You might notice over there on my oh so neglected blogroll is a new entry.
My baby sister has decided to join the world of blogging.
In typical youngest child fashion she loves to be the center of attention, so mosey on over there and check it out.
If you decide to comment, be nice. Or else I will hunt you down and break your kneecaps.
I’ve already done Ginger’s “life story” so now it’s time for the big boy Bronco.
Bronco was born and lived life before us with his parents and siblings and a loving human family. I went and picked him up and he was just as happy and warm and fed and cared for as a little dog could be.
He came home and had a glorious existence. Every toy he could ever hope for, a full dinner bowl every night with fresh water at his constant disposal.
The only blemish on his life’s perfect complexion would be Ginger. It’s not so much that he has a problem with Ginger but more like Ginger has a problem with him. Then again it’s not so much that Ginger has a problem with him but more like she tolerates him.
Given Bronco’s desperate need to have every man, woman, child, and animal love him, this shunning hit him hard. He has done everything that he knows to do to attempt to win her over. Everyday he wakes up and tries his best to endear himself to her. To no avail.
After a few years of constant battle, Bronco received the best gift ever.
Ninja.
To say that Ninja is the best thing that ever happened to Bronco would be an understand of the century.
Those two are inseparable. It is a rare occasion that you see one without the other. They spend all day playing and fighting with each other. When they sleep, they have to be touching.
If Bronco were human he would be your stereotypical pothead surfer. Nothing fazes him. He always wants to eat. He has such a laid back attitude that sometimes I wonder if he would move at all if Ninja weren’t around.
He could also be described as the canine version of a trustifarian. Dog has never had occasion to want for anything. My dog has the potential to be the most obnoxious spoiled brat (canine version) but luckily I saw the storm brewing and headed that off the pass.
The last thing anyone needs is a 90 pound black lab with an entitlement complex.
With my 5 year anniversary recently passing I was sitting around waxing nostalgic about our wedding and honeymoon. Particularly our honeymoon.
We were married in St. Louis- did the wedding thing, next morning we had brunch with the family and then we drove home to Clarksville where we were living at the time. Left from Nashville the next day and flew to Los Angeles for a cruise.
The cruise came back to the US the day before Thanksgiving and there were no flights to be had so I made the executive decision that we would spend Thanksgiving in Los Angeles and then fly home the next day.
Because we had the time we decided to take advantage of an excursion offered by the cruise line that was a tour of Beverly Hills and various other southern California hotspots.
Sidenote: I am a little bit of an expert when it comes to being a tourguide. When I was a kid I used to stand in front of the mirror and practice my tour guiding and I was amazing. I mean I really need to tap into that talent because it’s being lost right now and that is a shame.
I don’t know where they got the tour guide for this trip. Furthermore, I’m not totally sure how she kept her job as a tour guide. She was awful. Awful, awful, awful in the most fantastic way possible.
We get on the bus and right off the bat she starts talking about the “rarified air” of Beverly Hills. This woman had some real issues with Beverly Hills. Highlight was when we drove down Rodeo Drive and like a good tour guide she pointed out the chandeliers and like the awful tour guide she was she decided to tell us all about how much they cost to make and how much they cost to hang up and how that money could have gone to accomplish so much more than “gilding the entitled lily”. We leave Rodeo Drive and drive around Beverly Hills and on one was safe from her vitriol. The dentist office- they probably fill cavities with diamonds, the doctor’s office- most certainly was a plastic surgeon, the mechanic- well you know they only deal with the most elite vehicles in the world.
We left Beverly Hills and headed towards Santa Monica. I imagine if you’ve ever heard of Santa Monica then you’ve most likely heard of the Santa Monica pier. So as pull into Santa Monica I assume that is where we are heading. Until we pull into the mall parking lot. Oh yes, we went to Santa Monica and saw the beautiful Santa Monica Macy’s.
MrBunny and I decided that we were going to check out the Santa Monica pier instead of the mall’s food court so we headed down and sat down at Bubba Gumps. Seems obvious now but at the time we didn’t consider the fact that a meal at Bubba Gumps might take a little longer than one at the food court. So not only did we get to see the Santa Monica pier we got to run the length of the Santa Monica pier to catch a tour bus. How many people can say that?
We went various other places all complete with the constant running criticism of those with money/those in show business/ pretty much everyone who doesn’t ride the bus.
Judging by the reactions of our fellow tour takers I’m thinking she didn’t get many tips. Which only seems right for a woman who is bound and determined to not ever be a part of the gentry. She likes her air without a side of rarified, thank you very much.
Best trip ever.
Congrats- I’m working on character development and decided to start with the easy targets, the characters that I spend my days with. So I will be “telling the story” of each of my dogs and now you get to read it. You lucky reader you!
Ginger has had a rough life. And if she could talk, she would tell you all about it. A human Ginger would be crabby and sarcastic and wonder what on earth she did to deserve all this injustice in her life.
When Ginger was a tiny puppy she was dumped in the middle of the road. As she sat on that concrete island watching cars pass she probably wondered what in the hell she was going to do next. She’d been so rudely taken from her mother, shoved in a pillowcase, and then unceremoniously chucked from a barely slowed vehicle. Her ass was bleeding for unknown reasons and she hadn’t had anything to eat or drink for hours or even days- she was a puppy so obviously has no concept of time- and it was rather cold out there in the Kentucky winter.
Whilst contemplating her dire situation a human approached and picked her up, putting her in another car. Seeing how the last car situation turned out, Ginger was less than thrilled with this turn of events but was too tired, cold, and hungry to put up much of a fuss about it.
Luckily this human was of the good variety and cared for her as much as she could with her limited income and resources. A year or so later the human started hanging out with this other human and luckily he seemed to know that dogs can’t survive off canned vegetables alone and saw to it that she was fed actual dog food.
Things were good for awhile. There was a brief moment that a new puppy came along and Ginger wondered why what she had done wrong that the humans needed a newer model but at the end of the day it wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened- oh no, the worst thing that ever happened was when the humans left her at some random gathering of other dogs. And then some other humans came and got her and brought them to their house with an annoying yappy dog whose eye she emphatically stomped out prompting her return to the dog gathering.
There she sat, day after day, pondering how on earth she had come to this place in life when around the corner she saw her original humans! Oh happy day! Ginger returned home with them and life was once again happy.
That is until they brought IT home. IT was big and loud and whiny. IT liked to climb obstacles and was obsessed with trying to convince her to run around like a mad person/dog. IT was the worst thing that had ever happened to her- and she knew this because she’d been pretty sure that she’d seen the worst thing to ever happen and she was wrong before. THIS was the worst thing that could ever happen to her.
Time passed and she learned to tolerate IT, discovering that IT could provide some alternative to the banality of the day. Just as she was starting to warm up to IT’s presence, the worst thing that could ever happen, did just that.
The wild banshee that would make the fictional tasmanian devil look as if he had just a very mild case of ADHD was brought home by the humans. This was the worst thing that could ever happen to her. Not only was IT still around but now IT has discovered that the wild banshee was fun to play with and they spent all day acting like buffoons in a very loud and wild manner. Things were tolerable until the wild banshee decided that she would solve problems with her teeth and now Ginger spends many a day sitting in a corner, bleeding, while plotting her revenge.
This is the worst thing that could have ever happened to her but she will have her day.
Oh yes, she will have her day…
Next segment: we delve into the psyche of the stoner surfer dude that is Bronco.
Up until recently, I had a delivery route for the paper I write for that took me all over half of my town and part of another. There never ceased to be some sort of amusement out there on the wild roads of southwest Georgia. There was one day however, that was particularly awesome.
It started out just like every other Wednesday. I delivered papers, chatted with a few gas station owners, wished that the good life city would be somehow covered in a blanket of snow as I sweat my lovely rear end off- the normal events. Once I hit about the half way point of my route though things got weird. A very good kind of weird.
I pulled into a gas station (duh) and noticed a new sign in the door that said “Now available- Blanket of Mexican.” I’m not one to pay much attention to broken english (oh who are we kidding, yea I am) but this was too good to pass up. I mean come on, blanket of Mexican? It’s a combination of horror film and “as seen on tv” in it’s finest form.
Just as I had stopped laughing at that somewhat twisted image, I pulled into another gas station and saw a dude standing there wearing a Burger King crown. If I wasn’t a happily married woman I would have talked to him. I mentioned such on Facebook and a friend of mine asked why I couldn’t just talk to him. Apparently she has never found herself in the the presence of such sexiness because if she had she’d know that you don’t just talk to a man rocking a Burger King crown, you have no choice but to go home with him and I’m not that kind of girl.
The crown jewel of my day was at my next stop. I pulled into a parking spot and looked off to my left. The front license plate caught my eye. It was that diamond-plate pattern you find in auto shops and was pink…and it had a big ol’ crown on it.
My curiosity piqued, I took another look and I would not be surprised if the owner of this car had a wedding colors of blush and bashful.
The seats were pink, the steering wheel had a pink cover, the dashboard was wearing a pink coat. It was very very pink. But that wasn’t the crowning achievement. Oh no. That honor went to the embroidery on the seat covers that proclaimed this vehicle was in fact owned by a “lil’ princess”. Because every princess needs a crown there was a rather large one hanging from the rear view mirror.
As I was drinking in this beauty, the owner opened the door.
I damn near died when I saw this woman. She was about 5 foot nothing and at least 75 years old. She had her glasses hanging from a chain and looked like she’d probably been a librarian for 50 plus years.
It’s a good thing I was already parked because I would have probably caused an accident I laughed so hard.
Once I composed myself, I drove on to my next stop. And as god is my witness I’m sitting there waiting for a woman and a Piggly Wiggly employee (who was probably about 6’5, 100 pounds, and pushing 90 years old) to cross the parking lot and I notice the man’s shirt says “Getting Piggy With It”.
I about lost it. Outdated cultural reference adorning the shirt of a man in the twilight of his twilight? It was too much.
By this time I was thoroughly tickled and pretty much anything set me off. The cherry on my fabulous sundae of a day? Driving home and seeing a sign advertising a prayer service for rain.
In and of itself- not a big deal and not very humorous.
The fact that there were big ass snowflakes on this rain-centric sign?
Enough to send me home in a fit of giggles.
Another fabulous day!
Hello! Through the wonders of Netflix I’ve had the opportunity to become reacquainted with your body of work and I felt compelled to tell you how fabulous I think it is.
Well over 200 murders! Impressive! And that was just when the cameras were around, I can’t even begin to imagine how many others there were when you escaped the public eye. Bravo ma’am, bravo.
That being said, I do have a few questions for you.
1.) How many siblings do you have? And are they the most fertile people on the face of the earth? Because I couldn’t help but notice that you have more nieces and nephews that any one person I know of. And they always seem to be the subject of a murder’s dastardly plan or at least somewhat involved with another person who is the subject of the aforementioned dastardly plan. Perhaps you have a brother who is the King of Siam? I figure with the wives and the courtesans that could explain away at least a third of the people who call you Aunt Jessica. And I imagine the king of Siam does have enemies so there’s the reason behind all the dastardly planning.
Next time you have a family reunion can you invite me? I figure with hundreds of people milling about they won’t notice one more. And let’s not kid ourselves, someone would end up dead by the end of the night so I’ll just eat their dinner so you don’t even have to set another place at the table.
2.) This is a two-parter: What high ranking public official do you have compromising pictures of? and Are you sure you understand the meaning behind the phrase “I don’t want to interfere”? Every single time someone ends up dead and the cops show up you tell them that you don’t want to interfere but then you go along and do just that. For some reason, outside of the cursory “stay out of my way” from a gruff detective, every cop in this country just let’s you traipse around crime scenes without a single objection. I’ve seen enough Law and Order to know that this is not normal. I’ve watched you single handedly compromise more crime scenes than the stereotypical rookie cops who doesn’t know better. How on earth are you allowed to keep doing that? It bottles the mind.
3.I know Cabot Cove is a quaint little place but seriously, do you not fear getting run over by a car every time you ride your bike down the middle of the road? Because every time I see you doing that I have to remind myself you can’t hear me as I scream “GET OUT OF THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD LADY!!!”. Also why is it that you feel the need to jog while wearing long sleeves, long pants, and a towel around your neck? I get overheated just watching you.
Other than those few things, I’m a big fan. Every time I fire up Netflix I look forward to seeing which niece or nephew is going to show up and what hijinks they will drag you into. Always a good time.
Thanks and until next time;
Me.
Just to preface this: I do not think the ailment featured in this story is a laughing matter. I’m sure to those effected by it, it is quite traumatic.
To the rest of us however, yea, it’s funny.
So I’m in Tampa while MrBunny attends some IT conference. In my mind they all stand around bragging about how big their computer hard drives are but I’m hoping it is much more involved than that.
Anyways. I’m at the hotel and I’m walking down the hallway on my way to go pick up MrBunny (there was a mixup in hotels and we ended up about 4 miles away from the conference) when I hear quite the commotion coming from one of the hotel conference rooms.
I mean it was really quite loud. People were laughing and clapping and singing. As I walked by I noticed there were people dancing as well. Of course my interest was peaked so I skulked around a little bit to see if I could figure out what this meeting was for.
My eyes first caught a big ol’ poster with the tagline “Feel 21 again? Tell us about it!!”
Whaaat? Have these people found the fountain of youth? Is that why they are dancing around whilst singing and laughing? Why aren’t they sharing? Was this some type of clinical trial meeting up and sharing their fountain of youth stories?
I NEED ANSWERS!
I found them.
Regen-erect.
Oh yes. You read that correctly.
I had somehow stumbled upon a group meeting for an erectile disfunction “all natural supplement”. All of a sudden I felt really awkward. As if I was going to turn a corner and see people sitting in bathtubs in random public places while naked. Luckily I hadn’t drawn attention to myself (people were really focused on the presentation and their celebration- not that I can really blame them) so I quickly and quietly made my way down the hallway and out the door.
Picked up MrBunny, grabbed some dinner, went back to the hotel and tried to not think about all the really happy people staying in the rooms around me. I didn’t make eye contact with anyone for the rest of the time there.
I love MrBunny. I do. Even though he has some major faults, I am woman enough to see past those things and find it in myself to continue to love him.
(Let it be known that some of these faults are more egregious than others. Example: last night he declared that Outlaw Josey Wales was the greatest movie of all time. I mean come on- of all the movies in all of time we’re going with Outlaw Josey Wales as the greatest? This is the kind of thing I have to deal with on a daily basis.)
The issue that rears it’s ugly head the most often is his “here and now” outlook on life. His idea of thinking of the future is perhaps thinking about next week, maybe next month.
This could not be further from my outlook. An outlook that is most often described by MrBunny as “swinging for the fences.”
Perfect example:
My best friend is of the same mentality as I and we always have big plans in the works. Currently we have been discussing how we are going to somehow (she is in law school and I don’t really make big money) purchase land somewhere and start an organic farm complete with horses and livestock. And a couple of greenhouses. And two separate houses for our respective
families (yea it’s just the three of us right now but in our minds our families are much greater in number) with a “common house” with a great room with a big industrial kitchen that we can make and can various preserves and chutneys that will of course fund this great adventure.
We talk about our farm quite often. Without fail whenever it comes up MrBunny just starts shaking his head in disbelief. Always the realist/debbie downer, he feels the need to ask us how we are going to come up with the start up costs involved in our farm.
BFF and I were talking about it the other day when MrBunny suggested that I try and write the next great American novel. That would knock out two birds with one stone- a.) He’d be able to retire and pace around the house with Bronco both of them just trying to figure out how long it would take before I start going nuts by the two of them staring at me waiting for me to move before they start pacing again, and more storing, and did I mention the pacing? I can’t stand the pacing. Nothing drives me crazier, faster, than pacing. Aggghhhh!!!! Just thinking of pacing makes me want to rip out my hair. 2.) We’d be able to afford any farm we wanted, plus a few people to keep on staff to take care of all the cows and chickens (one of which will be named foghorn, the rest named after chicken dishes- fried, alaking, cordonblue, you get the idea) when we decide to go tour the world.
Always thinking, BFF pointed out that I really didn’t need to write the next great American novel but in fact just needed to find something that middle aged women would clamor over, causing hollywood to come calling and next thing I know there’s a movie with my name attached that I probably have no part of writing. Big money to use my name?
GENIUS!
Now I just need to find my story line.
I’m thinking ‘teenage jail bait falls in love with vampire in wizard college* while having to murder three members of each class in order to appease Mickey Mouse look-a-like (Disney always seems like a safe bet) with a dragon tattoo on his back.”
*Please don’t think that this inclusion suggests that I think Harry Potter is crap literature- wizards are just good money makers. Well that’s what my hairdresser says. And by hairdresser I mean homeless guy outside Publix.
Someone find me a publicist; I’m onto something here!
Foghorn and fricasse- we’ll be together soon!!!!!
1. Perhaps the “Communication skills for women” seminar the hotel I’m staying at is hosting should be renamed to “observation skills for women” or “noticing the previous 6 big ass yellow signs that say where this seminar is located for women”.
2. If you pass ten signs saying that the right lane is closed ahead and you go flying by me (in the right hand lane) don’t think there is a snowball’s chance in hell that I am letting you in. YOU ARE DEAD TO ME!
3. MrBunny declared this afternoon that if he worked in a city that had traffic like Atlanta he would need to take a helicopter to work. Future employers take note: no chopper, no worker.
4. The chickfila cows amuse me way more than they probably should. Cows in general amuse me. I love cows.
5. I just spent $1.80 trying to get the damn sixty cent cookies to fall in the vending machine. And they weren’t event that good. I feel as if the universe just flipped me the bird.
6. I had a dream the other night that I was Don Draper and Ninja had screws in her back leg for some reason. I called the boss lady and told her I couldn’t deliver papers because I had to take Ninja to the vet, because apparently this was not the first time Ninja had somehow gotten screws in her leg. So I start driving until I realize I’m not at home but rather on the road to Dierbergs (St. Louis grocery store chain) by my parent’s house and Ninja was in the side seat chewing on her leg which had a cast on it. When she noticed I was looking at her she jumped in my face and started licking me and kept hitting me in the face with her cast. Then I went home (my home, not my parent’s) and there was a mouse loose in the house. Stacy and Jane from Drop Dead Diva (love that show) were chasing it trying to get it to drink coke as I pulled into the driveway.
Only thing I can think with that dream is a.) I watch too much netflix, b.) Ninja is trying to drive me over a cliff even in my dreams, and c.) MrBunny is somehow slipping hallucinogenic drugs into my dinner.
7. Pinterest might be the best worst thing ever to come about on the internet. It’s worse than stumbleupon which I thought was the absolute worst thing forever and ever. I was wrong. Pinterest all the way.
8. The hotel I’m currently at (that robbed me of $1.20) has the heat turned on. Ummm…. why? Granted it was in the 60’s this morning but easily 80+ by the time evening rolled around. This is not heater weather. This is “thank the blessed savior that my perpetual case of swamp ass might have a chance to dry up” weather.
And so concludes tonight’s edition of random thoughts. May your sleep be undisturbed and your ass dry.
My best friend and I are rather intelligent women, if I do say myself.
I mean everyone knows I’m a genius (and a legend in my own mind) and my best friend is equally as smart. Hello, she is friends with me, this shows her intelligence level is extremely high.
But for some reason, no matter how intelligent we are, we do some really stupid things.
For example, we used to take drives in the middle of the night through downtown St. Louis. Not the scenic Gateway Arch area, or the nightlife hotspots of the Landing, no we were driving around roads that had parking lots with barbed wire and abandoned buildings boarded up for years. There we were, driving around completely oblivious to the crime rate climbing as we drove by.
Then there was the time we wanted to get a puppy. We went to various shelters (I say various, but it very well could have been just the one) and decided to fill out the application. Had plans on what we were going to buy at Petsmart after we picked up the puppy- toys, a crate, food, dishes… the list was lengthy.
We were tripped up by one decision- Own or Rent? For some reason we decided rent was the better answer. We discovered how wrong we were when the shelter worker asked for written permission from our landlord.
FOILED!
Thing is, we were stumped by the “own or rent” question because we were both still living with our parents. If either of us had brought home a puppy, our respective mothers would have beaten us to death. Or at least done their best to that end. We both have moms who do not play. So the whole idea? Stupid, stupid, stupid.
There have been a multitude of other examples but let’s fast forward to a couple of weeks ago.
It is still hot down here in south Georgia. There was a brief respite from the 90+ degree heat (most of which I missed thanks to an ill timed long weekend in Florida) but it’s still hot.
A couple of weeks ago it was really hot.
My best friend decided to take a break from law school studying and came up for the weekend. Somehow the idea to go fishing came to mind.
Did we decide to go fishing when it was early morning and still somewhat tolerable? Oh no. We decided to get in the car about 2:30 in the afternoon. The sun beating down off the water and humid as you can imagine. Perfect time for fishing.
After about two hours or so (yes we stood in the blistering sun for two hours) during which I caught nothing and my bff caught five fish, we decided to call it a day.
What is the logical next stop for two women covered in fish scales, worm guts, and sweating like there is no tomorrow?
Winn Dixie of course.
I try not to think of small children we must have scarred, or the employees who fruitlessly tried to claim workman’s comp for emotional distress because we must have looked a fright.
Just add it to our ever growing list of bad ideas. Right after the “put nasty hands in freezer chest while poor Winn Dixie employee tries to awkwardly muscle past us due to the fact we are standing over the box he is trying to unload” entry.
I fear my picture might be up on the wall somewhere in Winn Dixie with a big red X over it.
Oh well. The bff is hopefully returning in a month or so- wonder what store we can ban ourselves from this time!
Unfortunately another election is upon us. With that comes everyone’s favorite thing in the whole entire universe- political commercials.
I’m sure this comes as no surprise to anyone, but at the end of each of those commercials is the tag line “paid for by Joe Schmoe”.
Who exactly is Joe Schmoe trying to reach? Who watches commercials outside of those during the Super Bowl? I can’t tell you the last time I watched a commercial. Hell I can’t tell you the last time I watched something not on the DVR.
I wonder if politicians are aware of the fact that the economy is in the crapper. Do they really think that millions of dollars spent on commercials that very few people will watch/pay attention to/care about really is the best way to be spending money right now?
I would hope not. Yet, the commercials are still there.
So I decided the other day that this year I am not going to vote for anyone who shows a commercial.
But why stop there?
I’m not going to vote for people who have a yard sign, or who pay for postcards to show up in my mail,
(Dear Florida politicians: I do not live there anymore. Please stop sending me your crap. I’m not voting for you.)
or who have billboards, or basically anything really.
I’m going to vote for the person who has the campaign that most closely resembles a run for sixth grade class secretary.
That means if:
There is a bake sale outside WinnDixie that enables you to buy a button making machine so your wife can take pictures of you in your Sunday finest and make them into buttons to give to all your friends (and of course extras so they can give them to their friends)…
Your mom shows up at my door with a cupcake with your name written on it in frosting asking me to vote for you…
There are cheap tshirts given out at your campaign events (these events comprise solely of a table you’ve decorated at various local activities) decorated with puffy paint. Extra consideration if there is a few sequins thrown in…
Your signs are made of poster board from Lowes with your name written in poster paint…
Then, and only then, will you have my vote.
Good luck!
Home Depot and Lowes- I’m talking to you.
Whose genius idea was it to start taking down seeds and seedlings in June? I mean really? Why on earth does this make sense at all? More specifically, where on earth does this sense?
I can tell you one place it makes absolutely zero sense- south Georgia. If for no other reason than, hello! we have at least four to five months left of a growing season. I’ve actually found that I have better luck in the fall than I do in the spring because it stays cooler longer. I can’t tell you how annoying it is to plant lettuces and get all excited when they start to come in and next thing you know it’s 95 degrees and your lettuce is a pile of goo.
Knowing that, and it being slightly warmer than hell for the last five months, I went into your stores (yes both of them) in search of some seeds to start some broccoli and other things inside in the hopes that it starts to cool down some in the coming month or two. Imagine my surprise when there is nothing there. Nothing. Not even a wilted tomato plant remnant.
Of course I looked inside and out, up and down every aisle before I finally asked a worker- I’m stubborn like that. Plus I just couldn’t fathom that you would actually take down the gardening stuff, assuring you won’t gain anything financially from a large group of people who want to keep planting. Doesn’t seem like a good business practice.
So now I’m putting together an order online.
Broccoli, beans, cauliflower, radishes, lettuce, spinach, carrots…
All waiting for a time where you can walk to the mailbox and not have a river of sweat running down your crack.
Your loss is the internet’s gain.
Love,
Me.
P.S.- don’t think I’m sending you a jar of pickles for Christmas this year. You are dead to me!
Don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before but we went to St. Thomas on vacation last month.
It was divine. If I hadn’t missed my dogs I would have stayed there forever. Paradise.
Except for one thing.
So way back in the day the British once controlled St. Thomas. So the practice of driving on the left side of the road was adopted. I’m guessing the French never occupied St. Thomas after that (not really up on my St. Thomas history) and everyone was just used to it by the time the Americans showed up so the practice still remains today.
History sidenote: the practice of driving on the left side goes back to horseback and the carrying of swords. Since the majority of the population was right handed and carried their sword on their left hip it made sense for them to ride on the left side of the road. Easier to chop a dude’s head off and such.
The French however had this dude Napoleon who was left handed and decided that the right was better. Plus French Revolution blah blah blah- the French drove/rode on the right.
Given France’s influence in early America plus our proclivity for driving big ass wagons every where (in which it was easier to control the reigns of the horses from the back left so you could use your right hand), America drives on the right.
Back to St. Thomas.
Before we arrived in St. Thomas I hadn’t even given the driving conditions a moments pause. I wasn’t driving so I didn’t really care.
Then we got in the van at the airport.
So even though St. Thomas (and I’m going out on a limb and suggesting all the USVI but I really have no idea) road rules dictate driving on the left, they still get their cars from America. Which means they sit on the left as well.
Thank the heavenly stars above that we did not decide to rent a car. I’m having heart palpitations just thinking about it.
Oh and add in the roads of St. Thomas- being an island it is very hilly/mountainous and the roads are basically just one blind turn after another. Add in the fact you can’t even begin to see anything around the turn because you are on the wrong side of the car and sweet mother of god my blood pressure is rising just thinking about it.
Back to the airport.
I get into this van and notice the left side drivers seat and the left side of the road and think, “wow this is really different and at times rather frightening.” Little did I know that later on in the week we would get into a truck that has been rigged with seats in the bed to fashion a taxi bus and would drive at relatively breakneck speeds, moments away from a certain death into the side of a hill or off the edge of a cliff like structure.
And throughout it all sang Bob Marley (which I understand it is a Caribbean island and everyone loves Bob Marley (apparently), I mean who doesn’t love Bob Marley, but still- is there NO ONE ELSE you can listen to? Not a single other person?) with his reassuring words of “Don’t worry about a thing, because everything is going to be all right.”
No Bob. It isn’t. When this jalopy I’m riding in careens into the ocean because the driver took a blind turn just a little too fast and there was a chicken blocking his path in the road and he swerved to not hit the chicken because he is a card carrying member of PETA…
EVERYTHING IS NOT GOING TO BE ALL RIGHT BOB!
I originally wrote this post almost two and a half years ago but for some reason my ass decided to stick around.
After this past week in which I spent four hours in the car delivering newspapers only to come home and discover that MrBunny wants to leave that evening for St. Louis so I got back in the car for six hours, woke up the next morning to drive another six hours, spend a few days with the family, drive six+ hours to Ohio, and then finally drive twelve hours back home.
I am tired.
My ass is exasperated.
If I wasn’t completely creeped out by the thought of those truck stop showers I’d consider taking a job as a trucker. Then again if I did work as a trucker they’d probably expect me to show up in a timely manner and I’m not really so great at that. Oh well.
I felt it only appropriate to revisit this old post.
So I’m driving to Lafayette tomorrow to spend Easter with my little sister. Yet another 12 hour drive. I fear that some morning I’m going to wake up to find the following letter on my pillow.
Dear Amanda;
We’ve had some good times you and I which makes writing this all the harder.
You’ve feed me well and I’ve done my best at protecting you. Remember that time when you started playing Dance Dance Revolution and kept falling? Who was there to catch you?
And remember the time when the Fisher Price car broke and you went sliding down the hill? Who took the brunt of that attack?
I’m choosing to forget about the bad times. Like when you thought spandex was a good idea. And the time we went bungee jumping- it was all I could do to keep our shite together. But let’s forget all that and just focus on our times in the sun.
It pains me but I feel that this last trip was the last straw. I hate doing this to you but I really do think it is time for me to go. Please don’t try to find me. I love you and wish you well.
Love;
Your Ass
So I was sitting and watching the US/Brazil soccer game on Sunday when MrBunny came in and requested to watch something else.
Being the fabulous wife I am, I set the game to record and let him have the tv.
After a day avoiding my phone (CNN has an annoying habit of spoiling things with their push notifications that I always forget to disable before sporting events) and the internet I sat down to watch the recorded game.
I can’t repeat the string of words that escaped my mouth when I saw the officiating fiasco that resulted in Marta scoring on a redo of a penalty kick for Brazil. Horse hockey.
Regular time ends and it’s still tied at 1-1. My dvr records just long enough to catch the first goal for Brazil in extra time. Even though I had opted for the additional 30 minutes of recording time it wasn’t enough.
So off I went to internet, downtrodden because I was relatively certain that Brazil had ended up with the win. This US team has been very hot and cold lately and I just knew that they’d gone cold. Imagine my very excited surprise when I discovered that not only had the US evened it up during extra time but pulled off a win with penalty kicks.
Once I saw that, I had to go find video of Wombach’s goal that sent it to penalty kicks.
And I came across this video.
It is so nice to see people get excited for women’s sports. Hopefully that excitement will continue through this afternoon’s game and if providence is on our side, a final game resulting in a World Cup title for the US Women.
So we went on vacation to St. Thomas with our two friends, GoodFriend and MrGoodFriend.
One night we decided to go on a “sunset sail”.
Sounds innocuous right?
So wrong. So very wrong.
We barely even got on the boat before shit started to hit the fan. It was a catamaran so we (there was about 30 people on the boat) were all sitting in the salon area. There were baskets for our shoes.
Anyways, I go over to a seat and notice there are shoes in the basket on the end so I tell my friends and MrBunny to go sit further down the bench around the table there. As I’m sitting, the owner of the shoes comes literally running over. This little snot (who isn’t 120 pounds soaking wet) looks to me and goes “Excuse ME- SCOOT OVER. Those are our shoes. This is my seat. SCOOT OVER. Excuse me. SCOOT OVER”, all while she is sitting down and scooting closer and closer, forcing me to move down even further.
Now this may come as a surprise but I am normally a rather nice person in dealings with strangers. But it took every ounce of will power to not just haul back and smack this bitch. She had about six feet of space for her and her boyfriend to sit down, not to mention that I was already scooting down, just waiting for my friends and husband to get seated.
She sat down and was practically laying down on the seat. Just added fuel to my fire.
Boat sets sail. Some food is served.
I get in line and who is in front of me? Of course she is.
Every single time I went to reach for the tongs in front of me she would decide she wanted some more and would reach back saying “Excuse ME, I wasn’t done.”
Oh yea.
Thankfully MissPriss decided to go sit up front and MrGoodFriend decided that something needed to be done. So in a very discreet manor he takes a little bit of the cheese and sticks it in her shoe that started this whole thing.
GoodFriend and I were sitting there laughing about the shoe situation until I found myself in a very precarious position.
How to describe this- I was sitting in the salon and people were standing on deck at just about eye level to me. GoodFriend and I were sitting there enjoying ourselves when I happened to look up and unfortunately my eyes were greeted with a clear shot up a guy’s swim trunks. Let’s just say I could have taken a guess as to this man’s religious heritage.
I turn to GoodFriend and say “oh my lord I hope that man is of age because if he isn’t then we might have a felonious situation on our hands.”
Wouldn’t you know, dude- correction: kid- walks back into salon and I’m officially a dirty old woman.
Of course by this time we are just fit to be tied. GoodFriend gets tickled and can’t stop laughing. She exclaims “dear 9 pound 6 ounce little baby Jesus” and one of the Ritz employees comes over and starts quoting Talladega Nights with us! If there hadn’t been cheese in the shoe and/or the underage gonad gazing, it would have certainly been a highlight of the evening.
Thankfully about this time we pulled back into the bay and rest assured we were the first ones off that boat.
Just goes to show- You can let the rednecks in the Ritz but that doesn’t mean they won’t put cheese in some uppity princess’ shoe.
In front of our house sits a brick retaining wall. Correction: in front of our house used to sit a brick retaining wall. Now there is just a pile of bricks where that wall stood solidly for 40+ years.
Mrbunny and I were just farting around the house trying to get a few last minute things together for our vacation when suddenly the house literally (said in my best Rob Lowe/Chris Traeger imitation) shook accompanied with a very loud boom. It sounded like when we were having the trees removed out back and they’d knocked one down.
Of course we look out the window to see what it was and discovered there was a truck in our front lawn. I know I once threatened the old lady next door to go full out redneck on her ass but this wasn’t quite what I had intended.
Anyways, I go running out to see if the driver needed help and just happened to catch him in the futile effort to stash a can under his seat. Because you know, when you are bleeding profusely from the head your first priority is to try and hide “the evidence”, and of course no one will think to look under the seat.
Man, who was obviously “impaired”, ignores the lady, who was to my knowledge of the medical field persuasion, to please sit still while she gave him a cursory glance over, climbs out of truck.
Now it should be noted that the truck was completely wrecked and we could see fluids pouring out of it. I know I didn’t know what these fluids were and it didn’t appear as if the other women standing there knew either, so when the man went to light a cigarette I ran as fast as my short chubby legs would let me. I was less than 24 hours away from heading to the islands for a much anticipated vacation and I wasn’t going to let something like being engulfed in a fireball stop me.
Impaired Man decided to finally listen to our pleas to stop smoking near the truck so he promptly threw the lit cigarette into my dry as the Sahara lawn. Just what I need- a brush fire. But I suppose in the grand scheme of things a brush fire is more desirable than a fire ball so maybe he was on to something.
Police show up. Ambulance shows up. Fire department shows up. Man is checked out, put in ambulance, and mystery liquid is determined to be harmless water/antifreeze.
Good times.
Now I’m in a “if you give a mouse a cookie” situation.
When we fix the wall the new brick will make the old brick look bad. And then if we fix all the brick the yard will look like crap. And if we fix the yard then the brick on the house will need to be powerwashed. And if we clean the brick of the house then the siding will need to be painted. And if we paint the siding then we will need to get new windows. And if we get new windows the roof will need replacing. And if we replace the roof then….
That pile of bricks is looking pretty attractive, and exponentially less expensive right now.
So MrBunny was in Ohio on business and we decided I would go visit him for the weekend. Left on Saturday morning and was going to fly back on Tuesday morning so I’d be home before my best friend, who was coming for a visit, showed up and I could do my delivery route on Wednesday.
So did not go as planned.
6:00 AM- Go out to truck (flight was out of airport an hour and a half away) and it won’t start.
6:10 AM- Hotel van driver is a jackwagon and won’t give us a jump start. Kind fellow hotel stayer does give a jump but it doesn’t work.
6:15 AM- After brief moments giving husband stare of death and expressing a few choice words, AAA is called.
6:20 AM- Finally finish call with AAA to discover they will not miraculously appear truckside but rather will take about 45 minutes.
6:21 AM- Realize that I am not going to make flight so decide to call best friend.
6:30 AM- After nine minutes of incessant texting, best friend FINALLY responds and says that yes indeed she will drive the 6 hours to Ohio to pick me up.
6:50 AM- AAA shows up and fixes truck. Something with the battery cable, blah blah blah- it runs, that’s all that matters.
6:51 AM to 8:07 PM- MrBunny works from hotel room and we watch movies all day until best friend arrives in Ohio.
8:20 to 10:20 PM- chat with best friend as we walk around grassy area outside of hotel waiting for her dog to pee. Finally realize how late it is and that we both were up really early thanks to a missed flight and frantic texts, so head back to my own hotel to get some sleep. Oh and dog still had not peed.
6:00 AM following day- get up and head out to breakfast with MrBunny and BFF. After a nice peaceful meal, MrBunny heads to work and BFF and I go check her out of hotel and get the road.
8:30 AM to 7:00 PM- lots of driving. Lots and lots of driving. Lots of stopping trying to get dog to pee. Dog finally pees near the big ass rock commemorating the Oklahoma City Bombing… at the eastern Kentucky rest stop. So random.
7:00 PM- arrive at Park and Fly near Atlanta airport to pick up my Jeep. Get “lost” (I have a GPS so I wasn’t really lost really but I had no idea where I was nor where I was going) trying to figure out how to get back to 75.
7:20 PM- Decide to get gas and eat some dinner. Applebee’s- lovely choice.
10:11 PM- Really need to pee so stop at rest stop. Text BFF that I was stopping but she doesn’t see it and just drives on by.
10:16 PM- After waiting a few minutes for BFF to show up, realizing she hasn’t stopped, and finally using the facilities, I am confronted with a rest room stall door that will not open to let me out. After pondering my options for a few moments, I realize the only way out was to crawl under the door. So I got down on the nasty ass rest stop floor and shimmied my way under the door only to find that somehow the cleaning lady missed me in there and has locked the door of the restroom.
10:20 PM- After knocking loudly for what seemed an eternity (I think locked in a rest stop bathroom time goes by much faster than real time), cleaning lady finally hears me and releases me from what I imagine is the fifth ring of hell and I get back on the road.
11:45 PM- Pull into my driveway.
11:52 PM- Go to bed and sleep like the dead.
9:00 AM following morning- wake up feeling somewhat refreshed with an irrational, albeit understandable, fear of rest stop bathrooms, and Ohio.
And I keep bursting out into laughter at random points just when it comes to mind.
Fantastic.
Or illegal for that matter, because if it wasn’t I’d be famous for sure.
I’d have a room full of trophies and ribbons.
I’d be on the cover of every dog fighting magazine in the world.
I’d be featured often on ESPN the Ocho.
And who would get me to this esteemed status?
Ninja.
Oh my word would she ever.
I wouldn’t have to do much to get her in the fighting mood. I guess in the dog fighting world it isn’t uncommon to abuse, starve, and generally mistreat the dog.
sidenote: Dear FBI that might be possibly monitoring google searches for illegal activity- I am googling “training a dog for dog fighting” merely from a research standpoint. I have no intention of actually starting a dog fighting ring no matter how much fame and glory it might bring me.
I wouldn’t have to do any of that.
All it would take is to throw a piece of paper in the ring.
I take that back. All it would take is to throw a piece of paper in the ring and let the other dog start to play with it. Then Ninja would pitch a fit and decide that she not only wants the piece of paper, she NEEDS the piece of paper. Once that happens, it’s on.
How do I know this?
Because Ginger is at the vet right now because she had the audacity to be chewing on a piece of paper she snagged from under the couch.
See Ginger has this thing for paper. I don’t know when, where, how or why but she does. Paper towels, receipts, paper scraps- it doesn’t matter, she loves them all. She will sit and play with a piece of paper for an hour. It’s ridiculous.
Problem is she is fiercely protective of this damn piece of paper and don’t even think of taking it away from her.
Enter Ninja who subscribes fully to the theory that what ever is hers is hers and whatever is yours is also hers. Combine this lovely outlook with her being in the throes of the obnoxious and very trying “puppy adolescence” and it can get ugly fast.
Nine times out of ten Ginger either gives up or tells Ninja where she can stick it and there is no bloodshed.
Of course that tenth time is what sends man and/or beast to the doctor or vet.
Ginger is currently sitting on the bed looking pitiful trying to milk every bit of sympathy from her three little puncture wounds. I’ll give it to her today but tomorrow? Buck up littler camper, it’s not going to kill you.
Of course I do need to give a shout out to the fabulous doctors and staff at our vets office. They have been very good to me and my dogs (and my imaginary husband) and don’t bat an eye when I come in time and time again with yet another injured dog. I’m very appreciative that I’ve found a place that I feel comfortable taking my dogs knowing that they’ll receive great care and attention- Thanks guys!
(KEVIN: you can put their name in here, it’s the one next door to the library down the street from BHB’s favorite spot)
Moral of the story- dog fighting is horrible but now I feel the need to find another activity in which Ninja the Terror can get me rich and famous because the idea has been planted and I’m sort of liking it.
Dear TLC: I would like to suggest an idea for a show- “Cute dogs doing bad things”. You could air it right after “Toddlers and Tiaras”. Can we say goldmine? I think so. I’ll have my people call your people.
Bird-day, and other little quirks 