Heirloom

She handed me a piece of paper when I dropped the baby off on Friday and asked me to type it up and fax it to the realtor. It was a list of items that they were willing to part with. The doctors buying their home asked the realtor if they would consider selling any of their furniture because they simply loved my mother's taste.

"I love that table", I said, speaking of the funky teak Danish Modern table that we shared meals on for the past 15 years.

"Of course you do", she said, "but you can't afford it."

"I can't understand why you wouldn't just give it to me", I said.

"Well, you don't want it, it's a little beat up and if I get rid of all of this stuff, I can buy some new stuff", she said without any glint of emotion.

"So much for family heirlooms", I said.

I got in my car and backed out of the driveway. It struck me as strange that my parents who are so generous can be so bizarre. I thought of the beautiful teak table, an elipse clipped at the ends, honey gold and warm. The chairs elegant and sexy, fine thin strips of teak rising up and curving in a lumbar form at the back, fanning out in an arc separated by solid balls of wood at the very top.

I thought of the slight milky white stain on one part of the table that was made by a plate of hot food. I thought of the other mark, a dark small spot from a burning cigarette left unattended by a brother dead now almost six years. Forever 28. It made me cry. This table was one of the last things I could think of that had his mark on it. There will be nothing left after this that I can touch to remind myself that he was here, I had another brother once.

We ate memorable meals, had birthday cakes, opened presents. We talked around this table, told stories and lies. And cried. We shared our lives. Life changes and we move on each in our own way. An heirloom is yours only as long as you last. And sometimes heirlooms are yours only as long as they last.


heirlooms, loss, moving on

Memorial

This is the post where I vent to myself about my family and how I feel so fucked up and in the process alienate myself and/or turn off anyone who's ever read this little rambling shambling attempt at a daily personal process. Maybe I am a pissy person, a real bitch. Maybe I am sick of going along with my cornfed kin. Every holiday is usually spent in some semi-expensive restaurant where they indulge in their appetites while Snowflake and I make due with the usual plethora of half baked potatoes, iceberg lettuce or "California" blend frozen fricking vegetables. For them it comes down to just one question- Where's the beef?

When my brother's trio arrived this morning we were all going to go out for pizza tonight. Fine. Cool. I was looking forward to staying overnight again and having a bonfire and enjoying the cottage one last time before they tear the ol' joint down. My mother wasn't involved in this really, but when we came back from a 90 degree three hour boat riding odyssey, suddenly it was martini time and on to the one restaurant I really hate up there. I decided to go home.

But not before that fucking idiot left his "Purple Gecko" martini on the low table while he went to the bathroom. It was just long enough for my beautiful boy to grab it and take a drink. Why does this have to happen? I was so pissed but I didn't say a word because I didn't want to be the usual family asshole. Then Big Pappy put me on the spot in front of the trio and my mother.

"You know Heidi, we can't help it because the two of you are vegetarians", he says.

"Why can't you just let me leave instead of making me look like a big asshole?" I said, "This morning we were going for pizza and now you're all going out for a big feast."

Dickwad chimes in "We just took the baby last night and had pizza, so I really don't want it again." I don't belive he has ever committed a thankless act of kindness in his entire life.

Big Pappy supportingly agrees, he does not want to consume any pizza either and why do I always have to be so difficult?

"You know, when have you EVER gone anywhere out of consideration for the two of us? huh? Never." Not even on my birthday which I just happen to share with my brother.

I was so damn mad it intensified while I was driving home and looking at Snowflake in the rearview he seemed zombified. I pulled over and ran around to the other side of the Slaab and checked him over. I really want to believe that he was zoned out from the sweltering afternoon in the sun and heat, but of course that evil little psychotic bastard that lives in the back of my head thinks maybe he is a little buzzed. I seem to always overanalyze and freak out. I start asking him questions, drilling him like a State Patrol officer on a bust.

"What's your dog's name?"

"Charlie"

"Who lives next door to you?"

"Bob & Cathy"

"What's my name?"

"Heidi Jo"

Yes, that's right, that's right, breathe deeply mamma-san, breathe. Perfect answers for a two year old.

He passed my sobriety test but I was still pissed thinking about the way my parents always seem to coddle my brother. I called my mother's cell phone and left a message and told her that when jackasses(aka 'dickwad' aka 'my brother') little boy is walking, I'll make sure to leave a big blue raspberry martini out just for him. I could never do something so stupid, not even unintentionally. Maybe my parents know they don't have to worry about me. They have already lost one son and I know they could never bear a repeat.

I'm just trying to figure out where I fit in. I just can't seem to find my place. Even in my own family.


Why is it that when you feel so bad, a little ray of light pops in just at the right moment and makes you feel human again, renews your hope in yourself? Thanks, neighbor, thank you.



holidays, family, dysfunction, nightmare, single parenting, the token vegetarian

The Beat of a Different Drum

If you're wondering where all of that damn loud banging is coming from, just blame Snowflake. Tomorrow his shipment will arrive via FedEx. He scored BIGTIME and it's not even his birthday. He's getting this and this plus a pair of finger cymbals and four egg shakers. He is going to flip out. I'm going to flip out. I'm so excited that if I really dig them, I'm going to go right ahead and order that big ass friggin' 21" x 22" Gathering Drum so we can really tear it up. We two vegetarians starting a neighborhood drumming circle. Can you smell the patchouli yet?

Summer nights under the stars and my imagined pergola, thumping away loudly with wild abandon as the neighbors scurry to peer over their fences or strain their eyes looking out of their windows wondering what the bejesus WE are up to will be priceless. Screw the pergola, we should just put up a sweatlodge in homage to Snowflake's ancestry. Maybe we'll even howl at the moon.




remo kids percussion, parenting, playing, toys, making music, Oppenheimer Award Toys

In the Dirt

Digging in the dirt comes with rewards but always seems to disgust me. Especially now that the area I live in is rampant with Blastomycosis. Officials assure us that there is nothing to worry about although the confirmed cases are a gazillion times more than normal. No one seems to know where it comes from. It's found in the dirt yet it flies through the air. No one is safe and if left untreated, it mimics a very bad cold, you end up coughing up blood and die a nasty death. I imagine it as the Ebola of the midwest.

On the shiny happy people side, the ground heaves up it's treasures in the form of nurturing the plants through the Spring and Summer seasons. I possess good black dirt. This weekend I planted Purple Fountain Grass and lime green Sweet Potato vine in three copper colored planters on my front steps. I planted Black Millet and Gerbera Daisies, white and purple Echinacea and Reed Grass. I transplanted some Stella d'Oro daylillies from the backyard to the patio. Things are shaping up for the side garden. My mother gave me an interesting plant called "King Tut". It's a type of papyrus and simply striking for these parts. It's like an exotic reed/ grass.

My heirloom Concord Grape vine is back with vim and vigor. It has been four years since I was able to harvest those dusky eggplant colored globes, sweet and ripe from the snapfrost. They make the most amazing preserves. This vine is so special to me. My grandparents now long dead took a cutting from their neighbor probably 50 years ago. When they died I dug it up and planted it next to my porch. I love it.

After planting for two days, I actually had to find sheets and blankets to cover everything up because a hard freeze warning was issued. Forkin' hay. I simply have got to cut back on my swearing or my little Paulie Parrot will ultimately end up sounding like a Salty Sea Dog. For example, this weekend my dear friend the Godfather came home from Miami to grace us with his presence for just a few short days. I immediately put him on baby duty, ie- WATCH THE BABY, Godfather. We walked to the front of the house and came back to the garage and I said 'Where's the baby?' and he bolted back and said, 'Oh Christ, that's right!' grabbing him.

The three of us went looking at plants. After buying a few we went back to the car and the Godfather opened the Slaab by sticking his arm through the open window and popping the lock. No, no, no, no... the alarm went off. "Oh Christ!" he says and I say "It's such a piece of crap!" Snowflake steps in with his two bits from the back seat and says,

"Christ mama, what a piece of crap!"

Very, very bad, but we couldn't stop laughing.

I'm waiting for my contractor to start digging up my backyard for the pergola. A bobcat was supposed to magically appear either Monday or Tuesday and it's still a no show. I'm waiting and things are just growing around me, everywhere.


gardening, blastomycosis, parenting, swearing

Yesterday

My sweet little dewdrop, my delicious bean, my Super Baby. You were 26 months old yesterday. In honor of this glorious, shining moment, you pooped on the floor. This was after you hopped out of the bath. I applaud your personal style and at least you don't poop in the tub. You are so adorably sqeezable right now.



Brand New BabyCakes May 2004


Your language is in high gear and you speak better than most four year olds I've heard. You sound kind of like Bela Lugosi with your old world style accent, or maybe it's your old Polish granny that you never met. Yes, everyone still assumes you're a girl because I refuse to cut your hair. Luckily for you I never took you out of the house that day I put the pigtails in your hair. It was a Mommy Dearest kind of moment.


Stand Up Guy May 2005



You love Kindermusic. But REAL music, is in your blood. Long before Kindermusic you were exposed to a healthy dose of various musical genres and you love them all. It's so cool to see you stop whatever you're doing if you hear something you like and just start grooving. You're one swank little dude. You like Swing and you LOVE to swing on a swing. I have this little song I sing to you when I push you and you love it. It goes like this:

Super Baby, Super Baby
He's Flying High In the Sky (repeat a jillion times)

And then you start to sing it. It's precioso, my love and so are you. I don't need to blather on and on because you actually know how fabulous I think you are.



Beautiful Boy May 2006



parenting, toddlers, dancing, time flys by

Needling

I hear it at the back of my mind subliminally picking me like an ax to the head. You really should get your ass to the dentist. You could have some serious problems, you know. If you don’t maintain, you’re looking at a really big bill and you don’t have dental, you know that. Remember, you have the pergola to pay for... Oh shut up! I know, I know.

I used to love going to the dentist. I simply adored Dr. Zander. He was the perfect childhood dentist. Cute in a very 70’s kind of way and funny. His secret weapon? Knowing all of the words to “Star Wars”. That Was Incredible! if you know what I mean. He had other tricks that took me an instant to realize as an adult.

Damn the day we moved.

I was a teenager and had to find a new sadist. When I went to Dr. Howard, he said I had two cavities that needed to be filled. I wasn’t too concerned until he brought out this BIG ASS NEEDLE THAT THEY MUST USE ONLY ON RABID RHINOS saying, “we’re just going to numb you up a little.” Whoa there, sailor.

“No way! I’ve never had needles before!”

“Well, we can try and drill without it”, he says, looking at me as if I were totally insane. They begin to drill and break through the tooth and hit a nerve. I bolted upright like Frankenstein’s Bride, screaming as they tried to hold me down. He just missed my tongue.

“Give me the shot, give me the shot!” I beg.

I realized in that moment, Dr. Zander only gave me those shots when I was good and high from the laughing gas, eyes closed with a liberal swathing of the numbing gel to the gum. The mark of pure genius. Dr. Howard ruined me for all dentists after that.

It has been two years since I have been to the dentist. I thank my genes for good chompers. Thank you O Great Ancestors In The Sky! Luckily, my dentist is very cool and always has LOTS of painkillers for me. He checks with me to see if it is in fact, numb enough. He’s benevolent that way, but he’s still no Zander. Laughing gas is extra now, so I just skip it and take the shot like a champ, all the while clutching the armrests like a scared cat about to be dipped. Whileknucked, my hands ache when I am done. Sedation dentistry sounds like fun to me.

You really should call. What if your teeth just turn black or break off? You'll end up looking like a crackhead. Real cute. Yes! All right. Shut up! I made the call, I have the appointment. Happy?! I congratulate myself for being an adult. I am growing up.

humor, going to the dentist, sedation, needles, fear

A Tinkle for Your Thoughts

Oh, I've had my fleeting glimpses of glory with potty training. Bursting with pride, making long distance telephone calls to loved ones in far away lands telling them of his urinary prowess. I was so proud of the lackadaisical pisser. So much so that I bought a giant sized box of gummi snacks as his special treat of choice a few weeks ago containing 72 fricking packets when things were full speed ahead, gung ho. Not so fast, lady. I think I have 70 packets left. The red Baby Bjorn potty chair sits collecting dust. Can you hear it's lonely echoing cry? Is that a tinkle I hear in the corner of my mind? This morning:

"Mamma, Trueby peed in the tub."

"You peed in the tub?!"

"Yeah."

"Trueby, that is just gross."

"Gwoss is wyte! Gwoss is wyte! Absowootwee."


potty training, parenting, humor

Mother's Day Drive 2006

Not Ready for Action



Mama Bird



Sweet Babies



Muscovy Duck



Nesting



Frosted Cookie Nightmare



Roadside Enticement. Just too 'Ed Gein' for me.



A Beautiful Blond


mute swan, muscovy duck, Canadian Goose, goslings

Don't You Dare

Mother, Mamma, Mommy

There are so many kinds of mothers that make the world go 'round. Here's to all the new mommies embarking on the epic experience of a lifetime. Special tip o' the hat to the breastfeeders. Here's to my friend who will be a mom for the second time to a little girl this September. Here's to another friend whom I've never actually met, who's waiting patiently to receive her bundle of joy from a foreign land. And to my few other friends whose babes are on the cusp of tweendom and beyond. Here's to all of the men who are mothers. Not muthas, but real mothers, doing double duty as both parents like me for whatever reason. Here's to my mother, SF's Nana Bird. I know she's there for me always. Thank you Mom. No one said it would be easy, cliche, but so true and so rewarding if you put it first. Happy Mother's Day.

Keep on the Sunny Side

There are those days when you just feel like telling the world to take a big flying fuck. Days when cold rain comes down and howling winds beat on the door to your house and your heart. Cue the violins, Tito bring me a tissue. It's gonna crash right down around you in a million splintering pieces. Days when you feel sorry for yourself. Start that IV gin drip, please. Like you don't mean anything to anyone, what is the fucking point of your existence? No one you know can relate to you. Days when you feel like although you are only 37, life is over and you'll never get any where, this is it and it's all pretty much just a big shot in the ass. By the way, your ass is looking a little big. If you can't make a two year old happy then what the fuck good are you to any one? Face it, you are the weirdo, BIG - BIG weirdo.

You watch a movie. Yeah, you've always liked the weird ones there too. Your brother gives you an english flick entitled 'dirty filthy love'. He highly recommends it, it's hilarious he says. It's all about an architect with OCD compounded with a little smattering of Tourette's Syndrome. You think this is going to be a 'feel good' movie for you, one that makes you feel better because damn, things could always be worse. Nah. Even the damaged architect finds love with another sweet freaky compulsive half bald hair pulling weirdo who got her shit together and in the end helps him see the light. After all of that, you're still the singleton spinster, just waiting for the day your son grows up so you can finally give all of those stray cats a home.

"Look Timmy, there's the crazy ol' lady who carries those gnomes around her yard swaddled like babies" says that young mother from across the way.

Ha HA HAAAA you laugh at your little momentary downward spiral.

Okay, so you're not getting laid. Maybe the weather combined with abstinence equals depression tinged hostility. Look on the bright side, at least you're not running around saying "shit fuck cock penis fuck me" all over the place.


filthy dirty love, abstinence, tourette's, effect of weather, gnomes

Tahoe

Whenever I hear mention of "Tahoe" I never think of aqueous natural beauty, Squaw Valley or the Winter Olympics, but rather Sammy, Dino and Frank. I think of big breasted platinum blondes wearing strapless gowns driving through the desert night in their rocket ship Cadillac convertibles tossing their heads back, cocked to one side laughing breathlessly.

I think of red lipstick stained napkins and prime rib dinners. I think of the thick smell of after shave and cocktail show croonings. Highballs and highrollers. Twinkling casino lights amid the splendorific backdrop of the Sierra Nevadas. Why Tahoe, Ms. Mamma? Why, indeed.

This afternoon Big Pappy and My Mamma are off to that fabled land of lore to celebrate 39 years of sheer marital bliss. I'm envious and overjoyed in many ways. First of all they have eachother. They have 'life partners'. It makes me think of myself as a love loser, a social misfit in the paragon of relationships. Then I realize the better part of me does think that this line of thinking is bullshit because I could find someone if I wanted to. But why would I want to be with some jackass just for the sake of 'having' someone. No gracias.

It would take a very special fop to win this cold, cold heart.

Then there is the whole issue of going to California. It's a place I have always wanted to go but never have. A few years after I graduated from college I wanted to pack up and drive to SanFrancisco. I used to have a thing for Henry Miller and I had a big desire to see Big Sur. Now I sometimes think of ol' Henry as big blow bag, but Big Sur remains in high esteem. I'm sure that the Tahoe of my mind is nothing like I imagine.

I'm sure any future relationship I might have will be nothing like I imagine. So here's to Big Pappy and Charlita. Now, if you'll excuse me I have to go and apply my red lipstick, hop in the Slaab with pigtails bouncing and drive off laughing breathlessly.


Lake Tahoe, California, The Rat Pack, big breasts, red lipstick, Henry Miller, Love

Food Network

I’m annoyed by Bobby Flay. Maybe it’s his nasally NY drawl combined with his receding hairline compounding the irritation factor. Maybe it’s the whole Iron Chef America thing. I’m not in awe of his kitchen prowess and am totally turned off by his hot shit ‘tude. I remember the time I requested information from the French Culinary Institute. They bombarded me with e-mail and snail mail for months on end.

Mr. Flay “sent me a letter”(a glorified form letter) from the Mesa Grill encouraging me to enroll in the FCI and touted its expertise. GAG. Then I received a note from Jacques Torres and he was wondering if I had any questions about the Pastry Arts Program. Briefly I imagined covering ol’ Jacques in a nice melty dark chocolate and licking it off. Everyone knows, if you’re gonna go to a food school in the US, go to the CIA, baby.

This foodie’s fast finally came to an end this weekend. I indulged in grapes and pineapple and juices. Grapes are like giant sugar bombs after two weeks of abstinence! A day later I moved on to some caramelized grilled onions, peppers, tomatoes and mushrooms. MMMMM. The flavors were divine. I could really go for some cold sesame noodles right about now. MMMMMMM...food.

Monday morning finds me at work watching what else, The Food Network and Mr. Flay. We’ve moved on to Molto Mario. I don’t like him either. He just seems like a dirty cook. By dirty I mean he probably scratches his fat pimple ridden ass and then sticks his finger in the tomato sauce for a taste. I’m just waiting for a millipede to drop out of his scruff. He’s like the Oogie Boogie Man in the Nightmare Before Christmas. IS he hiding a bad case of shingles? Kind of like how Rachel Ray doesn’t bother to wash off her packaged chicken before she uses it.

What or WHO do I like? I love Alton Brown. He reminds me of this sweet, cute, talented, artistic, brainy guy I dated in college. I’m a virtual repository for trivial bits of information and I LOVE it when you’re filled with actual USEFUL knowledge hors d'oeuvres. I used to adore this show on PBS called “The Kitchen Sessions” with Charlie Trotter. Nothing sexier than a sexy man cookin’. However, my fave foodie would have to be Lynne Rosetto Kaspar, the host of The Splendid Table. Her wealth of knowledge combined with her passion for new ways of exploring tastes is inspiring.

I also like Michael & Joan Stern who have a little “Road Food” segment on this program. They bring you all of North America’s standout road trippin’ joints whether it’s waffles or dim sum. This past weekend I watched a “Lifetime” movie directed and starring Kathy Bates(Misery Kathy Bates, not the Edward Scissorhands Kathy Bates). It was called “Ambulance Girl” based on the autobiography of Joan Stern. She battled with depression and in her own way of recovering became obsessed with becoming an EMT. Interesting.

I’m happy to be back among the eaters of the world in all their shapes and forms and specializations. Food glorious food.

bobby flay, french culinary institute, jacques torres, lynne rosetto kaspar, alton brown, charlie trotter, joan & michael stern, food network

Vitameatavegamin

I've been thinking about this glorified blender for quite some time now, almost a whole year. Is it worth it? I'm thinking yes for its sheer workhorse capabilities. When I'm not eating pan fried noodles with chili sauce, pizza, ice cream or peanut butter cups, I want to be eating healthier, fresher foods. With the amazing Bass-O-Matic wannabe, I would be able to make soups, smoothies, salsas and sorbets, grinding my own grains and nuts for flours and spreads. Yes, dear friends, that blade spins so fast it can freeze or heat the contained items.

Something is stopping me though. Yeah, it's pricey. But it comes with a seven year warranty. Spread the price out over those seven years and you're paying a mere $71 dollars a year to have the Viking/Wolf of the blender world in your kitchen. That's not it.

It's soooo butt fugly I want to scream. A design horror. At a towering 20.5 inches with it's container on, it's too Amazonian to fit on top of the counter underneath the upper cupboards. It's not sexy for that kind of money. And if there's one thing American culture has taught me, its that if you're gonna pay that kind of money for something, it better damn well be sexy, or at least come with a Pirelli calender.

I bet it makes one hell of a margarita though.

vitamix blender, sex, health, pirelli calendar

Boathouse Door

When You're Little

Slice

Curls and Sand

Booooooorrrrriiiinnnngggggg

I look good, I feel good, but I'm bored, BORED, bOrEd! I never thought I'd be sitting here one day saying to myself, "Gee Heid, do you realize it's been eleven whole days since a solid morsel of food has passed your lips?" Hell no. The plus side is a definite euphoria once you pass the headache/hunger stage. Extending it really firms your body up quickly. I think if you're a person who has problem areas(maybe a little belly or thighs), it could be your ticket to a plastic surgery free love in with yourself.

On the down side, last night I took The Chidler for what I thought would be a walk/jog. Although I had energy, I had to slow down. I couldn't jog for more than one block. My plan is to terminate the foodless bliss on Saturday or Sunday. Life can be very boring with out the social bond of food. Twice Snowflake tried to pass me one of his treats and I had to refuse. I think this confused him a bit but I told him I wasn't hungry.

I haven't had any wild revelations except for the fact that most of us eat way too much. I include myself. Food is one of the great pleasures in life. I think we can take it for granted, abuse it and end up hurting ourselves. I think J had a really interesting comment about our culture(if we have one) being ingrained with the three meals a day dogma from way back. I had a friend who was a lusty rotund tomato type and she ALWAYS had to eat breakfast, lunch and din-din everyday. And she'd be a crabby bitch if she didn't get her fix.

Last week, even Dooce had a humorous post about eating as self medicating. I agree ice cream can be a great substitue for your ills. Food is an acceptable alternative to booze, smokes, pot, crack, smack etc. until you approach behemothness. Then you are really ostracized and marginalized by society. Unless you're a prescription pill popper, I think all of us medicate in our own ways.

People seem very concerned when I tell them how long it's been since I ate. They cannot fathom the idea. Funny how I look rosy cheeked and have most of the nergy( I just realized this typo, but I'm leaving it because this post is soooo effing nerdy that I must be filled will what can only be known as nergy) I normally have. I didn't go into this as an extremist, I had my coffee and a few glasses of vino along the way. Nothing in the extreme is good to me. I want to enjoy it all. I want to be healthy and live at least to see Snowflake's adulthood and possible bambinos. I want to know them. I also want to eat a mouthwatering piece of watermelon after I indulge in a nice Giordano's pie with a glass of Zinfandel(RED of course, not the girl drink drunk white sort) It has been good. I am in touch with myself. I know some of the things I ate before I will never eat again. I feel fresher, newer, more alive. That's worth it.

But I'm still bored.

Lawn Bitch

As we backed out of the driveway I pretended not to notice the unkempt, hillbilly look of my yard. My mind wasn't on the big dirt patch where nothing grows because of a full decade of toxic rancid dog pee. Nor was it on the long, Martian looking, island-like clumps of grass that proudly and defiantly sprouted up around its perimeter as if to mock its bareness. Nope. I was thinking about my morning java, and that's all.

We cooly rolled to the stop sign. As I check the traffic, I just couldn't seem to see the visual assault my lawn was making on the neighborhood. In the back of my mind I was thinking, 'but if we only lived in France!' the lawn would be a virtual buffet of gourmet goodness.

"Wow! Pretty flowers, mamma! Mamma has pretty flowers, " Snowflake chimes in, drawing my attention to the 'Woodstock' for dandelions taking place in the front yard. Yes, I assured him, they are very beautiful in their own way. Inside I was cringing, cursing those skanky yellow harlots of the weed world. The view was downright lewd and lascivious. Mowing the jungle would have to wait.

As bawdy as they are, I can't bring myself to fertilize and spray weedkiller all over the lawn. I just don't want to be spraying and spreading poison in my little corner of the world. I keep telling myself dandelions are our friends.

It was just my luck that Nana invited Snowflake over for a rabbit food nosh and suggested that I could go and mow my lawn. Oh, yay. She told me she stopped by earlier while we were at the park and was going to do it, but didn't know how to start the lovely Honda machine she and my father gave to me during one of their many moves.

What she's actually saying is that she saw my lawn and decided no friggin' way.

So I went and did my duty begrudgingly. I stopped the party, callously beheading them in the process, their poufy, punky, frondy, fluffy coifs flying off and landing miles from their lanky swanky bodies. I definitely don't care for my lawnmower the way I lust after and LOVE my big hunky snowblower. I'll just have to keep sucking it up until my head pops off.


mowing, dandelions,

Dog Food Junkie

I've done it all. In the very beginning it was Pedigree. Then as a vet led dipshitte, feeding my pets "Science Diet" and Iams "Eukanuba". Then it was Bil-Jac and Nutro and Sensible Choice. There had to be an "Incredible Crock" of shit yet to be found out there. Eventually I came into my own, reading The Whole Dog Journal, and branching out into Innova and California Natural.

I tried Eagle Pack Holistique Select, and Solid Gold Holistic and Fromm's Duck and Potato. Back to Innova and its EVO, a supposed raw diet in the form of kibble. Yeah, right. It's more like road kill in a bag. What a stench! From there it was back to Solid Gold Millenium(beef) and then to its Wolf King(salmon & bison). Honestly, I've been disappointed by all of them.

Thanks to the latest bag of boutique Wolf King, in the quiet of this night I am the recipient of a steady audible stream of boxer sphincter flapping(much like a circus clown with a fart gag) and the aroma of fetid garlic wafting throughout the downstairs. Did someone just step on a whole friggin' flock of ducks? I can't deal with it any longer.

I took up the jones again tonight after work and found Dick VanPatten's Natural Balance Organic Formula. Sounds good to me. Only time will tell if the sound of silence prevails. Seriously, a dog fart by any other name would smell as rancid.

dog food