Remember how I told you that I could ask my dogs if they wanted to get a colonoscopy today, and they’d probably respond with, “Hell yes, that’s our favorite thing!“?
Remember how I told you that everything is their favorite thing?
Well, to the list that includes tangling themselves up in blankets to the point where they can’t move, charming the pants off of guests by flicking snake-like tongues into their faces, and continuously escaping from the back yard with Houdini-esque flair, you may now add the consumption of creamer-infused cotton balls.
Say-wha?
It’s actually a trick I learned when they were puppies – back when I discovered they would eat anything. See, Justin and I left a few toothpicks on a plate in the living room one day after devouring some meatballs for dinner (did that sound dirty?), left the room for a bit, and when we came back, the toothpicks were gone. Gone. And in their place sat two slightly uncomfortable looking puppies.
Like any good dog mother would do, I frantically Googled what one should do when one’s pets swallow toothpicks, and much to my relief, this was not the first time in the history of horrible pet owners that this had happened.
What I discovered is that I needed to follow the somewhat “woody” appetizer with something softer and more palatable to ease toothpick passage through the digestive system – cotton balls, of course! It turns out that cotton balls, when dipped in a bowl of coffee creamer to make them easier to swallow, are more beg-worthy than Beggin’ Strips when it comes to the discerning tastes of my brilliant dogs.
Now, I am not a veterinarian and therefore not qualified to dish out home remedies when it comes to your pets – I can only tell you that thanks to cream-laden cotton balls, we experienced no ill side effects to the toothpick swallowing incident.
Or the remote control swallowing incident.
Or the chicken bone swallowing incident.
Or the other remote control swallowing incident.
And people wonder why I’d be hesitant to ever become a “real” mom.
So. Yesterday I decided to temporarily give up my recently adopted hermit lifestyle (a lifestyle against which I would normally naturally rebel, but the recent and unusually frigid temperatures for this time of year have allowed me to adapt to it quite nicely) and brave the cold to make the hour-plus drive to Raleigh.
But Katie, why would you risk letting the perfect indent your ass has worked so hard to carve out for itself in the couch fill back in during your absence?
Well, the trip is something I’ve been putting off for quite some time. Near the end of our stay in Costa Rica, I dropped my favorite camera lens (and I only have 2 lenses) in one, horrifyingly painful moment. Onto a cement floor. And in a battle of brute strength between plastic and cement, you can guess which one wins.
The glass itself didn’t break, but there was some clear damage done to the body where it mounts to my camera. I’ve been putting off having it examined by professionals for fear of hearing the worst possible news – that my lens, my little therapeutic amulet of creativity, had officially bitten the dust.
I’ve taken most of my favorite pictures with that lens.
The answer, my friend… Is spittle in the wind….
So yesterday I grudgingly put on a long sleeve shirt (shudder) and a coat (double-shudder), climbed into the Tracker, and floored it all the way to Peace Camera in Raleigh.
I have to say that this place was the coolest little camera shop. It was packed full of books, beautiful equipment, accessories, and cameras from old timey-times. I probably would have thoroughly enjoyed it if I hadn’t just handed my precious baby off to some surly looking guy who took her into the “back room” to take a look at the damage – not without first shooting me a pitying and reprehensible look over the top of his glasses after I told him how she met her fate with the cement floor. You know, the kind of look a mother gives her toddler when she asks him in the middle of a department store if he pooped his pants and he says, “No,” but he, she, and everyone else in a 15-foot radius knows it ain’t true.
That look. It stings.
The next 20 minutes felt like I was waiting for a friend to come out of surgery. I mean, it wasn’t like the time I had to wait for my sister to have a tumor removed from her pituitary gland. Not like that. That involved my heart clawing its way up my esophagus and sitting at the back of my throat for a few hours, just waiting to expel itself from my mouth and scurry across the waiting room floor of the hospital should it hear the worst possible news.
No, this wasn’t like waiting for a super close friend or relative, but a good acquaintance, nonetheless. Someone I liked and who had thus far changed my life for the better.
I’ll cut the drama short by telling you the news wasn’t good. He was able to fix it so it mounted to the camera, but the autofocus just won’t respond. It’s like her legs are there, everything’s attached, but they just. won’t. move. So I’ll need to send her into Nikon and pay what will likely amount to half the cost of the lens in order to get her back in full-on working condition. And even if I do eventually get a job and send her in for the necessary repairs, I’m worried she’ll never be the same again.
So this morning I needed some comfort food. Something to lift my spirits. And in my experience, warm muffins on a cold winter morning are the perfect remedy for this little ache I have in my belly – an ache not only caused by the news of the near-irreparable damage I did to my lens, but also likely derived from the fact that almost all of my electronic equipment as of late has decided to give me one big fat middle finger.
I’m seriously about ready to chuck it all and move to an off-the-grid cabin in the middle of the jungle. But then I probably wouldn’t be able to make muffins. And these were good.
I didn’t take pictures of the process because – let’s face it – I was in a craptastic mood this morning and didn’t want to be reminded of the fact that it will likely be a long time before I can take any food pictures with my favorite lens again. But they smelled so dang good by the time they were done that I had to snap a few.
The recipe can be found here (this girl is brilliant when it comes to making healthy food that also happens to taste good), and the only thing I changed was that I used golden raisins instead of regular raisins. And here’s the thing about raisins – they taste good, but what is with that texture?? I’m not sure how I felt about the wrinkly little squishy things in my muffins. But the good news is that you could leave ’em out if you’re not sure either. The muffins would, however, be delicious with chocolate chips.
Whole Wheat Pumpkin (Raisin) Muffins
You will need:
1 c. whole wheat flour
2/3 c. white flour
1/2 c. sugar
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp. nutmeg
1/2 tsp. cloves
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1 c. canned pumpkin (not pie filling – just plain pumpkin)
1 large egg
1/3 c. water
1/4 c. olive oil
1/2 c. raisins (optional)
Directions:
1. Preheat your oven to 350-degrees F and spray a 12 cup muffin tin with nonstick cooking spray.
2. In a medium bowl, mix together the dry ingredients (first 9 ingredients).
3. In a small bowl, stir together the wet ingredients (last 5 ingredients).
4. Very gently stir the wet ingredients in with the dry, just until everything is moist. (Erin will hate me for using that word, moist. It disturbs her.) The point is to not over-work the batter.
5. Spoon the batter evenly into 12 greased muffin cups. Then bake at 350-degrees F for 22-25 minutes (or in my crazy-hot oven, 20 minutes at 345-degrees). They’re done when a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.
6. Let them cool for about 10 minutes in the pan, then dump them out onto a wire rack.
Oh my. These made my kitchen smell like Christmas and hugs. It didn’t even matter that I was the only one eating them this morning – they were pure comfort in the convenient form of little round muffins. And they’re fairly healthy, so I didn’t even feel bad that I ate 6 of them.
*cough*
Okay! Don’t give me the look the mom gives the poopy pants kid! I only ate 2.
You know that feeling when you love someone like crazy, but you’re embarrassed to be seen with him/her in public?
Don’t tell me you don’t. ‘Cause I know you do.
Hell, I’ve been that person to someone else on many, many occasions.
And I realized today I feel that way about my dogs. Remember these monsters?
I had to take them to the vet today to get some shots.
THE VET.
The problem is not that my dogs were scared to see the vet. Nor were they scared to get their shots.
Oh no.
The problem is that going to the vet is their absolute favorite thing in the world, along with going for walks, going for car rides, getting treats, getting baths, going to bed, going to the kennel, eating food, eating bugs, sniffing butts… get my point?
I could be like, “Hey guys, do you want to go get a colonoscopy today?”
And they’d be like, “OMG, hellz yah we do! That’s our favorite thing!”
Knowing the vet visit was upon us, I tried to tire them out in the yard this morning. But it was useless. When I brought them in and pulled out their car harnesses so they wouldn’t be bouncing off the walls of the Tracker while I was trying to drive, the excitement ensued.
They tried so hard to be good and sit still while I put on the harnesses. But their little bodies wiggled uncontrollably as adrenaline coursed through their systems. The ride itself was fairly uneventful, thanks to these godsend harnesses. You can see them here (although when they wear them, my dogs don’t look quite so… stoned.)
But when we got to the vet’s office… wow. Let’s just say that when I finally managed to get them across the parking lot, into the building, and safely to a seat in the waiting area, I had no less than 3 new bruises and what felt uncomfortably close to a broken finger (turns out it’s not – I’m just a baby). And I’m sure it was hilarious to the uniformed military guys standing outside the military police dog training area right next door. Hil-frickin’-arious.
They were so bad that when one of the receptionists started to call me to the front desk to fill out some paperwork, she took one look at me and said, “You know what? You just stay sitting right there.” She did not say it with a smile.
I was that person. That horrible person who can’t control her pets. And that receptionist was judging me, dammit!
But here’s the thing. My dogs are wicked smart. When we’re alone, just hanging out, shooting the breeze, it’s nothing but this:
And this:
And I can’t handle the cuteness. And they know I can’t handle the cuteness.
And then we go out. And the cuteness is gone. And other people don’t see what I see when we’re home. Oh no.
All they see is this:
And this:
And OMG this:
And so they judge. And I guess I can’t blame them. Because I’m never going to be a “dog whispering” type of person. I’m always going to be more of a “let-them-drag-me-across-the-gravel-and-hope-it’s-no-more-than-a-flesh-wound-so-I-can-laugh-it-off” type of person.
Occasionally, whilst surfing the Interwebs for job opportunities, I’ll find myself naïvely drifting into the murky, frothy, danger-filled waters of Craigslist.
Might as well just take a quick peek-a-roo to see if there’s any worthwhile prospects, I think to myself. What’s the harm?
And on these rare occasions I happen to forget why I ever stopped visiting in the first place, Craigslist is always more than happy to refresh my memory.
What the internet would look like if it were an old-timey map.
Because once I’ve started perusing Craigslist, I’m quickly reminded that it is a teaming cesspool of internet goblins, illegitimate business ventures, sad personal ads, kinky-weird (and not kinky-fun) fetishes and a truly preposterous number of letters to strangers who’ve crapped on someone’s personal property.
Here’s the kind of thing you usually find…
Typical Craigslist Post #1:
Dear Person Who Took a Crap on the Hood of My Car While I Was Stopped at a Red Light on 5th and Main,
Why did you do that? Seriously, why??? I mean, honestly, who DOES that?!?
In conclusion, I did not appreciate it and think you are a jerkface.
Sincerely Hatefully,
Guy in the Toyota Celica (a.k.a., the Cleveland Steamer edition)
Typical Craigslist Post #2:
Dear Girl with Brown Hair Wearing Some Sort of Patterned Shirt in Line at Starbucks in the Greater Baltimore-Washington Metropolitan Area,
I was standing in line behind you and you glanced meaningfully back at me as if to say “I recognize a kindred spirit in you.” Or it might’ve just been because I stepped on the back of your shoe. Either way, I felt a connection. Let’s get married, ok?
I’ll Die Without You,
Guy with the Ironic Glasses and Emo Haircut
Typical Craisglist Post #3:
****LQQK HERE!!!! BUY MY USED CRAP FOR WICKED EXPENSIVE!!!!1 SUPER SWEET DEAL!!! $$$$**8**
I’M SELLING MY **MINT** CONDITION, SLIGHTLY USED TOOTHBRUSH FOR ONLY $199!!!
STILL HAS ALL IT’S ORIGINAL BRISSLES! HANDEL BROKE OFF BUT OTHERWISE IN ***A1 PERFECT CONDITION***!!
LIKE NEW!!!! ONLY BEEN USED FOR A YEAR!!
SERIOUS INQIRIES ONLY!! IF U ASK A QUESTION AND DON’T END UP BUYING IT, ILL COME TO YOUR HOUSE AND STAB U IN UR SLEEP!!!!!!!
CALL ME (FRIBBLEJAB HUMDINGER) BETWEEN 3 AM AND 5 AM MONDAY OR THURSDAY!!!
Typical Craigslist Post #4:
W/M/40 looking for a partner to engage in some sensuous bicyexuality…
Are you a well-maintained 10-speed Schwinn?? If so, I’d like to have sexual relations with you. Meet me at the dumpster behind the elementary school, lover. I’ll be the one in the vinyl bodysuit and clown mask.
And the job board is just as soul-stabbingly sad. For instance, here are the recent gems I came across while searching for jobs today…
(**Note: Sorry about all the random black bars but I decided to do the “ethical thang” and block out any information I thought would likely land me in civil court. So sue me. Or, wait–don’t.**)
Sneaky-sneaky! This ad slipped in the “adult chat” part so deftly, so subtly, that I almost believed that maybe this wasn’t some sleazy operation being conducted out of this guy’s mom’s basement. (Ha! Kidding. I knew all along.)
Please note in the description that “hard-working” is a must. What isn’t required is a sexy phone voice or even the ability to speak English, mind you. Because we here at Bob’s Basement Sexy-Time Phone Factory don’t tolerate any slacker-ass phone sex operators lazing around on their couches, surfing the Web, eating bonbons and living the high life on our generous $10 compensation package.
Nay, we expect you to knock out at least three sets of 25 squat-thrusts and 50 leg lifts during each and every phone call. We’re all about discipline and dedication and, inexplicably, intense physical conditioning here.
The Upside: (1) You and your significant other would have a common interest to bond over. (2) No taxes are deducted from your paycheck. Super-duper hooray!
The Downside: (1) Everybody on the internet gets to watch you bicker over which of you was supposed to pick up paper towels on your way home. (2) While naked. (3) Seriously, paperwork?
It’s always nice to get the verbal abuse thing out in the open early because I hate when jobs wait until after I’m hired to condescend and mock my abilities to perform to their unreasonably high expectations.
What I gather from this ad is that, essentially, this position would require you to run this man’s news business for him while he stands behind you, screaming and heckling you with vaguely misogynistic schoolyard taunts.
For some reason, I get the impression that this guy is into some extreme shit. I imagine he wrote this job description at 3 a.m. in between snorting a variety of narcotics and running to the bathroom mirror to slap himself and yell “BE A WINNER, DAMMIT!” while “The Final Countdown” blared on repeat in the background. When he finished, he high-fived everything in his apartment and then set his coffee table on fire.
