.  She’s this little bity speck of a Mexican woman whom I’ve known all my life.  That means I know she’s a backstabbing child, but it doesn’t make things any better.

During the fight she called me lazy and a liar and told me I could kiss her ass…all because she thinks Bagheera likes me more. 


I know I’m neither lazy nor a liar, but it pissed me off that she was willing to be such a freaking child.  “Bagheera used to spend time with me, now she spends all her time with you.”  Waa, boo hoo.  (I’m not making this up.)  She twisted every conversation I had with her into “Holly thinks she’s in charge.”  News flash:  I’m barely in charge of myself and I certainly don’t want to be in charge of the hot mess that is the restaurant.  Furthermore, don’t put your issues off on me.  So, I quit talking to her.  If I refuse to acknowledge her existence, she can’t gossip and lie about what I said.

When Eeyore got the boot, we were without a pie maker, so I stepped in.  Prior to this, my idea of a cream pie was flavoured instant pudding in a pie shell with Cool Whip on top.  Fruit pies came out of a can.  I’ve spent the last month looking up pie recipes and thanks to my friend Michele I have a killer pie crust recipe (it’s called Great Value rolled out pie crusts).  My coconut cream pie is heavenly.  The strawberry rhubarb is awesome.  I made a Pepsi cake that sold out in less than a day.  A slice of Key Lime pie makes you think you are sitting in Miami.  I’ve learned how to make the pie crusts beautiful with different patterns on the edges and tops. 

I’ve put a lot of effort into this and it’s paying off.  People are stopping in for dessert in the afternoons.  People are buying desserts to go.  We are even selling desserts in the bar.  The bartenders are dumbfounded because they are serving pie and beer.  That never used to happen.  Best of all, the profit margin is insane and knowing this, King Triton bought a little glass front cooler to showcase my pies.  Well, also because he thinks I’m awesome.

So naturally Speedy has to horn in on my action.  All the attention I’m getting has turned her green with envy.  It doesn’t look good on her.  She made a peach pie (with filling from a can) with a homemade crust that was so thick and burned we had to toss it.  Today she made a peach cobbler (with filling from a can) that looks like a glop of pie filling on a  plate.  I knew we had to use up the pie filling Eeyore ordered, and I had planned to make a crazy crust peach pie that is truly awesome, but hell no.  Let’s make some sloppy shit instead.

Maybe I’m being childish about this.  Maybe I should let her continue to make her shitty desserts and keep my mouth shut.  I don’t want anyone confusing my desserts with hers, though. 

No, I think I get to be childish about this, dammit.

I Need a Basket

The swamp coolers** at work didn’t work.  The one in the dining room was 1,000 years old, and the one in the kitchen was a disgrace.  The pads were rotted away and it wasn’t hooked up to water, so we were supposed to carry water to it every 15 minutes.  Once we got busy, no one remembered to take water to the cooler, which put the pump at risk of burning out.  Even with water, the pads were in such bad shape that they couldn’t hold water long enough to cool the air.  Basically, it was a piece of shit.

The last time I worked at the Outlaw, I got into a fight with Doc over the swamp cooler.  One thing led to another and I quit.  This time I told Bagheera I wasn’t waiting for anyone to fix it, I was going to do it myself.  King Triton protested that he hired some guy named Hawk to fix the restaurant and the bar coolers.  I gave him the stink eye, so he gave me a blank check and I bought a new cooler for the dining room, and all the stuff needed to repair the kitchen cooler.

When I returned from Cody, I tore the old pads out of the kitchen cooler, replaced them with new ones, installed a float valve, ran a water line into the kitchen and tapped into the supply line under the sink.  This took an hour and a half, on my day off, in the blistering heat.  When I finished, nothing leaked, the water line was hidden so we wouldn’t get tangled in it, the float valve shut off when it was supposed to, and the kitchen was blessedly cool.

The very next fucking day when I got to work, water poured from the swamp cooler.  It wasn’t leaking from the water line attached to the float valve, oh no, it leaked from above the cooler where some douchebag tapped into MY line and didn’t do it correctly.  Water ran down the wall and into the kitchen. 

That’s when the shouting started.

King Triton said Hawk “fixed” the bar swamp cooler, which is on the roof, and he tapped into my line, but he would be back to stop the leak.  Then the roof of the bar started leaking, and we had to shut the water off to both coolers.

I nearly passed out in a rage.

I told Bagheera the bar people could go fuck themselves, and I disconnected their water line.  Once again, the kitchen was blessedly cool, but I noticed the water line was shorter and had to be pulled out of hiding to reach the cooler.

Bastard cut my line. 

Four days later, the bar water line was again attached to the one I installed, and it wasn’t leaking.  However, I could hear the pump on our cooler slurping, which meant it wasn’t getting enough water, yet it leaked from the front corner (it sits on a crooked table.  One more thing that needs fixed).  I opened it and discovered a crappy old float valve where the new one used to be.

That’s when the shouting started again.

King Triton said Hawk took the new float valve out of our cooler and put it in the bar cooler, thinking that if our cooler leaked it wouldn’t be a big deal since it isn’t on the roof. 

Fucking thieving bastard.

I fiddled around with the float valve, but couldn’t get it to shut off like it should.  I tipped the cooler so the pump was under water, but that caused the leak to move to the back corner.  Then Hawk came in the kitchen and said we needed to shut the water off to both coolers since the roof was leaking again.

Stupid bastard stole my float and wasn’t smart enough to adjust it.  Fuck that shit. 

I disconnected the bar water line and the kitchen stayed blessedly cool, but the water leaking from the corner of our cooler continued to piss me off.

I started looking for a basket in which to put his head.  I checked the storage closet, the cupboards under the counter, and finally the old refrigerator in the back of the bar.  He must have a guardian angel because I didn’t find a basket, but I did find a new float valve. 

I shit you not, if our cooler leaks again or if the water has to be shut off again, I WILL find a basket and his head will be the first in it.


**The correct term is evaporative cooler.  It is a type of air conditioner that works by pumping water over fiber pads with a powerful fan to circulate the cold air.  They work best in desert environments.

Drunken Drama

Why is it that alcoholics create more drama than middle school children?  One would think they would sit in the corner and guzzle booze until they puked, passed out, or both, but noooooo.  One would think they might have an ounce of self respect and would therefore keep their daily tragedy, crisis, end of the world bullshit to themselves, but of course not.  Every alcoholic I know isn’t happy unless everyone is sucked into their toxic lives.  I’m getting ready to bring out the baseball bat.  I shit you not.

I have Mondays and Thursdays off.  I use Mondays to recover from Sundays, and I don’t do much other than wash all my bedding, and my dishes and maybe brush my hair.  Thursdays I go to Cody, do all of my shopping for the week, do all my laundry, clean the house, mow the lawn or whatever needs doing.  Thursday is a work at the house day.  I have a routine and in true OCD fashion, I don’t like my routine changed, altered, spindled, stapled, or mutilated.

Since I didn’t sleep well last night I puttered around the house until late afternoon before I left for Cody.  When I was about 10 miles away, I got a call from Bagheera asking if I could come to work at 5 since Betty Booze was having yet another crisis.  I told her the best I could do was make it at 6, and that was only if I hauled ass. 

I quickly did my shopping, didn’t even make my weekly stop for tacos, and hurried home.  I threw all the perishables, bags and all, in the refrigerator, threw the non-perishables, bags and all, into the oven so the dogs couldn’t get them, brushed my teeth, changed my clothes and raced into town.

And who should I find sitting in the bar getting drunk?  Betty Booze.

To say I flipped my shit is putting things mildly.

She came in the kitchen during my screaming, cussing, throwing things rant and tried to explain that her boyfriend’s son had been kidnapped and they were on their way to Lander (3 hours away) to get him, but first they needed to find someone to drive.  Meanwhile, they were content to get shitfaced.  Oh, and the kidnapping…he is with his mom, who has visitation rights for the summer.  Kidnapped sounds so much more dramatic, though.  They never did go get the kid.

Betty Booze is the type of drunk who won’t let something go and she needs people to understand that she’s right and everyone else is wrong.  She accomplishes this by getting up in your face and repeating her story over and over and over until you black out from the sheer desire to choke her until her tongue turns purple.  She knew I was dead pissed at her, (probably because I said, “Bitch, you better get the fuck outta my face”) so when she left the kitchen and went back to the bar, she had to tell everyone how mean I was and how unfairly I treated her.  This went on for about an hour until King Triton got fed up with her shit, slapped her face and told her to leave.  (I once watched a women slap the hell out of King Triton and he refused to defend himself and hit her back, so the idea of him slapping Betty Booze is mind boggling.) 

After everyone fled the kitchen, I calmed down a little and made two outstanding pies.  I made a coconut cream and a strawberry rhubarb, both from scratch (okay, I used store bought pie crusts).  What’s even more amazing is it was the first time I used the recipes and both were great.  I usually get recipes that take forever to make and taste like ass when they’re done, but these were simple and delicious.  (  I guess all was not lost.

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