Big Jerry Takes the Dirt Nap

The country has been abuzz about Jerry Falwell's timely demise. Doesn't matter where you fall on the political or religious spectrum, everyone seems to have some thought on the matter. I've heard everything from "I hope he's getting bitch-slapped at the pearly gates", to "hope they ream his ass with his own personal coat hanger" to "At least he was sincere in his beliefs" to "We should never speak ill of the dead".

I have to defer to my fellow blogger over at Nine Pearls. She let Jerry speak for himself. Check it out. A compendium of Jerry's own words to the not-so-wise. Really, I think this says more about him than any of us could say.

May he be judged according to his good works.

Just Mail the Damn Card.

By now, hordes of my readers have probably been wondering, "What the fuck is up with Cowbell? Hasn't she worked out that clone business yet, so she'll have time to entertain me with her witty and interesting blog entries?"  Hey, my blog, my fantasy. In reality, probably neither of my readers has noticed, having lives and all.

The eldest of the offspring came home from college last night. Mothers' Day. Perfect timing. Nobody ever said the girl can't suck up with the best of them. High School Daughter made me pancakes and strawberries before she had to go sling fish at her place of employment. Male Offspring cleaned up for me.

The dogs didn't do anything of note.

I spent some time on Amazon.com, buying a gift certificate for my mom, because I can never, ever, get the card out on time. I love and appreciate the hell out of my mom, but I just can never get that goddamn card in the mail. Shit. Maybe not a big deal for some of you, but my mom is the queen of cards, all kinds of cards. My mom sends cards for Easter and Thanksgiving. Valentine's Day, too. I have even received a St. Patrick's Day card from my mom. We are not Irish. I'm surprised I haven't received a card for Hanukkah. Or Boxing Day.

My mom sees The Card as a way to express your innermost appreciative and loving thoughts. She does not "understand" when the card doesn't arrive on time. Of course, she does not actually show her disappointment, as she is highly skilled in Playing the Martyr. Actually, in her defense, I think she tries not to care about The Card; she knows how busy things get for us, and tries to tell herself it's just a piece of paper with a stamp and a sappy saying. But, she does care, and why the hell can't I just get the goddamn thing into the mailbox on time? It's such a little thing. Such a big deal.

Mom sent me a beautiful card. She made it with this fancy software program she has. Card software. Yeah. I'm pretty sure she thought of the words herself, or at least put some thought into editing a sappy thought into a really nice personal thought. She used nice paper and these cool scissors that crafters use. She even used a purple ribbon to connect the different papers. It made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. It also made me feel guilty as hell. She's good.

Well played, Mom.

Probably I'll never get a card from my kids once they leave home. Probably they'll live in other states or countries too, and I'll never see them or any progeny that may issue from their loins. Karma will probably take a royal chunk out of my ass on this one.

Last night I hit the airport and then IKEA. We picked up a snazzy chair/bed deal for the eldest daughter. This thing rocks -- has a decent mattress, European-style bed slats for good support, and folds in and out with one hand. We do not have room for an actual sleeper sofa in our house. The girl doesn't even have a bedroom in this house. We moved about the time she left for college. (Yes, we did give her the new address.)

My old landlord had wanted to bend me over like a porn star with a hefty rent increase. I plunged into the world of home ownership. The Seattle market was booming, y'all, I'm talking double-digit appreciation. Every damn year. Everyone told me I was a fool for renting in this market. This was our ticket to Profit Town. Buy it, stretch to make those payments until Male Offspring graduates, pocket a shitload of cash. Move to Arizona. Breathe easier about college costs. The seller didn't even own the house two full years, and he made over $100K. Hell, yeah! So I signed my life away. Borrowed from the folks for a down payment. (Those who know me know that was a very, very big deal. I do not ask the folks for money. Ever.)

Market crashed the very next month. Well, okay, Seattle didn't exactly crash. More like went stagnant. I should've let the landlord have her way with me.

So, here we are in our oh-so-tiny house. Eldest Daughter's new chair/bed thingy will go in the corner of the dining area, which is open to the kitchen. All the better to reach the fridge faster, my dear. During her other breaks this year, she slept with me. Nothing like sleeping with Mom to keep a college gal happy. She never complained, but still.

Anyway, happy Mothers' Day to all you moms out there. And that includes dog and cat moms. Lizard moms, parrot moms, whatever. If you've ever cleaned up shit behind someone smaller than yourself, you're probably a mom. Happy Mother's Day.

Nylaboner

Here's a little something I'm thinking about picking up.

Settle down, people, it's a dog toy.  For canines to chew on.  I present the Galileo, by Nylabone. It comes in three sizes: Souper, Wolf, and Petite. You can guess what size I'm going for.

I have Labs, folks, calm down.



Who comes up with this shit?  First I thought, gotta be a guy, but then ... well, maybe not. I'd invent that shit. This person is either sly and outrageously witty, or completely clueless. Here is the description:

Nylabone Galileo - World's Strongest Bone!
The Galileo is made of extra tough nylon, and is designed for powerful chewers. If you have a dog that has destroyed every toy you've given him in the past, THIS is the chew for you. The Souper size is a monster -- it measures nearly 7" long and 4" across the widest part, and weighs a lot. In fact, we've dubbed this toy "the toe buster"... we recommend you wear shoes when your dog plays with this one!

Souper size indeed. A monster? Well, I don't know about all that. You be the judge.  It does seem to have a hefty girth.

I'm just wondering if it really is indestructible. An indestructible dog toy would make me pretty damn excited, truth be told. Those jokers are expensive! I mean, the ones that last any length of time at all run $10 - $15 for big dogs.  I might actually buy this thing.

Maybe two.  You know, just to have an extra.

I Still Need a Clone.

Wouldn't it be fabulous to have a clone so you could split off responsibilities and do life better?

Seriously. I do the single-mom thing. With teenagers. The ex is now 12 time zones away, so not the kind where Dad has them Tuesdays, Thursdays, every other weekend, either.

So, teenagers, full time job, two big dogs (one with separation anxiety), the requisite housework, meals, bills, a lawn, and a 1955 house that doesn't exactly maintain itself.

A clone is called for.

An assistant won't cover it. You spend more time training someone than it's worth. If I had time to train someone, I wouldn't need a clone.

Plus, you'd need multiple people: chef, cleaning person, dog walker and poop cleaner, chauffeur, gardener, work assistant ... and if one of those guys could also pinch hit for discipline and handling teenager issues, that would just make it a veritable party in my book.

Of course, those people would require salaries, and decent ones, too, since their jobs would be no picnic. If I could afford their salaries, I wouldn't need a clone.

Some folks say a partner makes life easier, but I don't know. Again with the training, for one thing. Relationships take work, we all know that. If I had time for something extra like a relationship, I wouldn't need a clone, now would I? Plus, it's someone else to cook for or who leaves the seat up or whatever, and then you've got to factor in time to shave your legs and file your toenails. Wait -- maybe I'd actually have time to fit that in: the partner could mow the lawn or cook, while I shaved the legs. Hmm. However, a relationship requires mental energy of all sorts, and I'm thinking I don't have much mental anything left to go around these days.

No, I've thought about this, and I really just need a clone. Not the kind that gets born as a normal baby, where you've still got to change their diapers and basically train their ass like any normal kid. No. That defeats the whole purpose of a clone.

Plus, when they do grow up, they look better than you, because they're you ... 25 years younger! Fuck that. No, my clone would be another me, the grown-up version. Insta-Clone. And none of that Mini-Me business, fuck that too. I'd be the Mini-Me, as I would then have time to work out, if I had a clone.

My version of clone would share all my knowledge and memories, therefore, my clone would know my schedule, deadlines, who has a school conference or sporting event, when the grass was last mowed, the grocery situation, when taxes are due ... you get the picture. I wouldn't have to explain anything.

My clone would be "fire and forget" -- send her off to handle something, and then forget it, knowing she'd have that shit covered.

My clone would not mind handling the more distasteful jobs -- she'd pick up dog poop and figure out the taxes. If one of the offspring has lost his/her mind, I'd pick up the dog poop, and send the clone to deal with the teenager.

It's all about options, with a clone.

And, check this out: since my clone would be genetically me (basically) she'd share the same love and commitment to the offspring. No feeling guilty about a new partner taking on child rearing tasks for my kids. No worrying about the kids having to deal with that whole step-parent thing either -- they're already used to me, no new dynamic, it's just Mom. Again. They'd be the clone's kids too, in a twisted but convenient way. All of the help, none of the drama. If my clone wants to have sex with someone else, good for her! Just be back in time to pick up the offspring from track practice.

In fact, now that I think about it, with a clone, I might have the time and energy for a relationship after all. And if the partner has a bout of temporary insanity, guess who will be heading out to the coffee shop with a book, while the clone deals with any pouty partners? Now that is genius.

Anyway, I am seriously waiting for this technology. I will even name my clone Dolly in honor of the sheep, I'd be so damn grateful to the scientists who could give me a clone like that.

I Need a Clone.

Can I get a friggin' minute to BREATHE, here?

to be continued...

Raising the Bar

Second Born Daughter is in the midst of track season. She does high jump, and also runs in the 4 x 200 relay.

Yes, this blog includes bragging about offspring. I've got the stretchmarks, I'm goddamn well bragging.

Track meets last a long, long time. It was friggin' freezing this time. How is it possible to jump over that bar when you're shivering like Jell-O? I don't know, that's why I'm a spectator, not a participator. Meets are fun when it's warm and sunny. On colder (or rainier) days, spectating requires coffee. Lots of coffee.

Shots from the latest meet:

Got the perfect camera shot, but at the starting height, 4'4".

Nice shot, though, eh?

Next, 4'6"

Nails 4'8"

And out at 4'10"
("But I jumped it twice in practice ... when it was sunny ...)

You go girl!

Bumper Sticker of the Day

Three for the price of one, folks.
All courtesy of the same rockin' vehicle.

Wine In a Box

OK, I saw this last night:

I was cruising the wine area of my local cheap ass grocery store. I'm like, what is that milk? vegetable broth? No, it was wine. WTF? This is just weird. This is how milk and juice is packaged in other countries. Broth comes in these boxes here. Wine?

"Excuse me, Tackmeister? Hook me up with a box of your best vintage Merlot, thanks."

Anyway, I bought this shit because of this:


What that has to do with wine, I have no idea, but I like the idea. I often buy wines based on witty or amusing labels, rather than actual quality. Yeah, well, like I said, I've apparently fallen a long way from Europe. Also, it was on sale.

Don't squat with your spurs on, folks.

Budget Crunching My Life

This is Official Budget Crunch time here at my place of employment. Our fiscal year runs from July to July.

• Last day of the fiscal year: June 30th.
• Day the Powers That Be cut us off from purchasing shit on our own budget lines: April 13th. Friday the 13th this year, to be exact.

We'll see what the day brings. We do tend to get some drama going on up in here, what with some of my coworkers occasionally going postal and all, so Friday the 13th could be interesting.

So, yeah, they cut us off 2 1/2 months beforehand so they can get shit straight over in the budget office. It wouldn't be so bad if we were up and running on July 1st. But no, it also takes some time once the new fiscal year begins to open up next year's budget.

All this to say it's a royal pain in the ass. Luckily I have set up most of my vendors to do orders directly, circumventing Budget Office Approval & Processing, so I get a May 30 deadline for those direct dealings. Because I'm good like that.

Anyway, been working 12 hour days mostly this week. I'm dreaming spreadsheets. I have mostly random thoughts to offer today. Nothing coherent. Like:

1) Putting on a cold bra in a cold house is fucking torture. Seriously, it's a bitch. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about. Just starts the day out bitchy for you.

2) Why do some zits start out way the hell underneath your skin and turn into a dormant volcano? Dormant meaning that shit isn't going anywhere. I mean like when you wake up, and half your jawline is actually swollen. Seriously, like your profile is all fucked up, because it looks like you have a 4-inch tumor. Or like you've been in a bar fight. That actually did happen to me once, where I got clocked in the jaw by a member of the Hungarian mob for protesting when they beat the shit out of one of my firefighter buddies -- he made the mistake of dancing in the cage, without knowing that a couple of the working gals had reserved it -- but that's a story for another day. Anyway, my jaw pretty much looks like that, except there wasn't tequila behind it this time.

3) Why do dogs eat shit that tastes nasty? Batman has had another Gastro-Adventure. Apparently, those fake firelogs make a fine meal for a dog. Now you know that some ground up black flammable chemicals pressed into a log shape has got to taste nasty, even to a dog. I can see that road-kill might be perceived as tasty to a dog, while being repulsive to me. I get that rotting trash might be some high-living to a dog, whereas it would make me hurl. But a grainy chemicals? I could even see a dog tearing the paper off and shaking it around, but eating it? He probably ate 1/3 of the log. Puked twice the next morning. That was some of the strangest puke I've ever seen, but we won't even go there. Anyway, I added that to my WTF? canine files.

OK, back to the grind. I just found out that the buyer up in the budget office doesn't want to approve my proposal at a cost of $7,800 through my vendor, which would cost from $43,400 to $58,800 with her vendors. WTF? What is it with state institutions? I miss my old job where I actually had some power to make decisions. Especially if those decisions were no-brainers that benefited the company.

>sigh<

Oh, and I still haven't done my taxes. Shit.

A SunBreak in the Life...

Yesterday it was sunny. I mean for the whole day. Also, you could feel the sun, in addition to seeing it.

Today, of course, it is grey again, although (thus far) not raining.

Yesterday was such an unusual event 'round these here parts, I played hooky. Seriously, I took a vacation day from work simply because The Sun Was Out. I did not pretend to be sick, nor did I make up an excuse such as "Male Offspring has broken his leg in three spots, I'm at the hospital". I told my boss, "I'm taking a day off because the sun is out, and I need to mow the lawn, bathe the dogs, plant some flowers, and get some friggin' vitamin D before I kill someone." She was cool with that. It is not unheard of 'round these here parts.

This is the pathetic reality of my life. Not good for an admitted sun-whore.

Yesterday I skipped the a.m. hit of caffeine altogether, took the canines on a two-mile walk and played tennis ball with them. (His name is Batman; it's been one day since his last ball.)

I mowed my lawn with my brand-spankin-new Craftsman lawnmower. 6.5 torque. Mulching mower. Foldable handle for storage. On sale. Pretty damn fancy.

I gave both canines a bath, and brushed their winter fur out until my arms gave out. I pretty much spent the whole damn day outside. Then I actually cooked a decent dinner and watched a movie with the offspring.

Yesterday I wore only two layers: the usual undershirt, and *gasp* a shortsleeved shirt. These arms have not seen the light of day since last August, and that probably only happened three times. They are about the shade of a fish's belly. As is the rest of me.


Anyway, yesterday I was manically happy. My dear friend called me at 11pm last night.

Phone: Annoying Ring! Annoying Ring!

Me: How do you know I wasn't asleep?

Dear Friend: Because you're probably just now coming down off your sun high.

Yeah, well.

The Daughterly Offspring went to track practice yesterday. She hit 4'10" at the high jump bar. This qualifies her to compete in a track invite on the other side of the state. She told her coach it was the weather. It's like absorbing an energy drink from the air.

The other track kids were lying on the ground, panting and dying of heat stroke. It was maybe 72*. With the famed maritime breeze.

Daughterly Offspring says she may apply to the University of Arizona for college. If she ends up being a Wildcat, I am so turning into one of those Stalker Moms who follow their kid to college.