P.M. Posting

As I'm sure you've all noticed, because you compulsively check this blog for updates (RIGHT?), I always post in the morning. But not today. And why not today? I'm glad you asked! Let me explain it to you in bulleted list form.

What Kristin Did Today

• Gathered trash and did the dump run
• Helped A. cut up and haul a few massive fallen branches off the front lawn
• Mowed all of our lawns. All of them. We're talking acres. Some with the riding tractor, some with the push mower.
• Refueled--salami sandwich while watching Lidia's Italy cooking show on PBS. Mmm, raviolis . . .
• Drove to nearby farm to buy eggs
• Baked brownies
• Did dishes
• Planted two more tomato plants (I think the tomatoes are out of control--I can't stop planting them)
• Helped A. load some even more massive logs from the spruce tree into the truck
• Finally took a damn shower already
• Wrote out this long, boring list that probably two people will read because I am obsessive-compulsive and MUST POST EVERY DAY

And now I must say good-bye, for we have friends coming over in about half an hour and I have to get going on dinner. Peace out, y'all.

What the Hell?

I just got a very odd e-mail message, at the same e-mail address that is posted here, from a person whose e-mail address is Jarhead@blahblahblah. And this person sent me a link to a vintage pamphlet on farming with dynamite. Which is very cool and all, except . . . who the hell is Jarhead? I mean, I'm guessing I have a Marine on the other end there--I'm sleuthy like that--but other than that I haven't the faintest idea who this person is. The message was all buddy-buddy, like I'm supposed to know the sender, except I don't.

Jarhead, who are you? Tell me so that we may be friends. Because anyone who just stumbles upon a vintage pamphlet about farming with dynamite and then sends it to me is someone I would like to know. Or maybe not. Familiarity with explosives may not be the best precursor to friendship.

But seriously, who are you? Don't leave me hangin'. Like Darcy did by not responding to my e-mail after asking me a totally random question, and Darcy, I would like to know why you want to know who I know? Do you know that person?

And now are all the rest of you as confused and nosy as I am? Great. Have a fabulous weekend.

Peace Out, Peter

Despite my often ill-contained disgust at the content in The New York Times, I still read it occasionally, cherry-picking the articles that are of interest to me. There aren't many. But there was an awesome one this week entitled Peter Rabbit Must Die.

If you have a few minutes, go read it now. It's highly amusing. Unless you're an animal rights activist, in which case it will probably piss you off. But it is five pages long, so if you're feeling too lazy to read the whole thing, allow me to summarize: Many gardeners eventually become so fed up with the animals eating their gardens that the gardeners kill the animals in a variety of ways. Of course, my first reaction to this was "No shit. You're just now picking up on this?" But it's the tone of the article that I find so amusing. This is The New York Times, after all, arguably the most pretentious and egotistical paper in the country.

Their demographic is the citizens of New York City. I may be generalizing here, but I don't think those good people have had a lot of experience with marauding raccoons that may drive you to murder. So The NYT has to be careful how they present an article on exterminating bunny rabbits. The article mostly pussy-footed around the issue, focusing more on the killing of woodchucks and snakes, presumably animals that people won't get so worked up about.

But still, the article describes some pretty brutal executions. One lady smashed a porcupine's head in with a sledgehammer. Another describes her mother going after woodchucks with a shovel. Still another lady shoots (non-poisonous) snakes routinely.

I have never done any of these things, and frankly, I'm not sure I could. I don't have any moral objection to killing animals that are eating your food (although one dude was killing raccoons that ate his water lilies. Lame.), the law of the jungle, yada yada yada. But bludgeoning a woodchuck with a shovel might be just a leetle disturbing to me. I'm still a soft-hearted sissy in many ways.

I prefer to let my hitdogs do the exterminating. That's why I keep them in kibble--they do my dirty work.

I Did Not Get Cooler Overnight

I know I said I would try not to be so lame today, but I didn't promise. Good thing, because I am now going to unburden myself of a shameful secret, after which you will all realize how monumentally uncool I really am.

I watched "Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle". And I liked it. Yes, that is indeed the second Charlie's Angels movie, with Cameron Diaz, Lucy Liu, and Drew Barrymore. It was so very, very bad, and yet so very, very entertaining.

If you're easily entertained, you will like this movie. If you're a man, you will like this movie because of the skanky clothes and hot women. If you're a woman, you will like this movie because there is a scene featuring M.C. Hammer's "Can't Touch This." Seriously. It was awesome. The soundtrack kind of rocks.

There were parts that were so bad they made me squirm, and Demi Moore was beyond terrible in it. But I still got a kick (ha!) out of all the slow-mo fight scenes and watching them all try to run in stilettos. And let's not forget the ridiculously improbable action scenes involving grabbing helicopters in mid-air and dodging bullets while flying through the air on motorbikes.

So there. I admit it--I have no standards when it comes to movies. But really, "Can't Touch This"? Can you blame me for being entertained? And don't try to pretend that there isn't some movie or song that you love, but wouldn't cop to in front of your friends. Because I know there is. I refuse to believe I'm the only one who starts car-dancing when "Ice Ice Baby" comes on.

Stop, collaborate and listen. Ice is back with a brand-new invention. HA! Got it in your head!

My work here is done. Have a nice day.

Evidence of Extreme Lameness

I am now going to write, and what is worse, publish, an entire post about my new favorite toy. And it is not a cool new toy, like an iPod or a Blackberry or . . . um, what do normal people find entertaining and exciting?

Clearly, I am not normal, because THIS is my new favorite toy. It's a dishpan. Yes, a dishpan. I am ashamed to be so very excited by a porcelain-coated dishpan, but I am.

See, not only do we not have a dishwasher, but we have a big-ass farm sink, suitable for disemboweling chickens and gutting fish and other farm-like activities, but not so easy to do dishes in. Ain't no way we're filling that bad boy up with water. So we have to have a separate pan set in the sink to fill to do dishes.

In the past, this pan has been a plastic tub that we've purchased at the grocery store. These are cheap and you can't chip glassware on them, but that's pretty much it for their positive attributes. Being plastic, they get stained and nasty quickly and they tend to crack from the weight of the water when we lift the tub to drain it. Pieces of crap, really.

But finding something better is not so easy, because there doesn't appear to be a large demand for dishpans. I can't say I found that shocking. So I did what I always do when I need an item that was common 100 years ago and has since fallen out of use (except for at our house, where it's always 1908): I ordered it from Lehman's.

I'm sure you've never heard of Lehman's, but if you (like me) are a sucker for old-fashioned stuff, this is the company for you. They're based in Ohio, and they make a lot of non-electric products and antique-design reproductions for the Amish and Mennonite market. And us. We have more in common with the Amish than with the modern world, apparently. They have a whole section labeled "Home Butchering." Honestly, who can resist that? I drool over the Lehman's catalog like some women drool over . . . um, what do normal women drool over? Tiffany? Whatever, I covet Lehman's products.

So I got this grannyware dishpan from Lehman's, and it is AWESOME, y'all. It's so wonderfully sturdy and clean and it hangs from a neat little nail on the side of the cabinet. I'm in love. And also, exceedingly lame and clearly not normal.

If you actually read this far in my love letter to my dishpan, I salute you. And I am sorry. Tomorrow I'll try not to be so lame. But I make no promises.

So Not Funny

I just went down into the Pit of Despair to wash my brand-new (pretty!) comforter, and the washing machine was dirty. This isn't unusual, so I grabbed a rag and wiped out the bottom and then noticed something stuck on the side of the machine inside the tub. I thought it was a washcloth or something that had gotten left behind with the last load, and I almost reached in and grabbed it. But then I looked more closely.

It was a cluster of bats. BATS. BAAAAATS. Little rodents with pointy ears and creepy little faces. BAAAAATS. I think there were three, but I sure as hell was not taking any closer looks at the things. I slammed the top down and went back upstairs. But then I thought, shit, what if the things wake up because it's dark and start flying around, banging themselves up in the machine and making a godawful mess?

So I called A. at work. He loves it when I call him at work to freak out about animals. And I asked him if I should open the lid so they could maybe fly out on their own, or leave it closed. And he said why don't I turn the machine on and just drown them? And I said no thanks to that. And he said yeah, just open the lid and maybe they'll fly out. And I said okay, I'll go back down and open the lid and hope they don't fly out at me. And he said forget it, leave it closed and he'd deal with it when he got home. And I said THANK YOU, YOU'RE MY HERO.

BAAAAATS. This is why I am VERY, VERY careful about closing the lid when I do laundry. There's only one other person who does laundry in this house, and she knows who she is. I hope she feels guilty about all the trauma I've gone through now. My hand was in there with them. I could have gotten rabies. VERY, VERY GUILTY.

BAAAAATS.

Update 6/11/08: The MiL redeemed herself this morning by going into the Pit of Despair in full battle dress (floral robe, cow slippers, and matching pink gardening gloves) to remove the bats. While A. and I cowered upstairs like the sissies we are. She just reached in there with a towel. And she said only one of them bared its teeth at her. GAAAAAH!

Hey

Have I mentioned how MOTHERLOVIN' HOT it is? Did you think I have been exaggerating, perchance? No, I have not been exaggerating. Please see photo at right for illustration.

The dogs have been just like this, flat on the floor and unresponsive, for the better part of the last week. They don't even twitch if you step over them. A. walked past them on his way to the kitchen this weekend and said, "I think the dogs are dead." No, not dead, just comatose from the heat. They will occasionally get up, stagger a few feet, and then crash back down to the floor to settle back into their stupor.

This is pretty much how I've been dealing with the heat, with the addition of an electric fan and copious quantities of ice cream. I think today is the last day of this heat wave, and then normal activities can resume. As of now, I've been avoiding anything, like moving, that might make me sweat any more than necessary.

So why the hell am I sitting upstairs in the stiflingly hot study, cozied up to a computer that is emitting more heat than our space heater in the winter? Forget this. I'm out, y'all. If you need me, I'll be in front of the fan with a bowl of Perry's Chocolate Panda Paws ice cream.

Revere Me, for I Am Awesome

Hey, anyone remember this mess? Well, behold the power and might of Kristin and the wonderful changes she has wrought.

That corner of the window you can see is the same one I took a picture of earlier. Notice: no black stain, no massive crack, no nastiness of any sort. I amaze myself.

Also notice the bamboo shade on the window ($19.99 on sale at JCPenney!) and how it perfectly coordinates with the hardwood floor. How did I get this good?

We just won't remark on the fact that it took me over a week from start to finish to paint a room the size of your average bathroom. Nor will we discuss how I was literally dripping sweat (mmm, tasty!) yesterday as I cleaned up my many little paint smears and spills off the floor.

No, we'll just focus on how much I totally rule. And how pretty our bedroom is now. Yay for me!

Aaaand, end of ego trip. Good bye.

Because I'm a Giver . . .

I'm not going to continue to whine today about how HOT it is and OH MY GOD, I CAN'T STOP SWEATING. No, because I care about you and your feelings, today I give you roses.

You're welcome.