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Friday, June 1, 2012

Skunk Dawgs and British Muffins

So My Sweet Hubby (MSH) was watching Part 3 of The Hatfields and McCoys while I hid out in my office last night. I’m calling this mini-series: The Hatbloods and McGuts. I can’t do it. I like Kevin Costner and I love Bill Paxton, but the violence is simply too much for this here Old Gal. I’m passing on this one. I’ll trust you when you say it was unbelievably fantastic, okay?

I had another post in mind—and will do it later—‘cause it’s going to be amazing. Tee Hee Hee. Instead, I’ve decided to let my mind wander and share a few things that make me smile, cry, or both.

First, Little Mama and Little Leighton came Monday for a very fast visit. They arrived around 3: that afternoon and left Tuesday at 1:47ish. More on their departure in a few.

MSH fixed us a wonderful dinner. We had grilled salmon (and when I saw “we,” I mean TLC and MSH had the salmon—y’all know I don’t do salmon—YUCK), grilled shrimp (love me some shrimp)—and grilled flounder. Who knew this Chicken/Steak Woman liked flounder? I discovered this shocker last Summer—when we were in Rockport. Hadn’t had any since. MSH grilled it with fresh tomatoes and parmesan cheese. Delicious—with a capital DELICIOUS. He also “grills” potatoes outside—with onions, cheese, fresh mushrooms, etc. These are melt-in-your-mouth awesome. The 3 ½ of us shared one big tater. It’s true. And had plenty.

I fixed my Sassy Spinach Salad (minus the grilled chicken, natch). Little Mama laughed and laughed at her cRaZy parents. She’s beginning to lovingly threaten us with a nursing home. Soon. Obviously, we ignore her.

She had an appointment Tuesday morn at —yes, that is . With Kit. Our Family Hair Stylist. For a cut and color. MSH had his appointment first. At . Cut only. I fixed Little Mama a British Muffin with whipped Philly cream cheese, some sugar and cinnamon and sliced bananas, while she got dressed and put a little makeup on. Most of y’all might refer to what she had as an “English Muffin.” MSH calls them British Muffins. You remember—this is the same man that called his MP3 player a MyPod. TLC and I believe British Muffin is way more fun than the normal terminology. That’s now what we shall call them. He thinks we’re mocking him. We’re not. We would never do that. Me thinks, after watching the Bloods and Guts, he’s lookin’ for a feud.

TLC rode into town with Her Daddy. Then I got to the beauty shop at 8: and watched Kit finish cutting her hair. Kit processes color like no one else Little Mama and I have ever known. We’re going to have a ceremony, soon, where she receives The Leightons’ Best Hair Stylist/Colorist Ever Award. For the years 1986-2012. That's how long we've gone to her. Yep. She’s Number One.

When Kit was ready to kick us out of her parlour, Little Mama and I went to get a Vanilla Latte and then checked out a new clothes’ shop in town. She found a dress and a top that looked great on her—and they weren’t even maternity. With her new pretty locks, this positively made her day!

After lunch, Little Mama had to head home. She had a doctor’s appointment at . Except—uh-oh—our gate wouldn’t open. I was in front of her—headed to our Post Office—becoming completely confused and frazzled when I pushed and pushed the button in my car (she doesn't have a magical button) and nothing happened. (Yes, we get it. We’re lazy. We don’t want to crawl in and out of our vehicles to get in and out of our place. We should be ashamed. Alas, we’re honestly not.) I then climbed over our gate—which isn’t generally a good idea for someone my age who is not only clumsy and can’t see a thing, but also does not present a pretty sight to passerbys. I considered making the Little Pregger Lady do it. She did offer. I concluded it would be cruel and, possibly, dangerous. I tried to open it with a code at the box. Nothing.

I panicked as I thought of Little Mama scurrying down I-20 (it’s one-lane for miles and miles and sometimes very slow) and then I-30 (it’s only two lanes for miles and miles and sometimes even slower than I-20) too fast. I frantically called MSH. He answered promptly. Thank goodness. He left his office (25 minutes away) immediately. He tried to talk me through opening the gate manually as he headed our way. That didn’t go well. Meanwhile, Little Mama sat in her idling car (with gas at $3.50 a gallon) checking out her Twitter and emails and Pottery Barn for Kids. Cool as a cucumber.

We got her on her way by . Somehow that Child O’ Ours and Future Mama arrived to her doctor’s appointment, 100 miles away, twenty minutes early. I couldn’t believe it. She promised me she never went over the speed limit. Hmmm. Really, TLC? Really? All I’ve got to say is: Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Little Mama’s Angels!

Wednesday morning I had to take Teddy Buddy Boo Bear (TBBB) for his walk thirty minutes early. 6:50. I had a coffee date in town—at —with some friends. We meet once a month to solve the problems of this World. Unfortunately, this World never asks for our solutions. (The Gate Guy was coming at —and so you don’t have to anxiously fret with worry for one more second that I had to actually open it by getting out of my car any more than once that day—it was fixed by .)

Because it looked like it might possibly rain (silly, silly me), I was carrying an umbrella. My iPhone. And my trusty “snake” walking stick. I had no room for TBBB’s leash. A mistake. As we got to the pasture before our big front pasture and the gate, he was in an area he normally doesn’t try to explore. Much too far away from me. I started calling him. Semi-calmly. Then I saw it. The tail of a skunk. He was chasing a skunk. I thought, prior to that point, he was a pretty smart dog. Apparently, I was wrong. I screamed at him until I was certain they could hear me twelve miles away. Finally, Skunk Dawg decided he better mind me.

As he got close, and I could see the skunk heading away from us, I was calling MSH on my cell. He answered as TBBB reached me.

“Buddy Bear just played with a skunk!” I said. Okay—I might have screamed these words. I told him he was with me and we were walking—towards the gate. That I wasn’t sure he’d been squirted.

“He might be lucky!” I stated with optimism. Nope. False alarm. As he passed me, there it was. The lovely smell.

“Crud. He’s hit,” I reported. “I don’t think it was a lot, though.”

MSH said to go in and look at the “skunk” recipe on our utility room fridge—we’ve had it there since we moved out to the country—so he could go get any of the ingredients we might not have. That he’d give him a bath as soon as he got home.

When we got to the top of our hill, I had to put TBBB in the outside pen. If he could talk, he’d say it’s a prison and he despises it. Since we adopted him ten months ago, he’s been in it probably a total of twenty hours. Because we can’t stand how he looks at us when we have to use it. It’s 6X12. With a nice, clean doghouse. And shade. Yet he’s hurt beyond belief when he’s confined there. He’s never been in it after dark. We tell him there are millions of dogs that would love it. He doesn't seem to care.

He was there for five hours. Kit was coloring my hair after our Coffee Club. (Having all three of us in her shop in less than 48 hours, I fear Kit might have retired. She's way too young for that.) As soon as I got home, I let him out for about an hour. I hated to do it, but Jailer ELC had to put him back. I had to be at work at .

As I drove to town, I passed MSH on the highway. He called and said he had plenty of hydrogen peroxide, baking soda and dishwashing liquid. When I got home three hours later (yes, I have a cush job), TBBB smelled a teensy bit better. MSH had washed him twice. I said I couldn’t smell it any more. Otherwise, TBBB would have had to spend the night in the outside pen. I could never have slept that night. By yesterday, he was mostly back to his normal “dawg” smell.

I love British Muffins. I can do without The Hatbloods and McGuts. And I dislike, immensely, skunks. 

T.G.I.F., Dear Friends! Have a Wonderful Weekend…

1 comment:

Autumn said...

Reading you is like being sprayed with sunshine. Which is better than being sprayed with skunk. Much much better.