Mother vs. Nature, part 2

Continued from last night...

So Todd and I are  battling mutant rodents in the yard in hand to hand combat, but they are retaliating by bringing in giant rabid raccoons to crap next to the house.  I decided to eliminate their cover by hacking through the jungle of weeds and hedges that abut the garden.  As I'm climbing behind the garden fence with my pruners in hand, I swear I hear little squeaky voices saying, "Stanley!  Grab a beer and a camcorder, this is going to be great!" and another squeaky voice saying, "The dumb bitch is going to fall for it!" and a third, deeper voice yelling, "Alvin!"

I cut back into the weedy growth and hedges about a foot, so if the chipmunks are approaching the fence, we can see them and use our 30 foot flamethrower to incinerate them.  However, about 12 hours later, I realize that I have been handling this:

 Say hello to poison sumac.

It started as a little bug bite on my family gobbler chin.  I sort of absentmindedly scratched it, and thought, "Huh.  I need to use bug repellent."  Then it sort of spread, and then I could feel it developing on my chest where my bra strap would be, and then on my hip, and I thought, "Uh oh." Because whenever I get into poison ivy, oak, and now sumac, I turn into a balls-out leper.  Think I'm kidding?  Get a load of this action:

 This picture?  Is actually flattering.

I have a patch of this the size of a tea saucer on my chest, and a long 2-3 inch wide strip from my abdomen down my hip on either side.  At least I can rest assured that I will not get pregnant this month.  Glass half full!

You might be asking yourself, "Self, what is poison sumac like?"  Well, you are in luck, because my public humiliation is your learning tool.  It burns like when James bit Bella on the arm and Edward had to suck it out but he wasn't sure if he could stop. (By the way, why didn't Edward's eyes turn red after sucking Bella's blood?  Huh?)  It is blistery and oily and crusted over, and looks like there are tiny disgusting water balloons all over me.  Tonight I was working on the porch, my FAVORITE place in the world at this time of year, and Youngest Daughter was eating a bag of Cheetos in a nearby rocking chair.  Suddenly, out of NOWHERE, she throws down her bag of Cheetos and yells at me.  "I wish you had never gotten into that poison stuff because your face is so disgusting I can't eat!" and she stomped out of the room, crying.

YES, my face makes children cry.

And?  Oldest Daughter had to tell me my chin was dripping as I drove her to school today, which is every middle schooler's dream next to having her mom show everyone the Thriller dance in the middle school gym.  I had to carry a napkin with me to the Son's baseball game tonight so I could soak up my disgusting sap on the bleachers with the other parents.  They all gave me a wide berth.  I'm also lactating boil secretions through my shirt, and it's been a long time since I've secreted or lactated.  Yay, me!  Even Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein is eying me funny.  

So I guess I am on house arrest for the week, because this is really too disgusting for words.  When I was 11 I got the chicken pox and had my mom get me a yellow shirt with glitter rainbow letters that said, "POXY LADY" because weirdly enough I loved Jimi Hendrix back then.  I mean, I love him now, but at 11?  I was ahead of my time.  So I'm thinking of what t-shirts I could get for this.  Here are some ideas:

1.  "Kiss me, I'm a leper!
2. "You should see the other guy!"
3. "It's not syphilis - yet."
4. "Kiss the Cook!"
5. "Crusty the Clown Did This To Me"
6. "Seeking Pro Bono Dermatologist"

So the chipmunks have won this battle, but they have not won the war.  I plan to give them smallpox infested blankets and acorns rubbed in cold sores.  If they want to go to dermatological warfare, bring it on, baby.  I got all summer.

Mother vs. Nature, part 1

Growing up, I spent a lot of time on my grandparents' farm in southwestern Iowa.  Grandma would ask us what vegetable we wanted for dinner, and then we'd go out and pick it.  Want eggs for breakfast?  Let's head to the henhouse.  (I'm sure I didn't feed the baby pigs and think about bacon - my fond memories are full of sunshine and clean laundry on the line, not the squealing of animals on the kill floor.  Work with me here, I'm creating an image, dammit.)  For the last couple of years, I've been pining for some of the farm life I remember, and this is why I've dug up a huge part of my yard and planted a vegetable garden.

We (meaning me and the Son, don't get the idea CH spends much time out there) ripped up the sod and tilled all of the dirt boulders out there, and then we planted.  Soon, our sweet garden was being eaten by savage killer chipmunks and mutant baby rabbits, and we had to erect a fence.  We had some success with the garden last year, but this was to be the year of our victory.  Instead, we've been crippled early by the opposition.  I even put a Chipmunk song on the playlist today, but it was so annoying that I set it so you can play it if you want.  (I do this because I care about you more than the other readers of this blog, so don't tell them.)

George the Superpet is put on patrol 

while the garden is being tilled.

The other half of the garden - 

the green bushy part is our strawberry patch, 

which has already produced these:

I see some limeade, ice, and rum in your future, my pretties.

Um, I mean A Healthy Breakfast for the children.

Our garden is a little ambitious.  I've planted broccoli and cauliflower, yellow onions, peas, green beans, tomatoes (Celebrity, Roma, and Big Boy, only because the names of these varieties covered the Holy Trinity of People magazine, the Godfather, and CH.  Yeah CH, I went there), and peppers (red bell, green bell, yellow bell, jalapeno, and sweet peppers), zucchini, cilantro, basil, oregano, flat leaf parsley, rosemary, and the aforementioned strawberries.  I'm all about zucchini bread, spaghetti sauce, and salsa.

Here are some pre-critter plants:

  Broccoli and cauliflower plants, feeling safe before the night killings.

The Son, planting zucchini in an area 

we now refer to as 'Area 51' or 'Certain Death'.

(Peaches and) Herbs.

So The Son and I toiled away on our little garden patch, and we even put our fencing up this year, but we woke up one morning to find one broccoli plant eaten to the ground, and the other plants weeping and tearing their leaves.  We heard screams in the night, and woke the next day to find a zucchini plant torn stem from stem.  Two days later, a whole family of strawberries had been gutted and left to die in the patch.  And that just did it.  Those little bastard rodents were going down.

I called Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein. 

You know how when you want to fight the CIA, you call someone who is ex-CIA.  Steven Segal is always called in as an ex-Navy Seal who needs to kick some ass.  If BP was fighting Steven Segal, they would be crying uncle and the environment would be saved.  I'm voting for a Chuck Norris-Steven Segal ticket in 2012.  Anyway, I figure if you want to fight killer rodents, you get a kick ass killer rodent to fight them.  I give you Todd.

 Do you see a difference in Badassness?  Because I don't.

So Todd goes out on patrol, and the next day we find this by our HOUSE, about two feet away from the garden:

 Yeah, that is a huge pile of animal crap.  And it is bigger than Todd.  And kind of scary.  You know how you look at clouds and see things?  My family stood around this monstrosity and shared what we saw in the rabid raccoon scat.  Good times, good times.  So I decided maybe it was unsafe outside for Todd, and he fought me hard to stay outside, but I said, "Stand down, soldier" and he followed the chain of command.  Because I can't lose Todd.

The Son took to the patch with a bow and arrow.  The rules were to only shoot at the ground, and don't shoot toward the neighbor's house or toward the street, because it would be unfortunate if he accidentally shot someone we like.  At this point, you may be thinking, "Hey, c'mon Julie, these are just innocent little chipmunks!" 

But no.  Mine are gang-sign-throwing, meth-dealing, zombie-apocalypse-starting destroyers.

They all wear shades and pull their hoods up and they sing horrible songs in squeaky voices and make terrible movies and tag my grill with their little rodent gang signs and they EAT MY VEGGIES!  

So it's almost midnight and I have more to tell and I'm not one to cut a long story short in the interest of keeping my audience's attention, so I'm going to bed, but trust me when I say that things got VERY VERY ugly.  Literally.  I may be actually physically scarred for life and I blame the Munks.  Tune in tomorrow for part 2.  In the interim, I would like to hear about if any of you are doing veggie gardens, what are you growing, and what do you do to fight rodents?  You can say the word "strychnine" here, I won't judge.

Until tomorrow, gentle readers.  OH - Todd now has a Facebook fan page!  Feel free to Like him all you want at his Fanpage!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 28

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. (Yes, KAREN, that includes YOU!)

Today's topic: Good Vibrations.

There have been a number of new followers of A Day In The Wife this week on Blogger, Facebook, and Twitter, and for those of you who are Whoreticulture Friday virgins, I apologize that this is how we begin our relationship.  Things to know:  I am only really bawdy on Fridays, I stick to innuendo the rest of the week, and you can always pause the music.  Welcome, and I hope you stick around for Monday.  It will likely be about gardening.  Without dildos.  

But let's pause for a moment to think about Gardening WITH Dildos.  Hmmm.  How does YOUR garden grow?  And what would one have in lieu of a green thumb?  Hos with Hoes?  Bloom where you're planted?  The possibilities are endless.

So a few weeks ago, the fantabulous Brenda at MummyTime (Are you not following her yet? I'll wait.) celebrated her first Bloggy Birthday by doing a giveaway.  It wasn't just ANY giveaway.  It was the MummyTime SuperMegaAwesome Giveaway.  She was giving away ad space on her blog and on her pal Veronica's blog Sleepless Nights; some gorgeous handmade cups by Kim, of frogpondsrock, an Aussie artisan; a blog redesign with Blog Designs by Sarah; AND?  The BeBe. A VIBRATOR, sold at Love Being Woman.  And please.  You cannot throw down with a vibrator without me trying to win it.  All one had to do was answer this question:
"Why do I need and want to win MummyTime's SuperMegawesome Giveaway?"

Here was my answer:

A gift?! For me?!? On YOUR bloggy birthday? Oh you shouldn't have! (Yes. Yes you should.) Why ME and not these other fabio followers? Well....

A) Ad space. Who the heck doesn't love a little narcissistic ME time? I DO! And when I am published and famous I can say to Oprah "I really owe it all to Brenda and Veronica, they are the shizzle."

B) CUPS! I love cups! I use them every day, as a matter of fact, but nothing as pretty as these. I would say, "Oprah, you should have your mint julep out of these cups. I owe these to Brenda as well!"

C) THE BE BE!! HELL TO THE YES! If I win The Be Be, I promise that during every single orgasm for a year I will yell "MUMMYTIME! MUMMYTIME!" and you can take that to the bank. (No Oprah, you may not borrow The Be Be. Take it up with Brenda, you should have entered the contest.)

D) What blog couldn't use a makeover? There are many things I would like to do with my blog, but don't have the know how. While I am sure The Be Be would give me some transformative powers, I need professional help for techie things. Waxing my blog's mustache and shaping it's eyebrows is a must.

In any event, thanks for having the Mummytime Supermegaawesome giveaway. It's like an Internet Festival. xoxo julie

AND I WON.  A vibrator.  

God Bless the Internet.

Now I have to decide who should own it.  I could keep it for myself, yes, and I have to admit that I am a vibe virgin.  But it is SOOOOOOO tempting to give it away.  Who would want a vibrator as a gift?  Who wouldn't?  Here is my short list of great recipients:

• 
  
  Mother-in-law Christmas gift (I'd send it to you Mom, but I know you have one.)

• 
  
  
  End of year Teacher gift

• 
  
  
  Newly divorced friends

• 
  
  
  New Neighbor Welcome Wagon gift

• 
  
  
  Gift for Jen Lancaster at next book signing

• 
  
  
  Cellmate gift when I break Jen Lancaster restraining order

• 
  
  
  Store for CH to give to me when he only gets me a gas station gift card on our 15-year-anniversary later this summer

 

See?  The BeBe is the gift that keeps on giving.  And look how pretty they make it:

 In my drawer it would be next to some Tums, nail clippers and my picture of Damian Kulash from Ok Go Current Husband, but you get the idea.


But wait, there's more!  They have a You Tube video demonstrating how to unpack and power up your BeBe:
  


Dude.  I. Want. This. Job.  And doesn't everything sound fantastic in an Australian accent?  They could be saying, "And then you shove the whole thing up your arse!" and it would sound so lovely that you would go, "Oh, that's all?  It's so easy!"


On the Love Being Woman website, they have some interesting information, including the history of the vibrator.  According to the BeBe people, at one time women were prescribed vibrators to cure the symptoms of hysteria.  The site also reports that by 1917 there were more vibrators in American homes than toasters, which doesn't surprise me much, because really, What Have You Done For Me LATELY, Toast?


Seriously?  It's stuff like this that reassures me there is good in the world.  Happy people, promoting vibrators on the internet, but with CLASS and FACTS.  *sigh*  I love blogging.


But this post is just about the BeBe.  As a Vibe Virgin, I brought this topic up at my book club this week, and they suggested looking into The Rabbit.  (Can you imagine how thrilled my book club is when I don't show up?  Because then when someone says, "So, did you think the main character was suppressing their inner rage?" I don't jump in and say, "Hey, I won a vibrator!")  So next week?  Good Vibrations, Part Deux, The Rabbit.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend! 
 

Stalker Update: Jen

I really do love the people I stalk.

Some of you are familiar with my established stalking of Jen Lancaster (My Fair Lazy, on bookshelves now!), and how my friend and I made a pilgrimage to see her that ended up ugly and could have been uglier.  But really, was somuchfunbesttimeever.  I did finish My Fair Lazy, and I loved it, but I'm going into it ready to love it anyway, so take that recommendation with a grain of salt.

As part of my stalking program, I like to contact my victims, but I'm a top shelf criminal and only write when I have a reason.  Therefore, it was with gratitude that I wrote Jen Lancaster a few weeks ago upon my return from Chicago.  There are a couple of reasons for writing:

1. Aspiring writers are always fobbing their work off on someone more successful, because they always hope someone will read their stuff and say, "Why does she not have an agent and a book deal yet?"  It's a little like buying a Powerball ticket - you can't win if you don't play, but your chances of winning are about the same as Lindsay Lohan straightening her life out.
2. The more authors I stalk, the more I realize how many stalkers they have.  Julie Powell, of Julie & Julia fame, allows comments on her blog, and I would say 80%  of them are telling her to go read their work, 10% of them are calling her a slut, and the other 10% say they love her.  I stay in the Love Her 10% because I feel bad that she gets bugged so much.  Jen Lancaster has said in interviews that a large volume of her mail is people trying to get her to read their stuff, or complaining at her that she doesn't blog enough anymore.  Okay, I do send her links to my blog when I write.  But the reason for writing is always to compliment her work - I have Stalker Standards!
3. I truly appreciate the authors who blog, do Facebook, Twitter, etc, and do the signings.  They do actually have lives, and keeping up with all of the social media, fan requests, and book events keeps them from their marriages, kids, pets, lives, and writing more great material.  It's a sacrifice that Jen Lancaster probably doesn't have to make anymore, and yet, she does.

So....here is the e-mail I sent to her:

On Mon, May 17, 2010 at 11:11 AM, Julie wrote:
Dear Jen-
Attended your signing at Borders last Friday, sorry to say I was *ahem* mildly intoxicated after long wet lunch at Ralph Lauren, but you, and Fletch (whom my 40-something sorority posse jumped after books signed) were lovely.  Thanks for doing the appearances, your fans love love love them (except for woman behind me without the coveted BLUE wristband, who nearly took out a blade and cut Borders employees - Xanax, over here, STAT!)

I'm aware that you have around two seconds to yourself a day and are trying to buy your short sale house and pet your animals, but if you have time to kill I blogged, with interesting photos, about our day-long stalking of your signing, and how my Borders Rewards card got revoked.  No need to reply, just wanted to say thanks!

Halfway through MFL, love it.  Good luck with the house.

xo
Julie, drunk woman who tried not to fall on you during signing
www.adayinthewife.com

And here is the reply I received this morning:

Julie,

Thanks for coming! It was fun and it's always a thrill not to be thrown up on!

Best,

Jen

I love her.  I'm sure she replies to most, if not all, of her fan mail.  But really?  Look how long and detailed my message is to her.  Clearly, I'm obsessed.  Why does she keep encouraging me this way?  Someone needs to have a talk with Jen, because I can't be held responsible for what I do at the next signing I attend.  After the restraining order expires.

It's always a thrill to get something back from someone you admire.  I hope something unexpected and wonderful happens in your day today as well, Gentle Reader!

Snakes on My Plane

I am one of the few moms on the block who is not completely freaked out by mice.  Or snakes.  Or flatulence.  I can't get a kid to school on time and the house is always a mess, but snakes?  Meh.

Middle Son has a friend with a corn snake, and so, ergo, the son wanted a corn snake.  I talked to my dad about how the son wanted a snake, and he was intrigued until I told him what the corn snake eats:  Mice.  Little frozen baby mice.  And more than monogamy, sobriety, or people of other races and cultures, my dad hates mice.

When I was in fifth grade, everyone took turns taking Chester the Hamster home from school for the weekend.  Chester was a cute little fluffy white hamster, but my dad really hated Chester, whom he referred to as "the Rat".  Since I was in fifth grade and my sister was in second grade, I pulled rank and wouldn't let her hold Chester.  She decided to do what any younger sister would do - she sneaked out of bed and held Chester while everyone was sleeping.  And then she accidentally left the cage door open.  Chester got out and the next time I saw Chester, my dad was trying to kill him with a ski pole in the closet of our storage room.  Luckily, crisis was averted and I recovered Chester for the school.

Another time, Dad drove about 24 hours to our house to visit, and I complained about a peculiar smell in the kitchen.  The house was built in 1900, so peculiar smells will happen, but when it got worse I started tearing the kitchen apart.  When I found a dead mouse under my stove, Dad packed up and left two days early.  He literally stayed in the house about two more hours after I found the mouse, and couldn't do it.  Bye, grandkids!  See you when you're in college! 


Another time, when CH and I were visiting Mom and Dad in Texas, Dad told us about finding dog food nuggets in the back hallway near his shoes.  He wondered aloud if perhaps mice were moving it.  Always looking for ways to screw with Dad, CH and I left a few dog food nuggets in the hallway, causing Dad to look for an entry point for mice.  He narrowed the culprit down to a small gap in the garage door.  Before we left to drive home, I filled one of Dad's shoes with dog food.  CH and I laughed and laughed all the way home about our prank, and when we got home we called and said, "So, what did you do today?" and Dad said, "I went out and bought a new garage door.  Those mice were getting bad."  We looked at each other, got off the phone quickly, and never confessed.

Dad couldn't understand the need for a corn snake.  "Don't most people try to avoid snakes in their homes?"  They live in southern Texas, and the game warden has been to their house more than once to remove five foot snakes from various places in their house.  "And those mice?  Nothing good comes from bringing mice in your house, even if they are dead."


Having Cy the Snake eat mice has never really bothered me.  They come in cute little plastic pouches, so I never see them.  Once, when I was paying for something in a store, I reached in my purse and accidentally pulled out a packet of "pinkies", which are the baby frozen mice.  I had purchased them the night before, and forgot to put them in the freezer, so I was walking around with thawed baby mice in my purse.  Ish.  The clerk wasn't too thrilled either.


Last week, Cy the Snake DID do something that bothered me - he made the Son cry.  The Son had moved Cy up from eating "pinkies" to eating "hoppers", which are more like teenage frozen mice.  Cy had a bulge in his tummy, and the Son decided to take Cy outside for some fresh air.  A short time later, CH and I are talking and we hear the horrible sound of the Son crying in panic, "MOM!  Mom!  Come quick!  Oh Cy!  Cy!"  We ran to the back door, and here he comes, Cy writhing around in his hands, and he yells, "Cy threw up on the porch!  I think he's going to die!"


Let me make one thing clear.  I got the snake because he was supposed to be low maintenance.  It's hard enough watching George the Superpet walk around all sad because we are terrible people and don't walk him.  But the snake?  Get in yer glass tank and shut up.  Now that we have the snake, I have to make weekly mouse runs, make sure he has water, find a summer location for him so he can burrow, and now apparently I have to clean up his puke.  Who friggin' knew snakes puke?


CH looked at me like "I call dibs!", took the Son by the arm and said, "Let's get Cy upstairs and into some water."  As they're walking away, he looks back over his shoulder at me, like "Sucka!", and this is how I know I'm getting stuck cleaning the puke.

I walk onto the porch.  George looks up from where he is smelling the puke and gives me a "wasn't me" look.  There, at his feet, is a puke worthy of a cat or a very small dog, which came out of a snake the thickness of my pinky finger.  Even worse, I can see that it is basically a fully hydrated mouse covered in slime.  I look at the mouse and I sigh, and then I clean it up with great reluctance.  

As I used forty paper towels to pick up my half digested friend, my dad's voice echoed in my head, "Nothing good comes from bringing mice in your house, even if they are dead."  Perhaps, just this once, Father knows best.  Cy the Snake lived, but the next time we get a pet in this house, we are going retro, and buying a Pet Rock.