Edith Bunker, Earth Mother and My Hussy Dog

I think Lulu is suffering from anxiety. Isn't it funny how once you're diagnosed with something, you become a self proclaimed expert on the subject?

Or is that just me?

Anywho...

Lord love her, but she's about to talk me to death. If I end up fired, it'll probably be because she stood in my office for 20 minutes explaining how I'm related to some random person who died "suddenly" at the age of 102 over the weekend.

She can take a simple one word answer and stretch it out into a 30 minute explanation. She reminds me alot of Edith:



But.. bless her heart. I listen. That's what friends do, right? Lord knows she's listened to me ramble and moan and carry on for the past 15 years.

~*~

Pupzilla's visit to the vet didn't result in any casualties, but we did discover that she'll let the (male) vet do whatever he needs to, but not the (female) technicians.

My dog, she is a hussy.

Also? I would have bet money she weighed in at at least 90lbs. Instead, Miss Ayla, ginormous hairball of wonder, is a puny 78lbs.

~*~

Me and Tyrone kicked ass Saturday. I found my long lost wheelbarrow buried beneath a mound of English Ivy. All the wooden bits are gone and I didn't find the wheel, but the rest of it is intact. Two handles and a wheel cost more than a whole new wheelbarrow, so maybe it has a future as a goldfish pond or something. I remember when Aunt Moses tossed it to the side when it got in the way of Uncle Clarence and his drunk mowing on the riding lawnmower. (No kidding, he keeps a pint of blackberry home brew tucked in his sock while he races around the yard. Reason number 586 why I need to cut my own grass.) She slowly let the English Ivy creep down the bank and in to the yard, mowing less and less yard as she went.

I've had a mess ya'll.

It still kinda irks me that Ma was paying her to cut the grass but Aunt Moses goes all over town acting like she did us a favor. And that Ma GAVE her my last lawn mower. I used it ONCE. But I try not to think about all that. I try hard. Sometimes it doesn't work.

As if pushing Tyrone and his sexy red self around the yard for an hour, taking down wild rose bushes, ivy vines and ... oh yeah... grass.. wasn't enough, I decided to move the wood pile off the porch.

Surely to goodness we won't have to build a fire between now and next fall.

After that was done, I went ahead and cleaned off the porch. You can now enter and exit the trailer without turning sideways and stepping over 20 feet of water pipe that The Amazon bought to make her own hula hoops.

The craftiness... it runs in the family.

Now I've got room to put up a clothesline on the porch, in true hillbilly style. By the way, the homemade powdered laundry detergent and dishwasher soap are AWESOME.

Clothesline on the porch, making my own soap, selling arts and crafts on the innerwebs... OMG I'M GOING ALL HIPPIE EARTH MOTHER AND CRAP!!!!

I know... you're thinking this:

But it's really more like this:

Some days, I could use a fancy shmancy walking stick with some fabulous white feathers.

Anywho, Bossholio still hasn't recovered fully from his farce attack. When people ask how he is, he says, "Well the doctor SAYS I'm fine, so I MUST be FINE. There must not be ANYTHING WRONG with me."

No, "thanks for asking" or "turns out I'm ok, thanks for your concern." Just his standard "I AM ANGRY BECAUSE I'M ALIVE" bullcrap.

Must suck to be him.

Ya'll have a good week. We'll talk again soon. I gotta get back to work.

Later Taters!!

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