Bonanza Jellybean

I Don't Remember the Go-Gos Mentioning Jellyfish

We're leaving for a MUCH-needed vacation the beach today (so my superb return will now be interrupted by several days of a cheap relative's refusal to install internet in a condo, but I digress...).

Have we packed?
Ummmm...
Are we prepared at all?
Ummmm...

We suck, basically.

I think my obvious lack of enthusiasm has something to do with the fact that we can't afford to go back to my ultra-favorite beach-side high-rise condo WITH BAR in Florida this year. Damn that husband and his bionic knees and the bills that never seem to end. And the rising costs of feeding a crowd of 1000lb. yard ornaments. Damn being financially responsible and leaving money in savings.

Fuck savings.

I miss Florida.

So we're leaving work early to rush home, throw some underwear in a bag, clean out the car, and leave in a rush, making sure that the three things we will absolutely need when we get there will be left sitting on the kitchen counter. Like the sunscreen, the keys to the condo, and probably our child.

And to top it all off...
The friend Soccer Chick is taking with her reported to me on the phone this weekend...

Friend: Have you seen the news?

Me: No... why?

Friend: There's a BUNCH of jellyfish in the water where we're going because the water's so warm. They said 200 people got stung Saturday!

Me: We do have a pool, you know. Jellyfish don't like pools. They have problems crossing the street to get to them.

Friend: (obviously not listening to a word I said) I AM NOT GOING IN THAT WATER WHERE THE JELLYFISH CAN EAT ME.

Me: Technically, they only sting you. Jellyfish don't eat you. Sharks eat you. Did they mention sharks at all?

Friend: I don't like jellyfish. Sharks are OK.

Soccer Chick: (eavesdropping from the other room) Jellyfish!! I don't want to swim with jellyfish!!

Me: ENOUGH WITH THE DAMN JELLYFISH, CHILDREN. I promise we will do our best to swim in stinging creature free waters, OK? You don't have to swim with the jellyfish. Besides, if they sting you, all you have to do is pee on it and the sting goes away.

Friend and Soccer Chick: EEEWWWWWWWWW!!

Which was the desired result.
And not a good omen for the week.

But if anyone has to pee on themselves or each other, I promise to post pictures when I get back.
Unless it's me. There will be no pictures of me in lycra with anything remotely related to urine.
Dignity, you know.

Dear Booger-Eaters...

Dear Booger-Eaters Out There Who Are Stealing Shit from My Blog,

You need to cut out the hotlinking shit NOW, because you're eating my bandwidth and making me hate you. I've already had to delete a post I liked, and now I'm having to go through 34 more hoops to shut you down. Making me not like you, see?

Also? A picture of a guy scratching a horse's butt is only useful when my commentary accompanies it, not when you steal it and put it on some porn site linked through Google in an attempt to hide from me. The fact that you are sitting in your mother's musty basement munching on your own boogers and jacking off to a picture that was supposed to be a joke does not make me feel pity for you- it just reinforces my opinion that retroactive abortion should be legalized.

Hoping you have an autoerotic accident involving a rope while in your mother's basement,
Bonanza Jellybean

•••••

Dear Google,

You're not helping. Whereas I used to think you as a benovolent bringer of information, now I see you as an accomplice to booger-eaters everywhere.

See, I did what you said. And filled out the little form. And turned in copyright violators. And yet... the booger-eaters prosper.

Please redeem yourself immeditely. By removing my picture like I asked you.

Sincerely,
Bonanza Jellybean

•••••

Dear TypePad Tech Support,

Help me, TypePad Kenobi, you're my only hope. Help me, TypePad Kenobi, you're my only hope...

Bonanza
(without sticky buns taped to her head)

Another Pop Quiz

OK, get our your pencils again...
And you might want to try a little harder, because I was not at all pleased with the grades last time. There's no way you guys are going to pass if you keep putting in this amount of effort.

Could I POSSIBLY sound any grumpier??
I bet I could.
Let this stomach bug I seem to have acquired make me throw up again, and this level of grumpiness will look like unicorns shitting rainbows. Promise.

OK, here we go...

1) The new impossibly cute puppy
     a) has discovered that toes in flip-flops are QUITE tasty
     b) thinks all big dogs think its cute when their toes are bitten
     c) is about to become the world's best-traveled 5 week old puppy
         as she goes everywhere Soccer Chick goes
     d) all of the above

2) When referred to as "pumpkin" in the checkout line at the sporting goods store
    yesterday by the HUGE 22 year old man in front of her after he reached out to pat
    her on the arm in apology for taking so long with his purchase, Bonanza
     a) immediately began a mental crisis over the nature of the application of self-tanner
     b) wondered if the crappy food she has been ingesting lately has indeed
         resulted in a segmented, spherical midsection
     c) told him to "shut your creepy, fat-ass mouth and mind your own fucking business"
     d) began mentally deliberating as to when it became acceptable for any man
         under the age of 70 to call a woman "pumpkin" for any reason
     e) all of the above

3) Bonanza will politely decline the invitation she received last night to play on an
    additional soccer team because
     a) dragging her ass out of the house on a Sunday, when she usually spends
         all day in her pajamas, is a task akin to rehabbing Lindsay Lohan
     b) she has finally realized that she is 35. And so are her muscles, joints and lung capacity.
     c) the team wears lime green, and lime green is not a good color for Bonanzas
         who wish to not appear jaundiced in public
     d) she wishes to spend more quality time with her husband and child
     e) a, b and c only

4) When Work husband received his new printer today and had to move everything
     in the office so that he and the boss could get it set up properly, Bonanza
     a) asked loudly 12 times "Isn't it time for you two to go to lunch or something?"
     b) asked loudly 37 times "Are you planning AT ANY POINT to move this table
         you have leaning on my trash can because I can't get to it and it's bugging
         me? And no, I don't need to throw anything away right now, but in the case that I do..."
     c) after the commission of a and b, sweetly asked Work Husband to bring her a drink
         from the refrigerator because she didn't feel like getting up
     d) complained that all they dust they were stirring up was upsetting her stomach again
     e) all of the above

5) After Work Husband informed Bonanza not to let the new receptionist cough near
    her because the new receptionist just happened to be on the flight from Europe
    that the guy with TB was on, Bonanza
     a) informed her boss that the "stomach bug" was probably the first stages
         of TB and ran around the office shouting "Workman's Comp! Lawsuit! Disability!"
     b) asked her boss why in the living hell he couldn't manage to hire JUST ONE
         person without some affliction that wasn't curable, though it's usually just
         stupidity, though that has proven to be contagious
     c) asked if the receptionist had been tested and when informed that she had not,
         threatened to call the CDC herself if an immediate raise was not offered
     d) told Work Husband to go kiss her after he refused to immediately move the
         table blocking Bonanza's trash can
     e) all of the above

Welcome to the Bonanza Jellybean Pediatric Animal Care Center

Can we get federal funding for this? I mean, SERIOUSLY- just tack us onto one of those spending bills no one ever reads and be done with it. I won't even say "fuck" when I come to thank Congress.

OK, so we had a baby horse last week. His name is now Bit (long story), and he's doing fine, for those of you who had to suffer through my excessive worries over SQUIRTING out of one of the baby's ends. Which could really mean something bad, like FATAL bad, but after 143 phone conversations with the vet and a tub of plain organic yogurt, he's fine.


Take THIS, yogurt woman!

So then, as predicted because she ALWAYS makes full use of a full moon when knocked up, my horse Playmate had HER baby Friday night. And FINALLY FINALLY FINALLY, she had a girl. Named Lilly (after Kristine Lilly- which amounts to Soccer Chick's entire participation in the whole ordeal). I have been waiting and waiting on a filly that I could love and treasure and keep to continue on Playmate's legacy. And I got it.
Except...
She doesn't like us. At all.
I might have even been overheard to call her "a little asshole."


See, I am totally competent and independent like my mother. I don't need your ridiculous fawning and fussing over me and pathetic attempts at medical care, as I have everything under control. I will be spending my afternoon working through some advanced calculus problems and mapping out the DNA of the common horse fly so that I might do some genetic engineering tomorrow that will put an end to my compatriots suffering... just so you know the agenda and feel no further need to check on me.
Please vacate my pasture area now.

Can you tell which pictures I took and which ones Dutch Oven took? Just curious.

But these two were PLANNED.

This one wasn't.

Meet Lucky. So named because she was discovered Friday night in the horse pasture where Molly (horse mama at top) was making a concerted effort to turn her into a pasture pancake. At first, I thought she was a cat. Then I heard the YIPE! YIPE! YIPE! YIPE! as she went flying about 8 feet after Molly's hoof made contact. Thankfully, not full contact.
Please excuse the lack of knowledge concerning the proper spelling and punctuation of piercing puppy shrieks.

So, OF COURSE, I had to go save it from certain death, as Molly has been known to squash dogs even when she didn't have a baby around to protect.

I have never, in all my vet-working, puppy-side-of-road-rescuing, ridiculous-number-of-canine-residents years, seen a puppy with so many fleas. When I picked her up, they swarmed up my arm. When I turned her over, there were literally HUNDREDS of them on her belly alone. They were gathered around her eyes and had eaten her eyelids bloody. The insides of her ears were full of scabs. As was pretty much the rest of her.

My guess was she was about four weeks old, abandoned, and in sorry shape. Much too young to be abandoned and on her own in a place where 1200 lb. things chase you.

So what did I do? Brought her into the house. And straight into a bath.

She ended up with FOUR baths while three people worked furiously to comb fleas, squish fleas, and treat fleas. I checked her after she was clean, and her gums were the same color as her teeth. Totally anemic. And very weak.

I told Soccer Chick not to get attached, because the odds for the puppy didn't look too good.
And as with everything else, she promptly ignored me.

She spent her weekend feeding, combing, holding, walking, and checking that puppy. She never once had to be told to do any of it. She even got up at 2am when the puppy cried to go out. In two days, she managed to rehab the puppy to an almost healthy state and house-train it. NEVER ONCE did we have to tell her to do anything or be asked to do something because she had lost interest.

It even went with her to her grandmother's today. Because she couldn't leave it.

Its name (so far) is Lucky.
Because it is.

Now, if I could just get those damn foals to see how good they have it...

Happy Birthday to Me

Abut 11 years ago, newly married, in love with horses, and poor beyond comprehension, we bought our first horse. Her name is Molly, and beyond a few names on her pedigree and a $900 price, we knew NOTHING of what we were doing. In fact, she was atrociously ugly and small and skinny. BUT... I looked at her papers and saw that she and I had the same birthday (May 30- today, in case anyone can make it to the UPS store in time with fabulous gifts that might include an Aston Martin Vanquish. I turned 35, which I see as halfway to 70, and I need something to kick off my mid-life crisis properly. I prefer the green one if available.).

I took it as a sign. We bought her.

Molly grew up and into a beautiful horse. A bit stubborn and a lot bitchy, but wonderful.

She broke her neck a few years ago in a freak accident. The vet told us to put her down, but the best answer I could give was, "She's not ready to die." We took her home and medicated the hell out of her, and she healed. We can't ride her anymore, and moves a little funny, but she's here. Tough as hell, that one.

A year ago, we decided she had healed enough to try and breed her. We had concerns about how she would do, since horses lie down to give birth, and since the accident, she doesn't lie down much.

She did fine.

You know, I've only been here an hour or so, and already they've come out here and squirted stuff on my belly button and stuck something in my behind that made me poop all over and lifted my tail up to see if there is one hole or two, which there is only ONE, thank you very much. I could have TOLD THEM I was a boy if they would have ASKED. DAMN, I'm new, but I'm not STUPID.
I don't think I'm going to like it here much. These people SUCK.

Mom! I'm HUUUUUUNNNNNNGGRRYYYYYY! Feed me. You can be tired LATER. Oh wait, I think I'm on the wrong end. The milk dispenser's back there... Damn, they should have those at BOTH ends.

The vet may have to come out later, because we're waiting on everything to come out like it's supposed to, and OF COURSE, it's not, which has meant a fun morning for me, but all in all, a nice way to start a birthday.
Three of us now, all with the same birthday.

At least I'm not the one who had labor pains for my birthday present.

Edited to Add: Everything that was supposed to come out is now out, so Molly's safe and healthy and all done. Avoidance of another veterinary nightmare is DEFINITELY the best birthday present of all.

The Six Thousand Dollar Man, the Shot that Must Not Be Named, and What Happens When You Don't Watch Where You Walk

In other words, an update of the last week. You know, since I have been SO busy and SO stressed and SO wonderfully accommodating to all who need assistance without complaint or question.

You know, because I'm good like that.
Maybe.
Probably not.
I MIGHT have complained once or twice.
Or more.
Whatever.

On Tuesday of last week, Dutch Oven FINALLY had his knee surgery.
I know, everyone's going "Wait! I already read that! He already had knee surgery! She's lost all sense of the space-time continuum!" but NOOOOOO.
This was the SECOND knee surgery. On the OTHER knee.
Because you know, it felt left out.
He received a brand-spanking new ACL (Well, not really NEW, since it came out of a cadaver. Which is a situation that I am currently trying not to contemplate AT ALL, since it kind of makes me squeamish because WHO KNOWS WHERE IN THE HELL THAT ACL HAS BEEN? It could have come out of a homeless crack addict. Or worse, a REPUBLICAN. Also, if I kiss it to make it better, am I cheating on him since it's not his? Would I then be kissing a Republican? Ick. Just ICK.) and a bunch of repair work. He's been on crutches the whole time, drugged off his ass the first day or so, and VERY tired of being unable to shower (Which, let's face it, is something everyone in the house could get tired of. I bought him the sponge-bath wipes and hoped for the best. I then installed a new shower head with the hose thingy so we could bathe him, but it wasn't as easy as I had hoped. But I, ALL BY MYSELF, did home repair. I deserve praise. Whether it worked well or not.).
He's fine now, and beginning the long PT road. They say he'll be even better and stronger than before.
I guess when he named himself after the 6 Million Dollar Man, he chose correctly.

Soccer Chick, on the other hand, remains questionable.
The tonsils flared up AGAIN, and so I called the doctor AGAIN. Apparently, they have powers of medical divination unknown to the general population, because they wouldn't make her an appointment because they were full but were happy to call in some antibiotics for her. I POLITELY questioned their judgment on prescribing medication without actually LOOKING at her, and then I MIGHT have become a bit hostile and condescending and profane.
Just a bit, though. Promise.
So I got her an appointment with a much better doctor (where all the rich kids in town go- hey, I got CONNECTIONS), where he promptly asked me what the results of the other throat swabs they had done were.
I just looked at him. "Ummmm, I don't think they did one. Ever."
So then I got to sit there and feel like a DUMBASS because I didn't know exactly what the doctor was supposed to be doing the whole time we've been dealing with this. Because you know, EVERYONE attends medical school in their spare time on the weekends so they can perform oversight on the people they pay who supposedly also went to medical school and are supposed to know what the hell they're doing.
Turns out, Soccer Chick probably doesn't have anything wrong with her tonsils.
She has, however, probably had strep throat for about 8 months.
Which would explain A LOT (in case anyone remembers the posts where I worried she was "frail" and then we had to descend in eating-disorder internet assvice HELL).
Being a good doctor, he announced, "Well, we're not going to let this go on a second longer."
And decided that she needed a big ol' antibiotic shot in the ass.
Which apparently is the most distressing, humiliating, upsetting, horrible thing known in the world of an 8 year old girl. No explanations from me, including "Honey, they're DOCTORS. They see ass cheek ALL THE TIME." would help.
I thought I was QUITE reassuring, but she wasn't buying it.
I was informed in the car that I was ABSOLUTELY NOT ALLOWED to speak of the shot unless we were in the confines of our home. And that the shot was not in the BUTT, but in the HIP. And WE COULD NOT TALK ABOUT IT. Even for me to ask if it was sore. NO TALKING ABOUT IT. NO. TALKING.
So what do I do? Tell the Internet. Hee hee.
Everything seems MUCH better, but we go back in 2 weeks to decide if the tonsils do need to come out.

And THEN, after I made it through both of these things in the span of four days while working full-time and trying to maintain a house...
OK, I use the term "full time" loosely...

Soccer Chick's new puppy (I use the term LOOSELY, as he weighed in at 65 lbs.) decided Sunday night to look pathetic and lethargic. And to limp. And not eat.
So I checked him, and his leg was swollen and hot (along with the rest of him). Further inspection revealed two puncture marks on his leg.
Snake.
So Dutch Oven called the emergency vet, and after hearing that it probably wasn't life-threatening, he informed them, "Frankly, we've seen enough of you guys. No offense or anything. We'll take him in tomorrow."
Which I did.
Which is A WHOLE OTHER BLOG POST IN ITSELF. (Probably tomorrow, because LOOK! I'M POSTING AGAIN! Also, because I have a picture of the ordeal but can't load it on my work computer, which is where I am typing, because I have done ENOUGH work lately, dammit.)
Have I mentioned that we haven't managed to teach the 65 lb. "puppy" how to walk on a leash yet? Or ride in the car? Or even how to get INTO THE CAR? Or how to go out in public and behave in a presentable manner?
Any OTHER self-respecting dog would have gotten bitten in the face, because you know, he would be INVESTIGATING or ATTACKING or doing some other worthwhile defending-your-family kind of action.
Not Dink.
Our best guess is that he was running full speed through the woods and stepped on the poor creature without ever noticing it. You know, chasing invisible bunnies or something.
After a LONG wait and a fine impression of a 65 lb. canine dust mop (again, tomorrow), he got the medicine he needed and should be fine. He managed to run and jump up on me this morning, leaving a muddy paw print on the front of my white shirt as I was leaving for work, so everything seems to be back to normal.

So that's the update.
Fun, huh?

The Proud Owner of a Parallel Ass Crack

This morning, being tired and grouchy and irritable, I decided I needed a bit of "me time," which meant a nice, long, hot bath instead of my usual hurried shower.

So I ran the tub, climbed in, and sank back to enjoy the warm overall goodness that is a hot bath.
Relaxation and tranquility poured over me.

Now, in the bathroom with me was our dog Bear, who refuses to leave me alone lest I drown, and the cat Frosty, who probably could give a shit less if I drown.

You've seen them before, but here they are again in a photo I lovingly entitle KNUCKLEHEADS:

So there I was, enjoying my bath, minding my own business. With a dog on the floor outside the tub and the cat perched on the side of the tub.
You see where this is going, don't you?
I wish I had.

I bent forward to make the water a bit hotter (anything less than red-skin-blazing will just not do).
There was a crash of shampoo bottles hitting the floor.
There was the sound of hurried paws on tile.
There was the ripping feeling of my skin giving way.

The cat was in the tub, and he was going to latch those little needles into whatever he could to get out.
Which happened to be my back.

I give good leverage.

And he was apparently HELL BENT to get out, because these aren't normal little kitty scratches. These fuckers are WELTS.
That took TWENTY MINUTES to stop bleeding completely so I could get dressed.
That are, on average, about 10 inches long, running from above my waist to halfway down my right ass cheek.
That really fucking hurt.

I look like I have a parallel ass crack.
Lucky me.

And to add insult to injury, where did the cat go to compose himself? You know, to lick indignantly at the nature of all things wet? To let whatever he could find absorb the water and loose cat hair from his pristine coat?
My side of the bed.

Which sucks, because now the option of going back to bed and pulling the covers over my head to hide from the world is RUINED.

I can't wait to go to the chiropractor and explain that I am all crooked because my cat made a new ass crack on me and it hurts to sit on it so I've been left-cheek inclined for a week. That's going to go over GREAT.

You know it's a BAD FUCKING DAY when you are RELIEVED to get to work.

Anybody want a cat? FREE SHIPPING.

Why I Don't Love My Work Husband Anymore

It's that time of year again.

Every time I go outside to have a smoke, these cute little fuzzy caterpillars are EVERYWHERE. I love little fuzzy caterpillars, so I do my best not to step on them, which includes corralling them onto leaves that I can move into the bushes (and talking to them about the merits of staying off the patio and doors and in the bushes, which a- they ignore and b- make me sound like a raving idiot). I spend at least 30 minutes a day now in "Caterpillar 911" mode, which I'm sure they would mock me for if they could, as they seem to do their absolute best to crawl off of the bush, drop to the ground, and scurry right back across the patio where I got them from in the first place. While I watch. Talking to them.

Little shits.
But rescue them, I must. Call it Animal-Specific-OCD.

We won't even discuss the looks construction workers building your new office will give you when they see you talking to caterpillars and walking slowly with a leaf in your hand. I bet they're recalculating the budget RIGHT THIS SECOND to include padding of the walls of the crazy caterpillar woman's office.

Did you know that you can coax 8 of them onto one stick? That's my personal record.
I can't believe I just typed that for the Internet to share. Jesus.

Which led to the following LOVELY exchange between Work Husband and myself.
LOVELY Work Husband, who normally pretends to ignore my ummm, QUIRKS and go about his business with me 10 feet away on a daily basis while pretending that I am perfectly normal and nothing to raise an eyebrow at...
He's not lovely ANYMORE. He's a CATERPILLAR HATER. And a SHOE MOCKER.

And he's learned to make fun of me without me noticing until I am too far into the conversation to get out of it.

As I came back inside from YET ANOTHER smoke break...

Work Husband: You need to stop trying to help those caterpillars. Just SQUISH 'EM, I say.

Me: Ass. I can't squish them. They're cute. And I don't want to step on them.

Work Husband: They're a freakin' nuisance and need to go. They're going to grow up and turn into moths and eat all of your clothes.

Me: They WILL NOT. They will remember my charity and goodness and purposely miss my clothes.

Work Husband: I bet they'd eat your shoes.

Me: See, that's just CRUEL.

Work Husband: They would. I promise.

Me: They absolutely WOULD NOT. Those are SOUTH CAROLINA CATERPILLARS- they only like shoes from Wal-Mart and Payless, not Italy and London.

Work Husband: They'd think they were a delicacy, I bet.

Me: No, they'd think they were being unpatriotic and start calling it "Freedom Leather." And then they'd go buy some BBQ and chewing tobacco.

Work Husband: They're coming for your shoes. I promise.

Me: I hate you now. I know you're mocking me on MULTIPLE fronts, and I don't appreciate it. I'm not even sorry we won't be sharing an office anymore. You can take your caterpillar-hating, shoe-mocking ass into your own new fancy office where you'll die cold and alone, and I'll LAUGH when they find you after two weeks when the smell creeps into the hallway.

Work Husband: (snickering) Okay. But you'll miss me.

Me: Probably. But I won't admit it.

A Dink By Any Other Name...

I gave in to karma.

Meet Dink. Ok, well, meet ANOTHER Dink.

And to top it off, he has decided that Soccer Chick is HIS person. (Aussies get very attached to one person, usually, and while they may love everyone else too, that's their person and that's the end of it.)

She's outside feeding hin treats and teaching him to fetch now.

When he stands up and puts his paws on her shoulders (we're trying to break him of that, by the way) he's taller than she is.

It's not the same, but it's good in its own way.
He's already a hell of a lot of fun.
70 pound puppies tend to be that way. :)

And ONE MORE Dog Post, or the Point Where You Decide I'm a Glutton for Punishment

I do not want another dog.

I don't. Well, maybe not that FIRMLY, because I always love puppies, but when the tech at the vet told me his mother had full-bred Aussie pups for FREE when we were ready, the bug was planted.

We had talked about what we would do when the older pups were gone, and we had decided we would go with Aussies again, because let's face it, if you know how to manage them, they're the best damn dogs in the world. Well, at least in OUR world. Dunk wanted a red merle the next time, just because we had always had blue merles.

So then Tadd was gone, and I just didn't think I could look at a new one until the bad dog was caught and then maybe even not then, but Tadd's son Bear has intervened.

Tadd was his wrestling partner, and the buddy he ran around with and played with ENDLESSLY.
He's tried to play with the other dogs this week, and they're old and grumpy and want none of it.
They growled at him.
We are, apparently, sorry substitutes.
He's getting kind of pitiful.

Someone, PLEASE come play with me. PLEASE? These people SUCK at wrestling, and the other dogs are being MEAN. And I'm cute, DAMMIT. PLAY WITH ME, PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE.

So we called about the puppies.
They're about 8 months old, so no fears of being too little and being able to crawl through the fence. They're already crate-trained, so putting it up during the day so it doesn't become an appetizer won't be a big deal.

And there's a red merle.
Named "Dink."
No shit.

I guess we're getting another dog.