Attention to those who may be eating (or have weak stomachs) this entry may gross you out!

Sadie no longer allows Felina to sit on top of her, but she puts up with the brat sitting on her legs.

I can’t believe I haven’t posted anything since last Tuesday!  As usual, life got in the way.  A lot of life.  Our dear, overweight Sadie had some issues that required a trip to the vet.  She was just there in April to have her anal glands expressed.  And 3½ weeks later they wound up impacted and infected.  With bonus yeast infection!  Poor fat Sadie.  She cannot win.  I spent the better part of last week walking around and cleaning up after her (you don’t want to know, but maybe you do…it leaks and what leaks SMELLS VERY, VERY GROSS).  I may have lost some weight just by being unable to eat. Poor baby got a bath every single night and I was all of the sudden appalled to find myself wondering if they had a doggie bidet.

On Friday she was at the vet. Rick and I had a brief argument where I found out that he finds himself being intimidated by the bitching he gets regarding her weight. The practice that she goes to has rotating doctors and apparently the first thing they mention is her weight. No shit. She’s fat and apparently the whole fat acceptance thing isn’t happening there. My problem is not so much that they’re bitching about her weight, but the fact is that it’s harder for her to lose weight because she’s and elderly dog that has been on phenobarbital. Hello, this dog takes seizures and she’s has been heavily medicated for years now. Side effects from this medication lead to weight gain. Open your fucking chart and read it! And for the record, Sadie lost two pounds. It’s not like we’re not trying over here. Although I do admit (for the sake of honesty) that it’s hard for me not to share something I’m eating with her because she’s such a sweetheart. Ugh. Meanwhile, she’s on medications and feeling better and the leakage is done, but now my house smells like so many different cleaners that I want to barf.

Am I the only one that thinks household cleaners are not cleaning like they used to? My mother and I were at the store the other day and I could not find one cleaner that I hadn’t tried and thought it was useless (although I love my Comet® in a can).  And the new ones with the different scents? Gimme a fucking break. I don’t need my cleaners to smell like Febreze®, I just need them to CLEAN.  I’ve pretty much given up and have accepted Dawn mixed with bleach as my cleanser of choice.  Sorry environment.

Anyway.  That’s what I’ve been up to.  Cleaning up after the dog.  Trying to keep up with the normal housekeeping.  Taking Shirley to the doctor so she could finally get her ankles x-rayed and confirmed that the bones were not crushed in there.  She suffers, like the rest of us, what I like to call Sanforditis.  Fat ankles, compliments of my grandparents.  We ALL have them (even the skinny ones).  But she was convinced that hers might be broken because she started having even more swelling than normal and my aunt has serious problems with hers (they were broken in there).  It turns out it’s torn ligaments and she has to wear braces and apply heat (and also take Vitamin C) to try and heal them up.  They may never heal up due to her bad circulation and age, but I’m forcing her to be compliant.

I took her for ice cream afterwards (and don’t even get me started about the fact that she chose to wear that sweatshirt over top of her clothes when she has a million nice jackets and we’re not farmers). This place is famous for its over-the-top ice cream items. Cones that are 10 inches high, etc. We split this bitch and we only ate about a 1/4 of it. I was all about that vanilla and pineapple, man. My favorite sundae is vanilla ice cream with pineapple and hershey syrup. I seldom get it though because eating that kind of high sugar stuff makes me sick. But Shirley hadn’t been to this place so we made it a moment.

Sorta like how it was a moment an hour before that when I clocked her in the face with my elbow. We were coming out of the store during a downpour and I told her to just get in the car while I threw our purchases in the back (I have a honda crv – everything goes in the back). Well. Stupid bullhead herself insisted upon “helping” because she’s trying to prove that she’s not an old lady. It’s pouring down rain, I’m lifting up big boxes of laundry detergent (or maybe cat litter) while she’s reaching in to grab the little “things” to put in my back seat (which I HATE because it rolls all over the place) and the next thing you know my elbow connects with her face. NICE.

I’m running out of patience here (like I had that much to begin with) and we’re going to have a come to Jesus meeting soon if she doesn’t stop making things more difficult for me by trying to help all the time. Ugh. I’m sure you can imagine the joy that will be that conversation considering what a bullhead she is.

Today she has plans to put on the tube-top/pajama pants combo and throw herself into scrubbing down the bathroom walls because we have company coming in this weekend. If she breaks a hip, so help me God.

We put up an entry over at Dinosaurs Can’t Eat Pizza. Sugar-free Monkey Bread. Go see the surprising results.

I’m outta here.

Today I have to iron the curtains that I made out of sheets a while back because we decided to dye them. And by we you should already know that I meant me. These curtains are a bitchwhoremotherfucker to iron and I predict much crankyness. My mother always stands by and helpfully wishes that we had a mangle to iron these with. And then she goes into the entire story of her childhood neighbor who had a giant mangle and could iron entire sheets in less than 2 minutes, blahblahblah. All while I’m trudging along with my can of spray starch and my little hand-held iron. I had just finished telling her that they always say that I have no patience when I have a surprising amount of patience considering there is nobody dead in this house yet. You picking up what I’m laying down?

Fat-ass Julie decided to pack herself in an empty box while I was trying to organize my life this weekend.

Please note how the right side of the box is BULGING. Just saying!

iPod Touch photo of Felina taken when Shirley wasn’t here for the week. Man, Felina has emo down to an art form. If she had hands, I bet she would write poetry. Bad poetry.

This picture always makes me laugh because of Sadie’s face. They love it when Rick gets down on their level to pay attention to them. And to be fair a lot of things don’t get done around here because we’re focused on the animals. Trust me when I say that they get a lot of attention. Probably more than the kids. But they’re better behaved. Heh.

I may have posted this one before, but I love my Waldo (Walnut, Nuticus, Bubba). I’m the one that calls him Nuticus (an extension of Walnut).

Okay, I’m off to get a shower and start my day (finish laundry, iron myself into oblivion, lament my swollen ankles). Don’t forget that we put a new recipe up over at Dinosaurs Can’t Eat Pizza. I don’t want to say anything more about it – you’ll have to read it for yourself!

I’m outta here.

In 23 days I will be 47 years old.  I don’t know how I feel about this.  I may not feel anything at all.  I know it’s obviously in the back of my head or I wouldn’t be writing about it.  I just can’t wrap my head around the fact that I am closer to 50 than I ever thought I would be.  I was supposed to be dead by now.  I just always assumed that I would never live past 38.  No reason why.  It was just always there in my head.  A thought that would never really stand out in my mind enough to actually analyze, but one that would never go away.  Just sat there.  Weird, huh?

- My mother (Shirley) just interrupted this entry to tell me all about how some lady from my hometown makes $200+ a day by working from home.  She saw it on the right hand column of her Facebook page so it must be gospel.  Old people and computers really fucking annoy me.  Especially when she’s been told repeatedly about all the tricks advertisers use.  It’s just a matter of time until she’s struggling to remember which relative she has in Nigeria that may have left her money. Sigh. 

So yeah.  Had a thought in my head and was going to write about it, but once again found myself interrupted by someone in this house.  This is my life.

A purchase I made on Friday that I had no business making, but something inside me made me do it. For those of you who do any type of crafting/sewing/whatever I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe I am really nuts.

Shirley and I were at the thrift store on Friday. Yes, Target and the thrift store (and TJMaxx). It was a whoop it up kinda day! I always try to stop into the thrift store on the rare occasion that I am out shopping near one because I’m a nebshit and I love checking out what people are getting rid of. A lot of people assume that my house must be filled to the rafters with stuff and things, but it’s not. Especially when it comes to my purchasing purses, etc. Remember my Vera Bradley phase? Yeah. The thrift store really scored on that phase. I keep about 6 different running purses of the ones that I buy. If I’m positive that I will never use it again, it goes to a thrift store. And if I bring home anything from anywhere I have a rule that something has to go out of the house in place of it. I also have a no dusting rule. If I have to dust it, I will not get it. No fucking knick-knacks for me, man! Even my gargoyle collection is outside on my porch and in my flower beds. With 4 people and 5 animals something had to be done because I cannot deal with the chaos that is that kind of unclean and unorganized life.

Dammit. I hate when I get off on a tangent. The point I was making about the above purchase was that I had no choice but to buy them.

These are aprons that were hand-stitched by someone. Someone who obviously cared about what they were doing.

Cared enough to stitch around the tops, as well as the bottoms. Cared enough to put little pleats in the waist.

Cared enough to cover the back with fabric so you can’t see the stitches. And used a hand-sewn blind hem to finish it all off. ALL OF IT.

And someone just threw them in a box to send off to the thrift store. Someone who didn’t care about the effort, time and thought that went into making them.

I don’t technically need more aprons. But guess what? I cared enough to get three more.

I’m outta here.