Complete and utter randomness (sorry I haven’t been posting, I suck, etc. etc.)
Fred and I went to Lacon Trade Day last Saturday. Lacon Trade Day is basically an outdoor flea market where they sell all manner of things. If you can think of it, they probably sell it there – especially if you’re looking for something like used t-shirts from the ’80s or rusted farm implements, canned goods, dented box food, the occasional produce. It’s kind of a crapfest, to be honest, and we rarely spend more than a couple of dollars. But it’s a place to go and spend some time, gets us out of the house, and I like the drive home. We usually drive there via the interstate and then drive home up a highway that meanders a bit.
We always start at the front of the flea market and work our way toward the back. The back is generally where the interesting stuff – chickens, turkeys, occasionally goats and pigs – is. Back when we were starting out and had our original 12 hens, we got our very first rooster, McLovin’, at Lacon.
So this time we were there about 45 minutes, and we decided to stop in Decatur on our way home to pick up subs for lunch. We were driving toward Firehouse Subs, when I noticed a small airplane towing a banner. I squinted up at it, trying to read what it said.
“Hey, there’s an airplane towing a banner,” Fred pointed out.
“Yeah, I see,” I said.
“What does it say?” he asked.
“I can’t tell.”
Fred drove, occasionally squinting up at the sign, and I kept trying to figure out the words.
“I see ‘Kyle’,” Fred said.
“Yeah… Visit? ‘Visit Kyle 4?” I said.
We squinted some more.
“‘Visit Kyle for…. Water,'” I finally declared. “Today!”
“Where are we supposed to visit Kyle for water? And why does it have to be today? Is this a one-time thing?” Fred pondered.
“That’s a bad sign,” I said. “It doesn’t even say where to find Kyle!”
“Bad advertising,” Fred agreed.
And just then the plane swooped closer.
“‘VOTE KYLE 4 MAYOR’,” Fred said. “‘TUESDAY’!”
That made a lot more sense but, y’know? I think I liked ours better.
After we’d picked up our subs and were headed home, we actually passed a small group of men waving “Kyle for Mayor” signs. Fred wouldn’t stop so I could say “WHERE’S MY GODDAMN WATER, KYLE?!” He’s no fun.
Over at Dinosaurs Can’t Eat Pizza, Nance and I have been making all kinds of stuff. Banana Split Icebox Cake! Steel Cut Oatmeal in the Crock Pot! Blueberry Cream Cheese Hand Pies! And mooooooore!
Go check it out if you haven’t in a while.
Pro tip: If you walk by a cat toy 3,000 times in the course of a day, and every time you pass by, a little voice in your head says “That REALLY looks like a dead mouse. For serious.” and another little voice says “Yeah, but remember that one toy? It always makes us think it’s a dead mouse. Why would a dead mouse be under the dining room table? It’s just that toy.” If that happens? Then I recommend you stop and actually directly look at the goddamn thing.
Because it’s a fucking mouse, and it’s been sitting there ALL DAY LONG.
What made this particularly horrifying is that when I was scooping litter boxes in the morning (around 7), I looked down and said “Huh. That looks like a Navy Bean. What’s a Navy Bean doing here on the rug in the front room? And why is it attached to something long and grody looking?” I picked it up by the long and grody looking thing (don’t judge me) and called Fred over.
“What the holy fuck is this?” I asked.
He examined it. “It’s some sort of organ,” he said. “See the veins?”
I did indeed.
“I think it’s a bird testicle,” he said.
I shuddered, tossed it in the bag of litter box scoopings, and went to wash my hands.
Later, around noon, I went out into the back yard to hang something on the clothes line. There, laying in the middle of the walkway between the back steps and the cement patio, was a pile of what looked very much like small rodent organs that had been ingested and then vomited back up. It was covered in flies.
“UGH. Go out there and scoop that pile of nasty up and toss it out of the back yard!” I demanded.
“I’m not going out there,” Fred said.
Later, I was sitting at my desk, and Fred went out into the back yard. He bent over, examined the pile of nasty, and then
KICKED
IT
INTO
THE
GRASS.
I’m sorry, motherfucker, did I ASK you to nasty up the rest of the back yard? Did I? DID I?
That motherfucker.
But in any case, after all that, it still took me COMPLETELY by surprise to find a little disemboweled mouse under the dining room table.
I love my cats, but sometimes my cats are huge assholes. Sometimes I’d be willing to sell them all for $1.95.
Previously
2011: No entry.
2010: No entry.
2009: The excitement yesterday morning is that when Fred brought Hjonkie into the kitchen, he first hissed at the kittens (I had no idea that turkeys hissed!), and then he registered his displeasure by shooting out a great big Turkey poop on the floor.
2008: Who knew we’re such cranky motherfuckers?
2007: On my way back home.
2006: And I thought Fucker, at least they don’t leave me to cool my heels for over an hour without bothering to let me know they’re running late.
2005: No entry.
2004: No entry.
2003: These kids need someone to come organize their lives is what they need.
2002: “What the hell?” I said, amazed. How far could the fucking thing have gone?
2001: Gah. I’ve got that unsettling panic-causing “waiting for the other shoe to drop” feeling, and I don’t know why.
2000: “An E-scort. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of those. I wonder if they’re new.”