Dear Indiana Jones: You're not the Only One that Hates Snakes

Five days ago a neighbor on my street and who also happens to be a friend on Facebook, updated her status that her immediate next door neighbor had found a rattlesnake in their garage. E-freakin'-gads! It's not the first time we've had rattlesnakes on our street. In the last almost 14 years that we've lived here there are two neighbors whose dogs have been bitten, one neighbor who both surprised the snake lying beneath and himself when wheeling out his trash container, and my own husband who found one curled up behind the wheel of our car in our own driveway.

And those are just the occasions that I know about. I sat my children down the evening after reading the status update to remind them to keep an eye out when retrieving their bikes, skateboards, and toys from the garage...to stay out of the gated access to the hills behind our homes, and to just overall be mindful of their surroundings. And to run in the absolute opposite direction if they see anything resembling a snake and to let the first adult they see know.

Last night at dusk my daughter came tearing through the front door in borderline hysterics to let me know she just saw a snake. She was talking in that voice where you could tell she was doing everything in her power not to completely lose her shit. And where her eyes were as big as saucers because she didn't want to blink, lest the tears escape from her eyeballs.

I talked calmly to her to get her to, you know, relax a little bit and asked her to show me the snake. It was located across the street next door to the neighbor who'd updated her status only a few days prior, half on the front lawn and the face half on the sidewalk. My daughter had rode by it on her scooter. *shiver* The home belongs to a fortysomthing divorced dad who looks like he's in the kind of shape that he can take care of himself. And now that I've seen the snake, me, a responsible adult shut up you stop laughing I have to do something about it. I mean, have you any idea how many children live and play on our street? It's like an elementary school playground on that cul-de-sac.

I can't just leave it there and I'm not confident nor coordinated enough to trust myself to go toe to toe with a snake. I know myself and I would end up bitten and losing my foot from the ankle down. I figure, since the neighbor is a man - a man with ample tools in his garage - I will let him wrangle the rattlesnake. I knock on his door and he is so surprised to see me standing there.

See, I'm not super friendly with my neighbors. I mean, I wave hello and will have a brief chat if I'm outside, but I prefer to keep to myself. It is my belief that it can be all kinds of crappy to be too chummy with the neighbors. Your home is your place of peace, privacy, and a little anonymity. I don't need to be stuck next door to people knowing all my business. I have seen friends of mine live to regret the nightly beer or glass of wine in the garage or backyard with the people on their street. When those people are suddenly privy to much too personal family matters and, you know, everyone knows your business. No. Thank. You.

So I tell him "there's a rattlesnake in your yard". And plead with my eyes "kill it now please Jesus god". I have no problem with assigning gender roles between men and women. If women have to bear the pain of childbirth then the men can be in charge of killing the bugs and wrangling the wildlife. Only. Seems. Fair.

He grabbed the nearest shovel, took aim, and chopped its head off in one quick motion.

The End. of the snake

The Adventures of Phoebe Farklepants

When Mr. Farklepants surprised the family in April of 2009 with a black lab mix puppy, I expected for her to provide enough fodder to create volumes of blog posts. Well, she's sorta failed me in that regard. Where fail equals I can sum up in one post her shenanigans. I have documented a couple of events here and there but she hasn't done much else. For instance the picture below is of Phoebe resting after having her lady parts removed. And that spot on the couch? Became her permanent territory during her recuperation and continues to belong to her to this day. The pillow featured behind her in the picture?



That pillow became a casualty of puppydom. She killed it. She tore open its chest and ripped out its heart in the time it took me to unload and reload the clothes dryer. In fact, every single throw pillow in this house met the same fate. She is quick and precise. The same can be said for three books, all in the time it took for me to make the beds.

She is learning that not everything belongs to her and she's getting better about stealing and chewing items that are not hers. Oh, she still makes a habit of eating guitar picks for snacks, and if she gets a hold of a shoe or a toy you better hope you catch her the moment it happens. And it happens at least every other day. And you're probably saying to yourself, how can Tootsie say that Phoebe is getting better if it is happening that frequently? Well, I'll tell you why. This dog? Is smart. And fast. And she learned early on that humans cannot catch her. She also learned that if she ran around the dining room table there was no way that humans were fast enough to be on the same side of table at the same time with her. And if you were the only human at home and couldn't form a formidable block utilizing the other humans in the residence, she could have you chasing her around that table in an endless game of chase making a complete ass out of you. Have you ever chased a dog around a table and at about the fifth or sixth round you thought to yourself, what if someone were watching me right now; would they take bets on how many laps you would round before you realize I'M CHASING A FRICKEN DOG AROUND A TABLE?

So, yeah. Now she will more often than not drop said item if you simply bark, DROP IT! Unless she manages to get into the backyard with it then you can just forget about ever seeing it alive again because wide open spaces still belong to The Phoebe.

Badassery

*what you can't see is that Boy-Child#2 is directly on the other side of the child in this picture. And the object of the tiger's voracious appetite affection.

Do you ever have one of those moments where you're like, ohmygod this is like the coolest thing I've ever seen! And, hey! Look at the size of that animals paws, they're like, bigger than my son's head! Conflicted with...

...wait...

Perhaps I ought to get my children the hell out of here! And - just how strong IS that safety glass? And - who could I save first? And - how fast can a tiger eat my head? And - sandals aren't the best running away from ferocious animal shoes.

No one? Just me?

The Rest of Her Ear Lay Somwhere in the Dog's Lower Intestine

The puppy is a chewer.

Let the record show that Vintage Thirty states the obvious.

Fortunately, so long as we're diligent in keeping an eye on her, we can thwart any potential chewing casualties and, also fortunately, she is easily distracted by her own plush, squeaky toys. And my kitchen rug - which is now hers. Whatever, I don't care - she can have it. The few incidences where we let our guard down, weren't on our toes, had our backs turned; the AC adapter cord for the Nintendo DS was severed, one Nerf gun bullet became smithereens, one adult male dress sock lost a heel, and one flip-flop strap was mutilated and the footwear rendered useless.

Not too terrible considering a friend of mine lost one WHOLE HALF of her COUCH to an unsupervised pup. And my sister in law - several hundred dollars worth of shoes.

Enter Wednesday. And Skunky:


Skunky is Girl-Child's most beloved toy. It is from the Littlest Pet Shop collection and Girl-Child is a collector of teeny tiny toys. I retrieved Skunky from Phoebe's mouth - now with Kung Fu grip action! - Wednesday night. It began with a cute woodgie woodgie, what do you have in your mouth? And ended with SCREAMING!!! and a morphine drip when I realized what I'd pulled out.



I was then faced with a dilemma. A) Do I dispose of the evidence and feign ignorance of its whereabouts? Only to be met with the trauma of a lost Skunky? B) Do I present Skunky, in her mutilated state, to Girl-Child - do it quick like ripping off a band-aid and endure the massive FREAKOUT!!! that would surely present itself and also the possible new found hatred of the puppy? Or C) do I leave it, inconspicuously, among her other smallish belongings to be discovered at a later date? Brave Mom goes with C.

Enter Thursday. And Girl-Child's discovery of Skunky - now with holes and half of an ear!!! A very distraught young lady made her way down the stairs from her room - now with more sobbing!!! She was met with my, it's okay Honey I can Crazy Glue Skunky good as new.

Hello, have you met my irrational fear of Crazy Glue? Where "irrational fear" equals - that time I glued four fingers from my right hand together that had to be separated by a can of acetone from the garage by a laughing, mocking husband? Shut up, Mr. Farklepants. Just stop it.

Vintage Thirty is happy to report that Girl-Child is mostly pleased with the magical healing powers of the glue. And, according to Girl-Child, henceforth known as - Wild Glue.

**Vintage Thirty wishes someone had had the foresight to take before-repair pictures of Skunky considering a certain someone has a blog and said certain someone should have know better.

ACME Kite Kit Not Included

Sunday evening Mr. Farklepants pipes up out of nowhere and asks, "So, do you wanna go for a walk"? And I was all, who are you and what have you done with my husband and p.s. do you do dishes? My shock is in reference to the fact that Mr. Farklepants rarely parts with his laptop. It's how he spends his downtime and I'm not complaining now - he could prefer to spend it elsewhere like golf, sporting events, poker, bars, or anything else that get's him away from the house. At least he's home. For those who prefer visual aides - Mr. Farklepants seen here with three laptops and a Starbucks Grande full of temporary energy... with whip:



So I was all, shhhhhuuuurrre, yeah! I suggest bringing Phoebe along [because, although she knows where her leash is located and knows that in order for that leash to be attached to her collar she needs to sit; walking on her leash is a whole other matter. There's much dragging of and giving in and carrying of the puppy. It's a work in progress - you understand]. And then I add: since we're just going around the neighborhood? Indeed, stated as a questionable fact.

Mr. Farklepants says, no I was thinking of going to Towsley Canyon. This would make it necessary for me to change out of my skirt and flip flops.

Mr. Farklepants and I differ in our definition of walk. If I have to strap on some shoes with traction then walk equals hike. Tomato/Toe-mah-toe? More like, Tomato/Willdabeast.

"Then we should leave Phoebe at home", I say. I didn't want to get a mile into treacherous terrain and have her lay down like, that's all the walking I'm about to do - carry me?


(Forgive me while I use the term "treacherous terrain" loosely. Exaggerate, who?)

The other reason for insisting that Phoebe stay home is that the vet specifically instructed that, since she isn't finished with her vaccinations, she should avoid any areas where other dogs congregate and, more importantly, coyotes roam. Parasite infested coyotes.

At the tail end of our hike, Mr. Farklepants goes into stealth mode and signals to me, "There's something in the grass". He takes aim with his camera and shoots:


Later seen failing at firing a bow and arrow with ACME dynamite strapped to it then painting a realistic tunnel onto the rock face only to be hit by the train that emerged. He was remarkably unscathed.

**photos of trail and coyote by Mr. Farklepants and his super badass camera

The Power of Suggestion

I'm not going to claim to have the smartest puppy ever but, HELLA SMART! I expected to have never ending tales to weave when we welcomed Phoebe Farklepants into the family, cuz, puppies are messy. But so far the only chewing casualties have been one flip flop and a Nerf gun bullet. I've found that as long as I keep an eye on her she isn't given much chance to get into trouble. It's the luxury I have being home full time.

She loves to go for a ride in the car. When our previous dog, Baby, was a puppy I worked full time up until Boy-Child#1 was born. So I didn't have heck of a lot of time to spend with her during the day. Hence her lack of car rides. Then when Boy-Child#1 came along, then Boy-Child#2 and being straddled with a toddler and an infant and trying to wrangle the infant seat into the stroller and simultaneously keep the toddler from darting into parking lots and traffic or wandering aimlessly; I didn't have the patience or appropriate amount of appendages to corral the dog too. By the time Girl-Child came along, Baby was eight and passed her formative puppy years. And by this time, she hated car rides and leaving the house in general. Any trip we took her on was riddled with chronic heavy panting, visible shaking, and tucked tail for the entire amount of time we were away from home. To say she hated it is an understatement.

This time is different. Learn from our past, I always say. Phoebe joins me when it is time to pick the boys up from school, softball practices and games. She's learned that if she wants to go bye-bye she needs her leash. She's learned that that leash is located on the dining room table. She knows what "bye-bye" means and also knows that if she wants that leash attached to her collar, she has to sit. So she sits.

She also has learned to scratch at the back door when she needs to relive herself. Mostly. I was all set to tell you that, while she's had some setbacks in peeing on the floor, it has been since Wednesday April 18th since she last crapped on the carpet. An event that included Mr. Farklepants jumping up and grabbing her mid-evacuation in order to usher her outside; an event that activated the launch sequence and Phoebe became one who flung pooh. Which came dangerously close to my beloved couch. Which caused hyperventalating and myocardial infarction.

I was all set to tell you that. But while mentally composing this blog post, Phoebe squatted and lost half a pound on my living room carpet. Fortunately it was a firm one.

If I'd Stayed an Extra Week I Might Have Come Home to Hardwood Floors Too

The kids and I spent the week leading up to and including Easter, in Virginia visiting the most awesomest brother ever to have lived in the history of siblings. This left Mr. Farklepants to his own devices - where own devices equals spoiling Tootsie like the pretty pampered princess that she is. When many women describe romance they use words like: flowers, candlelit dinners, strolls on the beach at sunset, jewelry, and spooning. Meh, say I. One word that sums up the true meaning of romance for me is: consideration. So when Mr. Farklepants, in my absence, took it upon himself to replace the tires, windshield (that met the business end of a sandstorm on the drive home from out of town one sunny afternoon and was left with a severe pocking), floor mats, complete detailing inside and out, and any scuffs, dings, and scratches magically removed from my car; well, is it any wonder why I had the sudden urge to throw caution to the wind and want to strip nekkid and roll around on him right there in the Bob Hope airport parking lot? You understand what I'm saying. My car was all: sheeeeen sparkle sparkle!

But wait. There's more. David Copperfield Mr. Farklepants had another trick to pull out of his magic hat. He reached in elbow deep and pulled out one of these:



As many of you may remember, our dog and loving family member for thirteen years, Baby passed away on January 19th. It was many weeks before we were even able to discuss the possibility of adopting another and we finally decided that we would resume the conversation after our vacation, because there was no sense in bringing home a new puppy only to leave her for a week. Did you catch that? Resume conversation. Converse. Talk. Discuss. So imagine our surprise upon returning home to find that little ball of fluff, tumble, and cute sitting in the middle of the living room floor!

It turns out that Mr. Farklepants' coworker knows a guy, who knows this guy, who has an ex-wife, who has this daughter, whose daughter has this grandmother who has this dog that had a litter of black lab puppies. And this daughter of this grandmother happened to be passing through our neighborhood while we were out of town and brought the two remaining puppies with her. And Mr. Farklepants swooped up that bundle of perfection to surprise his family.

Vintage Thirty will pause for this moment of awwwwwwwwwwwe...

Now, put five people together in a room to name one puppy and oh. mah. gah. I'll spare the tales of bloodshed and woe.

You've been introduced to Phoebe Farklepants. AKA, blogfodder for years to come.

Her Name Was Baby...

The Farklepants family lost a dear friend today. She was a member of our family for thirteen years this month.

She was Boy-Child#1's best friend.

She was my lone companion while the kids were in school and Mr. Farklepants was at work.

She loved underpants and had an ongoing not so secret love affair with the cardboard centers of toilet paper and paper towel rolls.


She frequently raided the pantry.

And the trash.

She enjoyed stashing prepackaged snacks into the corners of the sofa.

She was known to steal a roast or the Thanksgiving turkey carcass right off the counter.

She hated the vet and, in the office, would stand on her hind legs and wrap her arms around my neck whenever she had to go there.

She thought she was a lap dog. She weighed nearly one hundred pounds.

She liked to be in whichever room we were all in.

She slept in our room.

She liked to chase rabbits and birds.

She didn't like to leave the house.

She was often the thorn in my side and the straw that broke this camel's back.

She often slept on our beds when we left the house.

She always greeted us upon our return.

She enjoyed helping me do laundry, fold clothes, take a shower, cook dinner, bring in the groceries.

She did NOT enjoy helping me vacuum or blow dry my hair.

She was not a fan of bodies of water, rain, snow, or wind.

Cell phones drove her mad. So did air compressors. And vacuums. And hair dryers.

She scared the bejesus out of the pizza delivery guy. And the UPS man.

She was as gentle as a lamb even if she looked super ferocious.

Her bed lay empty. Yesterday's food still sits in her dish.

We were all with her in her final moments.

And there is a hole in my heart now that she's gone.

I miss you Baby. We miss you. May you rest in peace you sweet Baby, you.

Exhibit A for Argument in Favor of a Cuss Jar

My dog. Ain't she sweet? Fortunately she's cute. And we love her. Because this dog? Is trying to kill me. She does this thing were she has to be exactly where I am at all times. If I'm bringing the groceries in from the garage, she will lay down about three steps in from where I'd come through the door. So that I don't see her until I've taken one giant step forward and have to do this little side step, jump, hop, skip to keep from stomping her. If I'm unloading the dryer, she will sit directly behind me so that when I open the dryer door, pull out the contents and step back, I will have to pull some pretty impressive maneuvers to keep from squashing her. If I'm in the shower she will lay in front of the door. And I basically have to yell at her to move so I can get out [personally, I think she likes to see me naked because sometimes I catch her and she does this thing like she's pretending she's not looking].

If I'm walking down the stairs she will walk ahead of me. And I'll be going along at a pretty good clip and she will suddenly stop. Just BAM! Stop. And I have to grab onto the wall to keep from going ass over tea kettle over her and down the stairs.

[Speaking of stairs, you know how walking down the stairs is kind of just something you do and not something you have to actually think about; like breathing? Have you ever thought about it while you're descending the staircase? Well, don't. Once you start picturing left foot, right foot, next step; it will jack your shit up. And you look kind of dumb when it becomes obvious you've forgotten how to walk down stairs. Not that I would know anything about that.]

She's a heavy breather and she follows me around doing this hhhhhh hhhhhh hhhhhh thing. Which comes from the pit of her bowels and smells like death. I keep thinking she needs a bath but that odor is from the inside. She's old and apparently rotting. A breath mint won't cut it and I'm pretty sure that even the Tidy Bowl Man isn't brave enough for that adventure.


Sometime during the night on Christmas Eve she was either mad at me, or us, or Jesus, or Santa. Or she wanted coffee in a bad way. And we were met with the contents of our kitchen garbage strewn about the floor. Why don't dogs get in the trash when there aren't coffee grounds in there?

Plus it rained the last two days and I'm pretty sure that she's intentionally going outside just to bring in extra mud followed by more mud. And who's bright idea was it to put cream colored carpet in this house? Oh. Right.

Fricken dog.

It Would Have Been in my Best Interest to Clean my Stove First

**DISCLAIMER: The following is not a paid endorsement of any product or products and it would also behoove you to ignore the grout that needs obvious bleaching and also the filthy stove top that gave this post its "B" rating. Plus, sources say you cannot contract Hepatitis in any letter of the alphabet form from reading a blog post** Ahem...

Friends? Are you a lazy sonofabitch like me? Are you tired of making breakfast in the morning and finding yourself saying things like, "Now I have to put this wooden spoon in the dishwasher" or "Measuring cups baffle me" or "I'd make a big pancake breakfast on a regular basis if it weren't for this mixing bowl that needs washing afterward"? Well, you're in luck! Because now there is this! [Ignore the bowl of eggs for the scrambled egg side dish...a bowl that will need washing because we aren't talking about that. We're ignoring it... moving on....] This is Bisquick Shake 'n Pour! Pancakes in a jug! It is a godsend for the anti-stirrer. You just add a cup and a half of water and shake for 30 seconds. This can also count as your cardio for the day because about 15 seconds in your arm will fatigue and you'll have to switch hands. The instructions also indicate that you should tap the sides for maximum mixing. Note: Do this. Also? Loosen the top afterwards to avoid an explosion. It's chemistry 101, people.


Now that you've finished shaking, simply pour the desired amount. Preferably into a heavy duty non-stick pan like this dilly from Pampered Chef. Now, I've already mentioned that I don't do home parties, but if you're in need of a Pampered Chef item you can either wait until someone throws one [a party that is] or you can visit their website and avoid it [again with the party] altogether. Or? You can do like me and drop hints to your sister in law (who threw one) that you would really like an addition to the set your mother in law already purchased for you and then let your sister in law give it to you for Christmas! Everybody is happy.

When your pancake looks like this (below) it is time to flip the bitch.

I'd say that's about perfect. Please note the cleanliness of the non-stick pan. No butters, sprays, or oils were used in the creation of these pancakes.

Bisquick Shake 'n Pour claims that it will yield 12-15 pancakes. Or in my case: Ten. And now they have butter on them. Because pancakes without butter is like cake without frosting. Wrong.

When your family has had their fill Bisquick Shake 'n Pour pancakes make excellent Scooby Snacks.

She agrees.

I apologize for the blurriness of the last two photos but if you witnessed me trying to aim and shoot with the camera while handing her a pancake without her also eating my hand, you'd understand.

Then I Heard Her Say: "I Like This Picture of Me. It Hides My Muffin Top"

This picture tells a tale. You're probably thinking that I'm pointing out that she wears a little too much eyeliner for her age, but ya know, she's all "I really like a smokey eye". What she won't admit is how well it compliments the dirt encrusted on her snout from burying her crack toilet paper cardboard centers in various locations around our backyard. And on special occasions (like, because it rained) she will dig them up and present them to you. You just aren't allowed to touch them.

Let's not get started on her pedicure.

You Can Gauge the Way the Day Will Go When it Starts Like This

There can only be one explanation for this type of trash ransacking:

A certain, and fortunately very cute, dog with an affinity for the cardboard center of a toilet paper roll. One humans trash is a canines coveted treasure. I'm not even angry with her because all I can say is "Thanks be to Jesus that it's not my underwear"...again.

Oh shut up. You're so busted.

Even He Couldn't Believe Just How Bad That Smelled

Recommended by George Clooney. I'll just add this to my copious list of things we have in common. Number 87: The sense of humor of a twelve year old.

I Can Haz Pretty Pictures

Thanks to that Oh-So-Classy OHmommy, I can now get results that my average but not fantastic Pentax Optio 550 camera cannot. OHmommy provided a link to Picnik which is a godsend for us photoshop impaired. Now I've been spending all of my free time doing things like this (plus the photos from my previous entry):

BEFORE:

AFTER:

and this...
BEFORE:

AFTER:

And (my very patient model):
BEFORE:

And after:

Also, if your dog isn't terribly friendly towards children, please do not stand directly in front of the entry way of a CHILD CENTER /DANCE /PRESCHOOL chatting it up with your girlfriends and simultaneously barking orders at children (who approach the center and your dog) to PLEASE DON'T TOUCH YOUR DOG SHE'S NOT TRAINED!! Using all caps while speaking to my daughter. My "okay whatever lady" was said in exactly the tone I meant it so roll your eyes straight up your ass.

Bird Spelled Backwards is Drib

The bird. His name is Drib.

The nest. Wouldn't be my first choice but very "green", which is so in right now.

That bird that was trying to get in my bathroom window because, I believed, he wanted to eat me, slap flap me, do extreme bodily harm? Well, he lives here. Yeah. Rude huh? Didn't even ask. Doesn't even pay rent. And, between you and me, I don't think he went to college or has a decent paying job. Of course, I would be guessing. He's gone and fashioned himself herself? [for the sake of this post Drib will be referred to as a "he" because I have not done a genital check on the bird - oh, and get this: I totally caught some pigeon on pigeon action in my backyard. They were totally doing it. In the daylight.] a mud nest under the eaves of my roof just outside the bathroom window. Or as they say in the real estate world: Location, Location, LOCATION! Drib is an early riser and is quite noisy about it. Fortunately for him he hasn't thrown any wild late night parties yet, so he can stay. For now. I'm still trying to figure out what kind of bird he is. The possibilities are Nuthatch, Swallow, Finch, or Robin. I'm leaning heavily towards Robin. [Drib is blue as in "color" not as in "melancholy"] Eliminated possibilities: Crow, Buzzard, Duck, nor the Blue tailed or Longtailed Tit. It's not a Blue-Footed Boobie or any other kind of Boobie, for that matter. And definitely not a Penguin. I'm not so scared of him anymore and as a matter of fact he's quite friendly. He goes all "voyeur" during our morning rituals, and we're all like, "Hi Birdie!" and he answers with some quick head twists :left eye! right eye! left eye! right eye!: then he'll fly away to his other favorite spot; the wall at the edge of my yard to get those heart palpitations under control because the humans spoke to him. But quicker than you can say ROAST SQUAB! He's back. And we're all, "there's that crazy bird". And he darts left and right - I'm over here. Now I'm here. Now I'm there. I'm over here. Here. There. Here. There.- He's there all day. Bumping, knocking, and pecking. He's destroying my window. It's like Shitfest '08. So, I took a picture of him and totally crossed the line. He's not a picture taking kind of bird. He was not amused.

Scientific Inaccuracies My Daughter Learned From Wonder Pets

The Wonder Pets is a Nick Jr. (offspring of Nickelodeon) program that features Ming-Ming Duckling (aka 'Peking' - thanks to the Yuan Dynasty- and is also referred to as 'fois gras'), Turtle Tuck ( aka 'Soup'), and Linny the Guinea Pig (more commonly known as 'Pelts' and less commonly known as 'Snacks', and secretly known as 'Javier' but only by his frat brothers). The antics on the show are scientifically inaccurate. I know. It's a cartoon. Just bear with me. From the episode The Wonder Pets Save the Dinosaur and one of their more impossible scenarios; children are learning:

1) That a boat can be manned by a duck, guinea pig, and a turtle. And? That it can fly. Also? That they can speak. Even with a speech impediment. Wearing fashionable yet functional headgear.


2) That a duck, guina pig, and turtle would be physically capable of saving a triceratops. Which they pronounce "twicewitops". Thank you Nick Jr. for the opportunity to teach my daughter the proper use of the letter "r".


3) That apparently modern ducks, guina pigs, turtles, and the extinct triceratops (triceritopsuses? triceratopti?) inhabited the earth at the same time and not millions of years apart from each other. Okay. Maybe the turtle. Although, their exact ancestry is disputed.

Then:


Now:

Open Up And Say Llamahhhhhh...

I'm a born and raised city/suburb girl and don't know a thing about farm animals other than being able to identify them by name when I see them. Anything else about them is completely foreign. So of course it makes perfect sense that I want a llama. Or an alpaca. I'm not too choosy. Last night's episode of Dirty Jobs was "let's to disgusting medical procedures on llamas". And I learned some things. For instance, male llama's have upper teeth for the specific purpose of biting off the testicles of other males. Wow. Man. That is some harsh shit. I am so glad I'm not a male llama. I wouldn't want to be on either end of that deal. Another fun fact: I wasn't aware that to determine weather or not a llama is pregnant, one must shove their hand and ultra sound equipment up the animals ass. Not the first place I would look for a fetus. But then again, I'm no veterinarian. And really relieved that the vet is not my ob/gyn. Especially having to have it done while standing, staring at the wall, chained and drugged, in a corner completely shamed. Of course, if someone is going in there with a fist and equipment, drugged is probably a wise choice. (Are you all as anxious as I am to find out the kinds of hits my blog will be getting after this post? Me too!) This llama's name was Call Girl. Talk about being branded for life and born at a disadvantage! Her adolescent years must have been pure hell. And it turned out Call Girl was about 8 months pregnant. And since their gestation period is approximately 11 months (see? I learned); you'd think they would have just been able to eyeball her abdomen making the whole rectal exam kind of unnecessary. Of course, she could have been one of those llamas that doesn't realize she's pregnant and then one day out in the field, out pops a 20 pound cria (uh-huh, I was paying attention) that wobbles around and promptly spits in Call Girl's face. And Call Girl is all, "WTF??". How embarrassing. So, Mr. Farklepants and I have a quick exchange that goes something exactly like this:

Me: I think veterinarians go into this field just so they can stick they're hand up animal's asses.
Mr. Farklepants: It's why they stay.

For your work environment friendly viewing pleasure: