Category Archives: sarahj

i am nice to my husband

I left for the endocrinologist this morning (good news! my thyroid is doing well, and my counts are improving beautifully! bad news! he still feels something on the right side and wants me to get another ultrasound in a year!) and left Frank a huge list of stuff that had to be done by 4:00 p.m. Why 4:00 p.m.? he asked. Because that’s what I have scheduled, yo. Of course, I left him enough for the whole day, but hey. We all work harder when we have a list of too many things to do. (I used to just give up and let it *all* go, but then I stopped eating gluten, and my brain works like it used to before I started getting sick. Boo gluten! Yay brain function!)

Okay, so he has gotten all forty-eleven items on the list done (except cleaning the guest bathroom), plus he replaced the burned out track lighting bulb in the kitchen (which I didn’t even ask him to replace).

Poor feller hasn’t even seen the list I have for after dinner.


A couple of nights ago we played Scattergories and drank hot tea right before bed so we would go right to sleep (decaf hot tea really does work!). We are hilarious, ridiculous, and crazy when we play that game. Here are some examples:

  • “Notorious People,” letter R… Frank said Richard Nixon, and I said Rachel Lucas. Hahahaha.
  • “Fruits,” letter R. We had the same fruit but different answers. I said red grapes, Frank said raisins.
  • “Things in a Medicine Cabinet,” letter R. Frank tried to answer “raft.” He said, “If it’s an inflatable raft, and you deflate it and make it really small, you can stuff it in a medicine cabinet.” I nixed that one.
  • “Halloween Costumes,” letter R. I said Ron Weasley, and Frank said Remus Lupin. That was awesome.
  • “Parts of the Body,” letter O. Frank: ova. SarahK: orifices.
  • “Things You Replace,” letter O. Frank: old people (so sad). SarahK: old boyfriends (I replaced mine pretty much every week at church camp).
  • “Villains/Monsters,” letter O. Frank: Orney ogre. He meant ornery.
  • “Things You Shout,” letter O. SarahK: “Oh noes!” Hahahaha.
  • “Famous Duos and Trios,” letter P. SarahK: Paula, Simon, and Randy. Frank: Paul and Oates. Hahaha. I disallowed that one.
  • “Vacation spots,” letter P. Frank disallowed Palestine for some reason. Hey, I saw the Gaza Strip from a distance when I went to Israel. Close enough. And he put Poland.
  • “Diseases,” letter P. Frank’s answer? Puss-filled pimples. I nixed it.
  • “Words associated with money,” letter P. I went with Paypal, of course.
  • “Things that you wear,” letter P. Frank’s answer, I’m not kidding: Preety pumps. Misspelled pretty and put girls’ shoes. He knew he misspelled it, though (when he read off his answer). My answer was panties. I’m really glad we didn’t have the same answer.
  • “Vegetables,” letter F. Frank, desperate for an answer, said Fred Thompson because people joke he’s so lazy. I said absolutely not and made him apologize.
  • “Types of Drinks,” letter F. Frank said fondue. Oy.
  • “Musical Groups,” letter F. This one isn’t funny, but I was so proud of my three-point answer, Five For Fighting.

I beat him, 45 to 44.

disorganizing my organization

Old Yeller has, for the past few months, been topless. Dirty little desk! OY’s top is in storage, and OY’s bottom is about to go there, too. But first I had to get all the random screws, nails, nuts, and bolts out of the top two drawers (those are my “useful junk” drawers) and some kinda organized. So I had all my little semi-neat piles, and when I got home with the snack-sized zippy bags today, I started to put everything into little bags and ready to go to the tool bench. I had been rolling along for a while and came across, on top of several semi-neat piles, a big pile of nails. Huh. I was *sure* I had put the nails into the little nail box. And I don’t remember having this many nails inside the desk.

SARAHK: Where did these nails come from? Huh.
FRANK J.: What?
SARAHK: Did you put all these nails on top of Old Yeller?
FRANK J.: *mumble-mumble*
FRANK J.: I did. Rowdi told me to do it.
SARAHK: So you just threw a big pile of nails on top of all the stuff I organized yesterday?
FRANK J.: Uh… It seemed like the thing to do.

How he expects me to get it all cleaned up when he keeps adding to the mess I will never understand.

This must be how mothers of toddlers feel.

Last beautiful stop

I’ve neglected blogging about the honeymoon (that happened, um, over a year and a half ago), not because I don’t want to share it with y’all, but because we have so many fantastic pictures, and I want to tell you the whole story. Well… not everything. But the parts suitable for mixed company. ;-)

What the heck, though: I’m looking through my pictures of the Bahamas, and y’all just need to see some of them. Of course, I’m not going to share them all right now – I really want to do an in-depth, non-fake, no-sea-lice, no-Frank-going-to-jail write-up of the whole thing (when I have time, of course).

This was the last stop of our Disney cruise before coming home. Mind you, we went in December, and this is the view that welcomed us to Castaway Cay (Disney’s private island).

first peek
Gorgeous, no?

The first thing we did was start checking out the rocks to find little critters. We found some.

little crab on rock
He was so cute!

The weather was fantastic. When we arrived in the afternoon, it was a little warm behind the trees, but we just stayed close to the water and felt an amazing breeze all day. The foliage was beautiful, and I loved these purple flowering hedges most of all.

lovely shrubbery

We ate some lunch at the Disney BBQ restaurant on the island (I wasn’t GF at the time, so we were not worried about that, but Disney is outstanding at serving special dietary needs, so I’m sure I would have been able to eat). It was yummy, of course. After lunch, we had a date with a glass-bottom boat and these precious little fishies:

fishies on the glass-bottom boat tour

After the tour, we took a tram over to the adults-only beach (no scream-giggling children!) and sat under an umbrella sipping our drinks (brought right to our umbrella) until the beach closed, which meant it was nearly time to go back to the ship.

the honeymooners
The honeymooners on the tram.

By the time we went back to the ship near sundown, it was even getting a little chilly (meaning upper 60s – translation: perfect). Knowing we were going back to muggy Florida, I was happy to be underdressed in my shorts.

the disney magic
The Disney Magic. Yes, that is a Christmas Tree right next to the ship.

I can’t wait to go back.


SARAHK: You didn’t finish your ham. Go put it in the fridge.
FRANK J.: Okay… where should I put it?
SARAHK: There are two plastic bags full of ham. And I already told you where to put it. “In the fridge.”

re: something on TV

SARAHK: Who’s he talking to about his car?
FRANK J.: Your mama.
SARAHK: That is just… over the line.
FRANK J.: You’re over the line.

flying ants

SARAHK: Ooh! Something keeps flying over my head!
FRANK J.: Is it a Minerva?
SARAHK: No. I think it’s a flying carpenter ant. Ooh. You know, I saw one outside Walgreens today.
FRANK J.: That’s where they must be coming from.
SARAHK: Yes. They’re exporting them to our house. ::eye roll::
FRANK J.: But if it’s a Minerva, she’ll be like “Meow! Meow! Meow!” while she’s flying over your head.
SARAHK: You are so dumb.
FRANK J.: Maybe they had a sale on fire ants. Or a fire sale on ants!

Carpenter ants. Not fire ants. (Though they do bite me when I’m sleeping.)

that’s why it’s called ::practicing:: medicine. because they never actually get it right.

Frank and I went to see Frank’s doctor a while back. I insisted on accompanying him, because Frank is one of those people who just says, “Yes, doctor, you’re the doctor, whatever you say, doctor. I trust you.” Me? Not so much. See my gluten bigot category for why. Frank was going to the doctor because 1) he was going gluten-free with me, because that makes life around here a lot simpler. No, I did not ask him to do this; he is just that wonderful, and he told me a couple of weeks before my test that he was going to do it. Made the decision all on his own–I told y’all I was married to Mr. Wonderful. This way I won’t have to worry about him glutening me through a kiss, or eating something glutenous with his hands, then sticking his hands in my bag of chips without thinking about it and contaminating the whole bag of chips. Stuff like that. It’s crazy the ways I can get sick on gluten, and how teeny amounts can hurt me in significant ways. And not just for a day. For the future. 2) During my gluten challenge, Frank was eating exactly what I was been eating. Glutenous foods full of gluten, gluten, and more gluten. Pizza, soy sauce, bread containing wheat flour, glutenous ice cream (like Chubby Hubby), na’an, Nacho Cheese Doritos, etc. And get this. He had some gastric symptoms; his acne got a lot worse, just like mine did (and when we were gluten-free for three months December to February, and the only gluten he had was the sandwich and Doritos I sent him for lunch, his acne was so much better); he had heartburn, and one night it was so bad that it kept him up until 3 a.m.; he had fatigue on the days that I had fatigue; his unexplained blistery rash on his hands was back (it’s not DH, the rash associated with celiac, but it is a form of eczema for which doctors have found no cause. No cause? Get back to me after you know what’s going on, docs, and quit screwing around.). And when we got to the doctor’s office for the appointment, guess what we found out? While I was gaining twelve pounds on the three-month gluten challenge? Frank was losing ten! Eating a bunch of fluorescent orange mac-n-cheese! And then Frank said, “Oh yeah. I’ve never been able to gain weight, ever, until you were cooking gluten-free dinners all the time when you were gluten-free during those three months before. And I gained all that weight when you were losing 12 pounds.” Uhhhh. Can’t believe I didn’t pick up on it, but then again, I was a little preoccupied with how awesome I was feeling off gluten and how awful I felt on gluten.

Alright. So I made the case for the doctor to test Frank for celiac, all written out nice and pretty, just in case he’s one of those boneheads like Dr. Ego who won’t test you for anything unless he comes up with it first because he needs to feel important.

And of course, Frank started off things by saying, “My wife has celiac, so I want to get tested for it.” And he left off the part that he had practiced on his own in the car, because it was early and he was tired and going on one only one cup of coffee, the part where he was going to say, “I understand that her having it has no bearing on whether I would have it.” So I just took over. I mean, come on. The doctor was already looking at us like we were I would have been, too. Like he could catch celiac from me through sex. Good thing we didn’t tell him my test results weren’t even in yet. And seriously, the doctor had already taken that one statement as license to treat us like just any ol’ stupid patient who will buy anything you want to sell them off the back of the discount doctor wagon. Or maybe he truly knows nothing about celiac, because he tried to feed us a load of watery diarrhea later about it, so I’m kinda inclined to believe that he knows pretty much nothing about it except that some people get diarrhea from it.

Anyway, after Frank’s statement that he wants to get tested because I have celiac, I told the doctor, “here’s why we want him to get tested. He’s going gluten-free anyway, he has a history of autoimmunes all over his family [and I had listed every single one of them for him], while I was on the gluten challenge and he was eating the same foods I was eating, he had a lot of the same symptoms I did [he probably has no idea what a gluten challenge is, now that I think of it], and while I was gaining twelve pounds gluten-loading, he was losing at least ten.” By the time I got to “autoimmunes,” he had stopped listening, because I had handed him the piece of paper.

“Is this something you looked up on the internet?”

Attention doctors: Y’all just have no idea how patronizing and infuriating this statement is. Well, you probably do, and you say things like this anyway, just to assert that you’re the doctors and we’re the patients. And the thing is, he seemed like a cluelessly nice doctor. Just completely clueless about pretty much everything except coughs and runny noses. But the whole did I look it up on the internet thing? I wanted to punch him. It was so hard for me to keep my voice calm. “No, this isn’t something I looked up on the internet. I’ve been studying the disease for about seven months.” But I am glad he asked me the internet thing before the next part.

“Well, it looks like we should be testing you for Lupus. Do you want me to test you for that?” Ok, so Frank has a second-degree family member with Lupus and a first-degree family member with Lupus antibodies but no Lupus, but he also has very few Lupus symptoms. Other than the fatigue, which he didn’t have until the gluten challenge, and some muscle aches that are easily attributed to all that painting he’s been doing (I have muscle aches, but even I wasn’t saying that Frank’s were possibly a celiac symptom, since his are all in the shoulder area and tend to go away when there’s not a room to paint, hmm), there’s not much there in the way of Lupus. He has no RA, no joint pains, no kidney issues, no heart troubles, no lung problems, no persistent mouth ulcers, no eye problems, no fevers, no chills. He does have that vague symptom of dizziness about two or three times a year, but that is usually right after I’ve been acting crazy, which might stress him out a little, so Frank likes to chalk that one up to stress. He does have vague symptoms occasionally, I’ll give the doctor that one. And I’m never opposed to any bloodwork.

After the Lupus question, I said, “I don’t really know the symptoms of Lupus, but if you think you should test him for that, fine. As long as you’re also testing him for celiac.” At this, Frank said, “Yeah, I just want to make sure I’m tested for celiac. I’m probably going gluten-free anyway, so I just want to get the test before I change the diet.” The doctor probably doesn’t know the arguments for getting tested before changing the diet. There are lots against, of course, but lots for. Most doctors seem to think that you should get the tests before. And actually, last November, I could have told you anything you wanted to know about Lupus, and in the doctor’s office Tuesday, I was just sitting there thinking, I can’t remember all that stuff I used to know about Lupus, but I do know enough about it to understand that a lot of organ systems would be affected, at least after the disease progresses. Even when he has the flu about once a year, it’s gone within a couple of days.

Ok, so Frank jumped onto the doctor table where they listen to all your organs and make sure you’re breathing, and the doctor said jovially (it was good I was a couple feet away), “Well, unless you get explosive, watery diarrhea right after you eat a Quizno’s sub, you probably don’t have celiac, but I’ll test you for it.” DANGEROUS DOCTOR! I made eye contact and made sure that my eyes had a death grip on his eyes. “Actually, a lot of celiacs have no gastric symptoms at all. That is a huge misconception.” And I wanted to tell him that more than 50% of celiacs have no gastric symptoms, but I didn’t want to give him that figure and be wrong about it, so I just went with “a lot.” I hate it when I have to educate doctors, but Dr. Arrogant broke me of that doctors-are-gods creed we all grew up on, and I ain’t nevah lookin’ back.

I was HOT. What if that had been some patient who read something or heard something about celiac and thought, “Maybe that’s me. Maybe that’s the source of my misery.” And Dr. Can’t Tie His Own Shoes is telling her that she has to have explosive, watery diarrhea or she probably doesn’t have celiac? This is why it takes an average of nine years for a celiac diagnosis (sometimes I even hear eleven). NINE. Because dangerous doctors like this guy are out there, and their patients leave with their IBS diagnoses (heavy on the BS) or their “you just have the flu” pep talks and go on their sad, miserable ways. And then three more years pass by, because after all, doctor knows best, and if he says I don’t have it, I don’t have it, but finally, one day, she eats a Quizno’s sub on rye and drinks a Braum’s malt along with it, and while she’s at it, she has bread pudding for dessert. And then she finally has the explosive, watery diarrhea and feels maybe brave enough to go present her case to the doctor again. “But doctor, I got the explosion. I got the water. Out my butt. All there. Whaddaya think?” Even worse, what if it’s someone who’s never heard of the disease, and she just has a bunch of vague symptoms, and there’s Dr. You Have The Flu giving her meds for IBS. BTW, I used to get really ticked off when I would see those bloaty stomach commercials for IBS (yes, I’m quite happy that Zelnorm is off the market). Really ticked off. I mean, a lot of doctors, I’m sure, because I have experience with a lot of dumb doctors, probably just call it IBS and give them the med from the commercial. Here, have a pill! Who cares what’s causing your IBS? As long as we can cover it up! Bandaids are awesome!

From the Celiac Disease Center at Columbia:

The vast majority of individuals with celiac disease have little in the way of gastrointestinal symptoms or have symptoms that may receive a diagnosis of irritable bowel syndrome. While the classical symptoms include diarrhea, weight loss and edema, other patients may present with constipation, anemia, bone pain or bone loss, chronic fatigue, skin problems, abnormal liver chemistries, dental enamel defects and neurological symptoms such as peripheral neuropathy, ataxia or seizures. Some patients with celiac disease are truly asymptomatic or have symptoms related to an associated autoimmune problem.

Anyway, once the doctor decided Frank was breathing and had a heartbeat, he started to write down all the bloodwork he would send Frank for. When he mentioned the celiac test, I threw in, “Do you want to go ahead and send him for the DQ2/DQ8 test while you’re at?” Hey, why not, right? He said, “The what?” Haha. He deserved it. I know that’s gastro territory, but I was mad at him for prolonging celiac diagnoses in unsuspecting individuals. “It’s the genetic marker test for celiac disease.” Not that I have faith in our blood labs around here, but why not. “Oh, ok, sure. What is it again? That’s really gastroenterologist territory [yep] but sure, let’s just send him for everything.” I think Frank was still in the room. Don’t worry, y’all. Before we went to the appointment, I had asked if I could go with him. I also said, “And can I get obstinate in my SarahK kind of way?” “Sure, Sweetie.” “Because you know you’re never gonna see him again anyway, since we’re moving and all that.” “Okay.” I beat him down, I know.

The doc did send him for all the bloodwork, and it all came back normal… However, considering that his symptoms have all but gone away on the GF diet (except for some problems that seem to pop up after he eats soy — we’re testing that one now), and considering that serologic tests are for crap at most blood labs around the country, I think it’s wonderful that he decided (all on his own) to go off gluten when I did. I’m not gonna lie, it’s awesome knowing that there’s very little chance the food he eats will make me sick (I get sick from eating non-glutenous products made in a facility that also processes wheat, I’m that sensitive), he seems to be getting healthier along with me.

In short, I’m glad I went with him to his appointment. And I’m glad I got to school a doctor. Doctors need schooling.


Frank J. gets up to go get himself some coffee, but it’s all for effect. I am on to him. I know what he’s doing.

FRANK J.: Oh. I don’t has coffee.
SARAHK: And you don’t know how to make it?
FRANK J.: I know how to make my wife make it.
SARAHK: Not today. You make it yourself.
FRANK J. [with his cute face on]: Please, pretty wife, will you make me coffee?
FRANK J.: Please? You’re so pretty.
SARAHK: I will only make your coffee if you understand that you are not making me make your coffee.
FRANK J.: I understand.
SARAHK: Do you understand?
FRANK J.: Yes. I can has coffee?
SARAHK: Fine. But only because you asked, not because you’re making me.
FRANK J.: K thx.

on my list

One of the things we need to do before we move is get our wedding rings serviced. All three of the rings (my two and his band) are under service plans, and Reeds Jewelers (where all the rings came from) does a fantastic job making them look brand new. Problem is, I keep forgetting to drop my rings off when I’m in the area, and Frank is very unwilling to part with his.

SARAHK: I need to take our rings in for servicing.
FRANK J.: No. I like my ring. You can’t have it.
SARAHK: They’ll replate it and make it all shiny and pretty.
FRANK J.: People will think I’m not married, and girls might hit on me.

He’s so cute (and faithful). And right! I guess I’ll have to not let him out of the house once I sneak his away… which might be difficult. He never takes it off.

Anyway, I hope I remember to do it before we move. Though I looked on their website and did see that they have a store near Austin… but I really want to get my rings redone soon.

pun with whining

SARAHK: I can’t find my Tiger Balm!
FRANK J.: I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation… you’re the Balm. [grinning at his own genius]
FRANK J.: Was it any consolation?
SARAHK [wincing]: No.


SARAHK: Make sure you squeeze all the air out of the ziplock bag before you put the bacon in the fridge. It’ll last longer that way.
FRANK J.: That’s an urban legend.
SARAHK: No it’s not.
FRANK J.: Based entirely in scientific fact.

Yeah, pretty much. Silly boy. He’ll do anything to get out of the extra work.

the karaoke is off the video camera…

Now I just have to find some pleasant enough to post here for you. And oh yes. There will be plenty of J goofiness up in here. We are so silly together. Perfect for each other, really.


I love my Sweetie McMonkeyface.

BTW, I’ve posted a few of our Big Texas Wedding pictures on Flickr, but I have about another 150 to post. If you wish, you can go look at the ones I’ve put up so far.


I got glutened. I have no idea how. I have a tiny headache but not much. I have nerve pain in my right leg. And I feel like I’m having seizures IN MY EYEBALLS. Yeah, I know, I’m a freak. But I checked every label before I cooked yesterday, and today we only had leftovers. I also had reduced fat Ruffles and Heluva Good french onion dip, both of which are supposed to be GF. I did break down and eat some of the Skittles I bought today (I’m gonna have to call Essay back and tell her I caved), and a few of them were harder than they should have been. Maybe there was something wrong with them, I don’t know.

And headline images in WordPress doesn’t want to work for me. I’m doing everything it says. It keeps telling me I don’t have fonts installed, but I do. RARR RARR RARR RARR RARR.

Ohhhhhh, my leg hurts.

Oh, here’s something interesting. I know it’s common for celiacs (which I’m supposedly not) to be hungry all the time after going GF. So far, I’m never hungry. The only reason I think about food is because I remember I have a husband to feed. I told Frank the other day that I just haven’t been hungry since going GF. Yesterday, when I realized it was 5 p.m. before I even thought about making his LUNCH, I told him that he will have to remind me about food if he wants to eat, considering that I’m currently just not thinking about food much for some reason (and I remember when I went GF in December for three months, I noticed no change in appetite). Frank, conversely, is hungry all the time. That is perhaps because his wife doesn’t feed him anymore.

So tonight around 9:00, Frank finally said to me, “You really aren’t hungry anymore, are you?” And I said, “Oh. No… I’m sorry, I forgot to feed you again. Are you hungry?” “Yeah, I’m kinda hungry.” “I told you that you’re gonna have to remind me to feed you now that I’m not hungry.” “Yeah, I’m just so used to you telling me a couple of times a day that it’s time to eat.”

That’s probably because I cook when I’m hungry. And it’s not as fun for me to cook when I’m not hungry. Huh.

The Supportive Wife

SARAHK: I can’t believe I parked at the wrong building. Now we’re going to be late. I’m such a retard. And now great. That’s what I’ll be talking about when I come out of surgery under anaesthesia. I wanted to be singing Carrie Underwood songs, but it’ll be the word “retard.” Doctors just love it when you’re talking about the retards.
FRANK J.: Wasn’t it Dan Rather who recently talked about Katie Couric ‘tarding up the news?
SARAHK: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! TARTING UP THE NEWS! AS IN WHORING IT UP! HAHAHAHAHAHA! Like a saucy little tart! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I… [breathe] CAN’T… [breathe]… WAIT… [breathe] TO… [breathe] BLOG THAT! ‘Tarding up the news!
FRANK J.: It did seem a little different from his normal colloquialisms.
SARAHK: You’re such a retard.

The Supportive Husband

FRANK J.: You’re putting on makeup before you go under the knife?
FRANK J.: But it sounds cooler that way!
SARAHK: Not if you’re the one going under the KNIFE!

I absolutely cannot believe I’m drawing attention to this

Reasons I cannot believe it?
1) It is truly awful. Though I do have to give myself credit for acting chops I didn’t know I had. Those are real tears at the end I managed to drum up.
2) It’s a terrible song. The only reason we ever sing it is because we (usually) sound good on it, and I like the melody. Um, not this time.
3) I’m very careful not to post recent pictures of myself unless they somehow leave out my multiple chins, stomach fat rolls, and puffy arms. This video showcases all of that, and I was wearing a shirt that should have at least covered the fat rolls. It was loose on me when standing, so… I should just never ever sit down until I lose my gluten weight.
4) The only good part of the video is that Minerva manages to stick around for the whole thing and doesn’t slash our faces off and run away in protest.

Oh, and wRitErsbLock is not nearly as bad as we are. And she’s way better than Britney. I only wish we had “Stronger” by Britney in our karaoke list, because I can totally emulate the Mickey Mouse Britney voice for that song. But it does tend to make me want to put on zebra stripes and dance around a chair in the middle of a lightning storm, so the world is probably better off for it.

Ok, no more stalling.

stream of migraineness

Ok, so while we’re on the subject of cussin’… If ever there is an appropriate time for it (and no, I think there’s not, but play along!), it is when you are sitting on your lovely new couch/sofa, suffering from a massive migraine due to yesterday’s glutenous, gluttonous buffet (more on that in a minute, y’all), waiting for the Excedrin Migraine to kick in, and this freaky ant/wasp/termite hybrid decides to plant itself next to you on your Auto Repair for Dummies book (no commentary, please, Pinky needs a new starter) and pretend it’s ok for it to be there! To me, this wretched insect looks like a giant-winged flying ant, except with a longer, darker, more segmented body and transparentish wings like a termite. FREAKSHOW! So of course, I immediately jump off the couch and start flailing my arms and moving my legs in marching-band-high-step fashion (overdrive version) just in case I missed the whole army of them that are marching across my body (because I’m looking at the one on the Dummies book, because yo, you never take your eye off the enemy), yelling, “Eeee! Eeeee! Yaaaaa!” and so forth. You get it, I’m a girl. Frank is used to this type of behavior and has learned to follow my eyes toward the problem. And I’m an instructions-barker, so I was coaching. “Don’t smear him on the new couch!” “What? He has a stinger? Don’t get stung! But smush him! Don’t just let him go like you let the one go from the other night. It’s probably the same one!” And Frank and Rowdi had just come in from outside, so I wonder if the freakshow hybrid came in on Rowdi. She’s been acting all sick this evening, so it’s possible she got stung.

Or it’s possible she’s Rowdi.


Back to that buffet from yesterday. I am all about the food. Ok, so we went to Whistle Junction down in Palm Bay. It’s apparently changed hands a number of times, and the food is finally yummy (we can’t speak to the food before it was WJ, we’d never been). Their fried green tomatoes made me just want more fried green tomatoes, forget the dessert. Frank actually said to me at one point, “Is that a whole plate just of vegetables?” “Yep. Is that a problem?” “I don’t get the point of an entire plate of vegetables.” “I don’t get the point of YOU!” HaHA! Don’t worry, I did get around to dessert. I figured it’s most likely my last time eating out without having to ask the waiter or chef what’s in everything I’m eating (and the last time I can eat any restaurant dessert other than creme brulee, sorbet, or flan until more restaurants catch on to this whole gluten-free thing, or until we get to Austin, whichever comes first). It was funny, dessert was a total girl moment. We were there with a group from church, and Mary asked three different women if they were going for dessert. They all said no. I was the only one she didn’t ask, don’t know why, I was only sitting directly across from her. Maybe it’s because Mary is the one that previously told me, “You’ve been hanging out with us too much. You’re getting that black body,” so perhaps she just figures I don’t need dessert. Anyway, I’m not shy. I said, “Oh, you don’t wanna be the only woman going to the dessert line? I’ll go with you, I’m not proud. I like dessert. Bring it on.” Or something long and rambly like that. We went, and eek. As we studied the desserts, I said, “I would normally have banana pudding, but the banana pudding looks funky.” She agreed, and I had to settle for cheesecake. I didn’t notice the bread pudding until I was loading the cheesecake up with fudge and cherries. Oh well, it looked dry. Oh yeah, Mary also said at one point, “Frank just sits there so quiet, and then Sarah… you just talk…” “Oh, I know, I’m a talker. It’s why he never says anything, he figures what’s the point? I won’t hear him, I’ll be in my own little world talking anyway.” The truths I speak over food.

Whoa, I just got an email from wRitErsbLock, and one of my comments at her place made her laugh out loud. As someone who has seen her in person many times, I will tell you honestly that she seldom laughs out loud at anything. This must make me stinking funny. Hopefully more funny than stinking. What’s even funnier? I just wrote “hopefully more stinking than funny” and totally didn’t mean that.

Way cool. If Frank searches google images for “nuke,” the bottom picture on this page is one of the top returns. It’s because The Sizzle and I are awesome.

Another appropriate time for cussin’ is any time the name Johnny Sutton comes up. He makes me want to throw darts at his face. But then my TV would be all broke. And look at me, in solidarity with Rachel Lucas, I didn’t cuss. Yay me!

Wow. We’re just NOW watching January’s Dog the Bounty Hunter season finale, or I don’t know, I think they were reruns when we were recording them. His daughter died the day before his wedding day, how awful is that? Not to mention that his extradition-to-Mexico status is still uncertain because of our President’s secret evil pact with the president of the brown people (whom I apparently hate, according to President Bush). Oh my goodness, wasn’t that little mullet-toe-headed ring-bearer of theirs the cutest thing? I know, I should have asked y’all this like two years ago. Whatever. It’s how I what? Say it with me. Roll.

Today the migraine is so bad that I had those scary flashes in my vision where I had teeny black holes in the vision surrounded by lightning rings. So descriptive you can picture it, I know. Here’s a better description: I wasn’t even hungry for dinner. Yes, that bad! I took the EM a few hours ago, and it made most of my head stop hurting, but the insides of my eyes never stopped. Oh well. I guess now it’s bedtime. Maybe sex will help. It does occasionally get rid of the migraines.

NOT NICE. followed by YAY!

He needs to not just turn and look at me and say things like this: “Bill’s dead.” Because here’s how that goes.

FRANK J.: Bill’s dead.
SARAHK: What?!
FRANK J.: Bill’s dead.
FRANK J. [finally comprehending that I'm NOT ok with him being so matter-of-fact]: Oh. The immigration bill. What’d you think I meant? Bill Clinton?
SARAHK: Whittle! [Sorry, but much more troubling than the other.]
FRANK J.: Oh yeah. I guess he’s the Bill.

Anyway, YAY about the immigration bill’s death. Of course, President Bush recently called me racist because I’m against illegal immigration, so who knows. It’s possible that the next thing they’ll try to do to (mostly) solve illegal immigration is turn America over to Mexico. It’s what they’re doing anyway and goes along with Bush’s “logical” way of running things lately (oh, did I mention gloves are off on him now? Nobody calls me a racist. I LOVED The Cosby Show, yo).

i had a sex dream last night

don’t worry, y’all. it was about my husband.

out of the mouths of husbands

FRANK J.: I mean, I’m fine with horrrr movies…
SARAHK: Whore movies? Like the kind they show on Cinemax? [We don't have Cinemax, in case y'all are wondering.]
FRANK J.: Hor-ror.

I like messing with him.

last night

We were in bed.

SARAHK: Yes, I think definitely we have to paint this room a light color to make it look bigger. But we can’t use the antique color from the livingroom, because it won’t go with our comforter.
FRANK J.: We can paint it taupe.
SARAHK: The dark color in the livingroom is kind of a taupe. We can’t do dark. I just said that.
FRANK J.: And then we can hang the paint can, in the air, on a rope.
FRANK J.: And call it taupe on a rope.
SARAHK: You’re such a dork. You just said taupe so you could say taupe on a rope.
FRANK J. [laughing]: Yeah.

poo bag

I’m sittin’ on the couch, writing an email about my life story, eating Fiery Habanero Doritos. Frank walks in the door after walking the bad dog. Now, before he walked the bad dog, I had Friday’s General Hospital going (I know, but if you watch Grey’s Anatomy, you’re just as bad as I am, so quit judging me), and Frank was writing an editorial. Right before the bad man and the bad dog left, I paused the DVR, because Frank was yapping, and I couldn’t hear the TV.

Well, I got wrapped up in some Bible research, then read a blog post, then started responding to an email from like eleven days ago. No, essay, it wasn’t like eleven days ago. It was eleven days ago. I’m on my email. Yes, my brain jumps around like this, I can’t concentrate, this is how I roll these days.

SARAHK: Hey, Monkeydoodle.
FRANK J.: Hey, Sweetie Monkeyface.
SARAHK: I paused General Hospital right before you left, but I forgot to unpause it the whole time you were gone.
FRANK J.: Do you hate me?
SARAHK: No, I just forgot, and I was doing this Bible research, and now I’m emailing Rachel Lucas, and I just forgot.
FRANK J. [walking over to the couch, holding a bag of poo right up over my shoulder]: Here’s Rowdi’s poo.
SARAHK: Why are you holding poo in my face?!
FRANK J. [walking off with the poo]: Why didn’t you finish General Hospital while I was gone? Why am I gonna have to be here while you watch it?
Read more »

squirrelly to bed, squirrelly to rise

Husband is squirrelly, y’all.

Ok, so last night, we were on our way to bed. And what is the one thing we all have to do right before bed, musees? That’s right. I could almost hear y’all yelling out “Pee!” together. Raise your hands next time. Anyway, we were both walking through the bedroom toward the bathroom, and somewhere near the closets, he started to pass me. I grabbed his arm and pulled back. “NO!” It was no use. “I gots ta pee!” he yelled as he pushed past me and slammed the bathroom door shut. Donkeybutt!

I yelled, “Hurry up, I have to pee!” to which he replied, “You know I can’t pee if you’re yappin’, woman. So stop talking to me.” So of course, I just kept going. “Talk talk talk talk talk.” “Well I guess you’re never gonna get in here! No wait. Yep, I’m peeing. Ahhh. Feels greeeeeeeat!” And then he let out this great big giant yawn. Yes, it was big and giant. Just to annoy me and show how relaxing that pee was. Goody for him. So then he flushed, washed, opened the door (it’s so cooth, me giving you details of his urinations, yes?). Finally, I can pee!

Homey was putting toothpaste on his toothbrush.

“Nuh-uh! I have to pee! You didn’t say you had to pee and brush your teeth! You said you had to pee! Go away! Oh, I forgot my wrist brace. Have you seen it?” Something shiny. I always see something shiny.

“I’ll find your wrist brace while I brush my teeth.” Yes! He left the bathroom. And I actually forgot he was waiting on me to get back in and spit. I wish I’d taken my time, because it would have been payback for the other day.

Ok, so this morning, I awoke to the phone ringing. At 9:30. What the heck? We went to bed at 2! We get at least until 10 to sleep. Yeah, we were telling our next-door neighbor yesterday (who is up at 5 and asleep by 10) that we’re up until 3 or 4 sometimes, so we sleep until 10 or 11. or 12. Whatever, as long as we only sleep the normal amount of sleep time, what’s the problem? Why am I defending myself? Anyway, moving on.

Frank was up finding the phone. “Your mom is trying to call,” he yelled from the other room. “Ok, bring me the phone.” Because now the phone was ringing a third time. She’d already called twice. I was thinking emergency, and so was Frank, because of what he said later. But this was not my mom. This was the storage place.

STORAGE MAN: I notice you were in last night. [Nosy!]
SARAHK: Yes, we were. [Oh no. Tell me I locked everything. I double checked everything, I'm so sure everything is all locked up, all nice and neat, and we didn't get all our stuff stolen this morning. My car's broke. Please don't be calling with bad news. Is someone secretly praying for me to have patience? I'll cut a person for doing that!]
STORAGE MAN: Yeah, I was just wondering, were you loading or unloading?
SARAHK: Uh… [too early, just woke up. Do you mean loading or unloading the truck? Loading or unloading the unit? Need clarification.] Putting stuff into storage.
STORAGE MAN: Oh, ok. I just wanted to make sure. It’s the beginning of the month, and rent is due, so I wanted to make sure you weren’t vacating before I ran your card.

Nice, right? I really like the storage people. I thanked him very much and called my mom back.

BIKERMOMMY [very jauntily for so early]: Helluuuuuu!
BIKEY: I’m on my way to wuuuuurk. What are you duuuuuuing? [I swear she thought she was Irish. Did she just have a colonic or something? And by that, I mean she was like floating on air, like there was nothing weighing her down.]
SARAHK: Sleeping.
BIKEY: Oh. [Starts talking quietly, like since we're sleeping, she's afraid she might wake me through the phone... not that we're already talking or anything.] Sorry. I was just calling to see how things are going.

We proceeded to talk for twenty minutes, as I lay in bed and Frank piled as many pillows as he could around his head, about how the house stuff is going and how she really does not think that Frank and I should move the TV by ourselves. Yes, I do think we will need a furniture dolly, but we’re scientifically minded and will figure something out. I realize that this is where all the engineer-types out there have completely stopped reading and are now trying to figure out this scientific issue for us. It’s very nice of you, really. But keep reading, I’m a narcissist or something.

BIKEY: What about the little boy? Can’t the boy come over and help you move it? [She means Alcazar, who is eighteen and college-bound, but I was cracking up inside that she was calling him a little boy. I'm sure he would not be pleased, because college boys do not like to be called little boys.]
SARAHK: He only likes to paint. He was going to come today. But we know we have too much to do today to actually get to painting the bedroom, and tomorrow we’re meeting a realtor, and I have finances and accounting to do, I’ve got to do that, and we’ve got a lot of prep to do before we can paint the bedroom. And Alcazar only wants to paint.
BIKEY [laughing]: Oh, so he’s an artist.
SARAHK: Yes. Well, we’re teaching him how to be. And he didn’t actually get to paint the other day, we had him doing other things, because Frank was in the middle of painting a wall, so I was teaching him prep work, and he really wanted to paint, but we have one non-wobbly ladder for the 12-foot livingroom walls, and one wobbly ladder. And Frank was on the non-wobbly ladder, and I was not about to put him up on the wobbly ladder on account of if he fell and broke his neck, we would get kicked out of church forever and most likely go to Hell. Because he is the preacher’s son.
BIKEY [really laughing]: I see. [What? No "I see, me lassie"? I'm way more exciting than a morning jaunt to work.] One, please. [:-O She is totally ordering a Donut Stop donut, with a celiac on the phone! Snot!]
SARAHK: Where are you? What are you doing?
BIKEY: I’m at work. I’m getting on the elevator to go to my office.
SARAHK: Mmmhmm. [Well, she does have to ride up from the parking garage.]

Anyway, I hung up with her, and Frank flung his arm back over me. Naturally (I’m a woman), I started chatting with him. He took his arm away and rolled off to his side, shoving pillows all around his head again.

SARAHK: Hey! Why’d you take your arm away?
FRANK J.: Well, I thought maybe you were planning to get up now… or keep talking.

He doesn’t even love to hear my lilting voice first thing in the a.m., y’all! He’s crazy.

fifteen days
too cool for school, too funny for my honey

For the record, yuck. I do not call Frank “honey,” nor do I allow him to call me same. We’re all about every other term of endearment in the book, but not that one. Anyway.

Frank keeps on hinting that I’ve done laundry in like… never. Whatever, dude. I’m busy, yo. So we just finished moving a ton of furniture to storage. Now all we have left to move over there are the TV and my chest (not that one, the one lined with cedar), which go tomorrow morning. And here we go with yet another round of the Frank J. / SarahK talky-talk.

FRANK J.: I’m gonna go take a shower now. But I don’t want to put these clothes back on, because they need to be washed [yes, we already discussed laundry like a half hour ago, I get it!]… So what should I wear?
SARAHK [hey, I've got my own life questions to ponder, husband! what the dealio?]: Um… [knowing that he can't just walk around neckid like I'd prefer, hubba-hubba, because we don't have blinds up on the giant livingroom windows yet]… Why don’t you just wear boxers and a white t-shirt or something? [Yes. I'm a genius. I can't even come up with the word "undershirt" right now, y'all. Fifteen days left of this gluten mumbo-jumbo. Fifteen days.]
FRANK J.: Why don’t you?!
SARAHK [ha! that's what he says when he wishes I wasn't so smart!]: Because I’m not you! Or a dork!

Buuuuuuurn. Again. It’s too easy, I know. I shouldn’t even take credit.

Postscript: He called me from the bathroom before he started his shower.

FRANK J.: Sweetie, I need a towel!
SARAHK: Are you already undressed?
FRANK J.: Yes.

HaHA! This was a win-win question for me. If the answer was no, I was going to follow up with, “Do you have legs?” but since the answer was yes, I was ON IT! Neckid man in the shower alert! So of course, I took a peek.

SARAHK: Here’s your towel, monkeyface.
FRANK J.: Thank you, sweet-sweet.
SARAHK [opening the shower door quickly]: NECKID MAN! SCORE!

Life is good in the house of J. Life is good.


SARAHK: Hey, I got an email from one of my readers. He said he loves my blog. He especially loves the conversations between you and me.
FRANK J.: Well, ’cause they’re good material.
SARAHK: Yeah, ’cause you’re so dumb.


FRANK J.: You’re dumb.

Too late. I burned first and best.

ok, so wow

Regarding last night… huh.

Yeah. I went back and read what I wrote at 1:30 or so this morning. Koo-koo! Sorry about that. If I were a post deleter, this is one of those posts I would either delete or revise to make myself look less insane. Unfortunate thing (for you folks) is that I am a yeah-I-wrote-that-crapper, not a deleter. I’ve deleted one or two posts over the three plus years I’ve blogged, but I had good reason each time, and other people were involved. I’ve never deleted a post that embarrassed only me. At least I can’t remember doing such.

Even my mom thinks I’m Britney or Whitney.

So. Bikermommy called me this morning.

BIKERMOMMY: How are you? [You know. Like when people ask in that tone because they know you're to the point of using skillets for mirrors instead of the real thing because you just can't bear to see the true visage because wow, check out that stress acne you're sporting!]
SARAHK: Oh, I’m good, how are you? [all casual-like]
BIKERMOMMY: I’m good. I… read your blog this morning.
SARAHK: Oh. Yeah, I read that too. [Very fast] I didn’t sleep night before last, and yesterday I only got a 2-hour nap, and on gluten, power naps just don’t work for me the way they do off-gluten [no, I'm not crazy, that's true], so yeah, I was just rambling. I’m fine. Seriously. Every part of my body hurts, but I’m totally ok. I’m not even stressed or anything.
BIKERMOMMY: And you shouldn’t be. Did you get the livingroom painted?
SARAHK: Most of it is primed. But it’s fine, it’s totally fine. Right now I’m making sure the room is cleared out so the furniture people will have a place to put the new furniture.
BIKERMOMMY: And yeah, just put plastic over the furniture when you paint, no big deal.
SARAHK: Yep. Not worried about it.

So yeah. I think Bikermommy was a tad worried that I was going a little bonkers. I’m totally fine, I was just rambling and so stinking tired. And Rowdi was so bad yesterday, that stupid dumb escaping dog; that just added to the tiresomeness of painting. More on that later. Bad dog. But when I was talking to Bikermommy, she asked about the drug that makes me dopey and incoherent at times, though I only notice that side effect when I’m completely exhausted.

SARAHK: [long, incoherent, rambling sentence with a lot of words only half-finished]
BIKERMOMMY: Are you still on the Topamax?
SARAHK: Yes. But you know what? It’s because I have hardly slept. When I am this tired and on the Topamax, yes, I am completely incoherent. But right now I am on gluten and not having migraines, so I’m not getting off the Topamax. After my biopsy, I’ll start getting off Topamax, but for now, I’m staying on.
BIKERMOMMY: No, that’s not what I meant.
SARAHK: Uh-huh. It’s because I sound completely crazy and can’t talk. I know.
BIKERMOMMY: No, I mean because you don’t feel well. [Suuuure.]
SARAHK: Well, I’m not having headaches, it’s just my whole body hurts. We’re doing a lot of physical work. A lot of moving, a lot of painting, a lot of [incoherent who knows].
BIKEY: Oh, I thought you were having headaches.
SARAHK: Not that many. I get twinges, and they are migraines, but the Topamax keeps them from going full-blown and lasting for days.
BIKEY: Oh, I thought maybe you were off the Topamax because you didn’t feel well.
SARAHK: [Very fast] No, I feel awful because I’m eating gluten and we’re doing all this work, and I’m so tired, and I’ll be so glad when we get notified that the COBRA payment has been received so I can call the doctor and ask him if we can please move the biopsy up any earlier, because I’ll be so glad to be done with this evil crap forever, but then again, I feel like I should give it the full three months to work, because what if the biopsy is negative, and then I’ll always wonder if maybe I should have waited just two or three more weeks.
BIKEY: Yeah, that’s true. When is it?
SARAHK: June 15th, and I can’t wait, and oh. [New subject.]

I was all over the place. I’m sure she felt so much better about my mental status after we hung up. By the end she was all, “Well, um, ok, love you, talk to you later, go take a nap, don’t worry about anything!”

What a perfect day to have a talk with your son about the rest of his life.

Here’s what happened with Rowdi yesterday, whom we should have dubbed Bullet McSprinty when we got her from the shelter 15 months ago. Not that I’m counting the months. 15.5 months. Frank took Rowdi for a very long walk, because the preacher’s son was coming over to help with everything. Oh, and this is funny. We had made arrangements on Sunday with Alcazar the preacher’s son (more on the name later, that’s not his real name) to come yesterday morning. Told his mom, told his dad, they all knew he was coming to work and to learn; by the way, we decided to pay him $12 an hour plus a little extra for gas since he’s driving 45 minutes each way. Well, he drops off his sisters at school, so he could be leaving his area of town at 8:30, and he said he’d come right after that and stay until around 3 when he needed to leave for his other official job, which was good for Frank and me, because that made us be on a schedule and set goals and me stay up all night. Ok, so Alcazar called at 9 to tell us that he was going to have breakfast with his dad and would be here a little later. That’s fine, we’ll be here all day. He got to our house at 11:25; it turns out that the preacher, we’ll call him Brother A for anonymity’s sake, picked yesterday morning to have the come-to-Jesus talk with Alcazar about how he really needs to be serious about college and not just chase chicks. Hahaha. I thought it was funny that Alcazar totally got one of the big life talks, because those are so uncomfortable, and don’t we all delight when kids get those talks? But at the same time I was like, he doesn’t start school until September, and our furniture gets delivered tomorrow. But I still thought it was stinking funny, all the dadding that his dad did yesterday. So yeah, Alcazar was only here for 3.5 hours. Oh, and I fed him lunch before he left, and I was listing off quick stuff I could make (daylight was a-wasting), and Alcazar gasped in delight when I said Totino’s pizza. Ha! Good kid.

Winner: Bad Dog of the Year

Back to Rowdi. Frank tired out Rowdi good, because she was going to meet a new guest, and she was pretty good when Alcazar arrived. She greeted him and sniffed all over him, and she only tried to jump up to about his hip level, and that only twice or thrice before she finally got the point that mommy is not ok with that. He petted her, and then she totally leaned up against his legs and rolled over on her back and asked impolitely for him to please rub her belly forever and ever amen. (Later he asked what kind of dog she is. “Oh, she’s a shepherd / pit bull / lab mix or something. We don’t really know.” His eyes got huge like “oh crap! she’s a pit bull!” when we said pit bull, but then he remembered that he’d already met her and was totally cool with her.) Well. Rowdi decided she wanted to show off her mad sprinting powers to her new friend. Frank and Alcazar carried my cedar chest out to my car, and I called her to me, and she came and stood calmly on the carpet until we were all out the door, never once went onto the tile of the entryway. Very good dog, very sneaky dog who just wanted to catch us off guard. Next item of furniture: Queen Anne chair. She went to the door, and I called her to me on the carpet. She did not come, and I said, like I always do, “No, Rowdi, you have to stay inside.” Normally my saying this is enough. She knows that this means she is not going outside, so she doesn’t even try to escape. But she was like, “Forget y’all! I want Alcazar to see how fast I can run!” So the first chance she had to get between the chair, Alcazar, and the door, her sprinty little butt was wriggling past, and all I saw was muscles and that dumb little stub she has where her tail should be.

Retrieval: Closing the door and pretending we didn’t want her back didn’t work. I watched out the window, and she was like, “I just sprinted, so I need to poo!” Totally disinterested in the fact that we were disinterested in her. Dangit. Frank never could find the poo next to that neighbor’s mailbox. I hope they don’t find it on their shoes. Next trick: Bag of biscuits. She never gets biscuits anymore, because of the food allergies thing, so I shook the biscuits loud and proud, good bait, embarrassed though I was. Not interested. I hate that female dog sometimes. So Frank started walking down the street, calling her. She was just soooo happily sniffing everything she could get that stupid sniffer on. She’d be the world’s best drug dog, I swear. I walked around the back of the houses toward the gator pond, because I figured the last time it took this long to get her back, she went for a swim. I was all calm, just waiting for her to come my way so I could calmly entice her with biscuits and then ground her sorry butt. Talk to me all you want about “you never want to punish them when they come back to you, because then they think they’re being punished for coming to you and it makes them less likely to come when you call in the future.” Bullcrap. Maybe with your dog, not with this princess. She always knows exactly what she’s being grounded for. She does something bad, and if I can’t catch her and then finally just give up and call her and wait for her to come to me? I ground her. She comes to me now more than ever. Unless she’s outside, because y’all, she’s only ever been off-leash outside of the house four times now, and they were not planned excursions. Dog spa doesn’t count. No back yard, nowhere to train her, and we have nosy neighbors that would have her impounded by animal control in five seconds if we regularly practiced offleashiness with her. These people have nothing better to do. Ok, so every single yip-yap dog in the neighborhood (besides Rowdi, the dogs next door, and the lab across the street, they’re pretty much all yippers and yappers) was screaming “Mommy!” at the sight of her. Over and over, too, like the seagulls screaming “Mine! Mine! Mine!” on Finding Nemo. So now we had a quietly sniffing mutt running all over the place and a bunch of attack-watch-yippers interrupting The View and Fox News. Rowdi ran right into the garage of some of the yippy dogs, and Frank was able to corner her there. She didn’t actually run to the yippy dogs, she just ran over and started sniffing one of their dog beds. The dogs themselves were behind a gated-off section in the garage with their owner, barking mad, and Rowdi was completely ignoring them so she could sniff their sleeping spots. Frank and Alcazar walked into the garage to grab the dog, and the owner jumped out from behind the gate and started walking toward Frank, Alcazar, and Rowdi, glaring at Frank. Frank said, “Sorry. Dog got away from us,” grabbed Rowdi by the collar, and started walking her out of the garage and back home. The owner of the house didn’t even respond. He didn’t say, “KEEP YOUR EVIL VICIOUS DOG OUT OF MY GARAGE!” or “No problem, dogs are hard to catch when they get away from you, especially when they are faster than a speeding bullet. Dogs will be dogs, and she obviously didn’t want to hurt me or my dogs,” or “I’M REPORTING YOU AND YOUR DOG TO THE HOA, AND THEN I’M CALLING ANIMAL CONTROL!” Just continued to glare at Frank without acknowledging that Frank had spoken. I asked Frank if it was Neighbor Bill, and he said it was quite possible, because the guy was just weird and totally could have been Neighbor Bill.

Whatever. Anyway, I was about a block behind the guys and the female dog, so I was yelling, “As soon as you get her in the house, you GROUND HER!” And he did, and when I got inside the house, she knew exactly what she had done wrong. And today, when Frank and I were taking boxes and things to the car, we had the door open to get the boxes out, and Rowdi looked hopeful, and I looked at the dog, and I said, “Don’t even think about it, or you are so grounded.” She hung her head so low that her nose was almost on the tile, and she did not even think about trying to escape the pit of despair. Maybe the dog spa should have tried alpha rolling her. I’m thinking it would have taken about four times before she finally got it.

Renaming Alcazar.

Alcazar’s name: No sleep + Topamax, right? Ok, so Alcazar’s name is really Alister. And every time I said his name before he got to the house, I would cycle through the names. And here’s how it went yesterday when I told Alister why I am officially changing his name to Alcazar.

SARAHK: Hey, I can’t remember your name today. You know I know your name. But every time I try to come up with it today, first I think Alcatraz. No idea why.
ALISTER: Alcatraz? What?
SARAHK: I know! I’m insane. Then I go to Alcazar. That’s because he’s on my soap opera, not that I watch soap operas [you can't tell a PK that you watch soap operas, because PKs tell their mamas or their sisters, and then the whole church knows!]. Anyway.
FRANK J.: Alcazar. [He says that in a sinister way every time he hears it, because he thinks it's hilarious and would make a good alien name, just like Lipitor.]
SARAHK: And then finally I get to Alister. But you know how when your grama is trying to say your name, she cycles through all the names of your aunts and uncles first and then finally gets to your name? [Not necessarily his grama, but both of mine are like that. I'm always Karen, Sandra, Terry, Wanda, Carol, Linda, and Kyle.]
ALCAZAR: [laughing at how truly craaaazy I am] Yeah.
SARAHK: Yeah, that’s how I feel today. So I’m sorry, but you’re now Alcazar.
ALCAZAR: Wh… That’s… um… Ok.

You know he was thinking, “White people are crazy. Alcazar? What the heck?”

More of that stupid bad dog.

So Rowdi also chewed a hole in one of my kickboxing gloves. Yep, she’s never chewed up anything that wasn’t one of her toys or Sydney’s mice, but she picked yesterday to decide to be bad bad bad. And she decided that in order to eat one of Sydney’s new mice, she would have to be super-secretive about it, because if we catch her, she gets grounded and rolled, and I will crank those pit bull jaws open, stick my fist in her mouth, and pull out that mouse if she doesn’t swallow it before I get to her. Of course, usually she just knows what’s best and drops it as soon as I say to. But I accidentally bought catnip-filled mice (I try not to, because I don’t want my cats any wackier than normal–they’re crazy enough), and Rowdi wants them badly. So badly. So she’s been finding them, slinking off with them, holding them between her paws, and quietly licking / nibbling them so that we don’t catch her. She got two of them yesterday, but I totally caught her the second time when she had barely gotten started.

Yeah, she spent about eight hours in her crate yesterday. I’m starting to feel a lot better about leaving her crated up in the house for an entire day when we go to Disney or the Space Center. Not joking. She stays in there 12 hours at night anyway. As long as we give her a long walk beforehand, yeah, why should she keep us from having fun?

I’m mean to Brian the Sailor because I’m SICK IN THE HEAD!

Then at the end of a very looooooong day, I got an awesome comment from Brian the Sailor, nice guy, Navy man himself, friend, etc. Oh, and he’s blogging at Pereiraville because this one time, wRitErsbLock made a comment on one of my posts, and Brian thought she was insulting me, and he came back at her in the comments to my defense, and I emailed him to tell him that she is my friend and was not insulting me… long story short, they became friends, and he blogs with her now. Isn’t that cute? Yes. So Brian left this comment at IMAO on my post about how I accidentally hung up on the Navy vet calling for money.

I’m drying my eyes, here.

I read that: “Wah, wah, wah. SarahK is always whining. What a crybaby.”

I’m surprised Frank lets you crosspost here. He’s supposed to be the funny one.

I read that: “I’m surprised Frank lets you crosspost here. You’re not even funny. He’s the funny one.”

Girl, you’re getting your comic chops down!

I read that: “Girl, you’re not funny, and you’re bringing the readers down. You get less funny by the day.”

I wouldn’t worry so much about the Navy call. They’ll call back.

I read that: “Quit your worrying about the Navy call, Miss Worrypants. They’ll call back.”

Yes, I’m a complete dimwit. So I sent Brian a very ugly email. Boy, am I glad I didn’t fully embarrass myself by responding in the IMAO comments where everyone would see what I wrote. So I’ll post it here.

um, if you didn’t enjoy the post, which i thought was hilarious and was really meant to highlight our funny bickering and my bad timing (and didn’t i say at the very beginning that i was still going to say NO? we’re not donating right now to any charities other than church, and if we were, we would research and pick out our own charities to donate to, we wouldn’t be donating based on a phone call.), you feel free to refrain from commenting. i don’t understand the purpose of negative comments. and he lets me crosspost at IMAO because last TV season proved that my AI and 24 blogging generated an extra 1500 hits a day in traffic. and there’s no LETTING me crosspost. i read him something that i’m writing, or he reads it on my blog after i’ve posted it, and he says, “hey, you should put that on IMAO.” there have also been times when i’ve tried only posting my TV stuff on my own blog, and he’s like, what’s going on? why didn’t you post that on IMAO?

any questions?

And he’s still speaking to me! Editor’s note: I think it was actually more like 1000 hits last TV season, and I don’t think I’m bringing in anything this season. Brian responded.

“any questions?” Yes, Sarah. Did you actually read what I said? That post was absolutely hilarious. The only reason I was wondering why Frank was letting you post is because you generate more belly laughs than him. Hence the compliment which was posted. Love, Brian

I still got LOVE from him after being a total gritch like that! What is wrong with that guy? I emailed him again and again explaining how I’m such a terd, and Frank’s response to the whole situation.

Frank and I had a giant laugh at this and hope you are laughing at how stupid I am too. Of course Frank’s like, “He bought 6 books! You can’t be mean to him!” Actually, you bought 7, but I didn’t correct him. I said, “I know who Brian the Sailor is! He blogs on Rachel’s blog now! We’re friends! So when I got this mean, nasty comment, I was just like, what the heck? Why so mean?” And I am crying laughing so hard at how I took absolutely every sentence exactly the opposite of the way you meant it. I chalk it up to being a woman on no sleep… Actually, the first thing Frank said was, “You have to blog that.” And when I read everything that you wrote in your comment and then my response, he was laughing so much by the end of it. He’s like, “You’re CRAZY!”

Brian told me it’s just one of those things to write off and laugh about, but I corrected him and told him it’s one of those things to write about and laugh off. Pretty good, huh?

Furniture delivery: Some men are dense.

Oh. The furniture people came today, and when the guy walked in and saw the ladder and the primed walls, he asked if we were painting. Why, yes we are. We wanted to have it all done before the furniture got here, but whatever. Then he told us if we would like for them to leave the plastic on the furniture, because it is all kinds of covered in heavy, thick plastic and cardboard for shipping, and they can just leave that on for us. “Oh yes, that would be awesome!” And it is way better than paper-thin plastic dropcloths, and the cats can’t scratch through these plastic covers without significant effort. I was so happy with the furniture delivery people. And so sad for the one guy who twice hit his head on the chandelier over the new sitting area.

Now we have motivation, because we can’t uncover and sit on our new couches until we finish painting this room. Not that we weren’t motivated before, but yay! I can’t wait to use the furniture! And the color looks awesome in here and with the decorations! Score! One thing about the delivery guys though. They picked the wrong person to ask about age.

SARAHK: [to Frank] We’re clear that the ottoman is mine, right?
FRANK J.: Yeah, sure, whatever.
FURNITURE GUY: Are y’all married?
SARAHK: Yeah. I just wanted him to know that I claim it for purposes of use.
FG: Yeah, usually the boss does that. [HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. That is not how things are!]
SARAHK: Oh, he’s totally the head of the household. I just want that ottoman.
FG: How long have y’all been married?
SARAHK: Almost two years.
FG: Really? Wow. He looks like a little kid! [Frank hates it when people say that. Hates it.]
SARAHK: He’s almost 28. [And totally in the room!]
FG: Yeah, you just look way too young to be married. You look like you’re 17 or something. [Frank looked utterly unamused and went into the kitchen to pour more coffee.]
FRANK J.: Yeah, add 11 years to that.
SARAHK: Um, I’ll have you know that when I haven’t just gotten out of bed and, you know, I’ve showered [in the last month], I look about 22. So it’s not just him. I look young too.
FG: Nah, you look old enough to get married, but he looks like a little kid. [It's pathetic when you are begging people to tell you how young you look, and then they still just deny it to your face. Ratface.]
SARAHK: Yeah, you know, guys don’t really love hearing that. Women do, though.
FG: [Now there's that look of comprehension I've been waiting for. You're lucky y'all got a tip after all.] Oh, yeah, I see. You’re right, you look young too. [And I can tell you mean it.]


Prepare yourselves, people. We have some of the most adorable animal pictures coming your way soon. I found the camera.

TMI below the fold.
Read more »

worst idea ever

Getting out of the house

Yeah, so I’m not exactly known for my great ideas. But what else were we to do? We can’t exactly pawn Rowdi or the cats off on any neighbor, considering that any one of them could have a flea on them at any one period in time (plus the cats are fully clawed, and Rowdi is a sixty-pound high-energy dog). And because Rowdi has been kicked out of the dog spa at the most inopportune time, and we needed to get everything ready to spray super-fast, and the house was an absolute grade A disaster area, there was no time for interviewing new dog spas. Cleaning, moving things, laundry, etc. No time. And while the spray is wet, it is toxic to pets and humans (and hopefully fleas!), so the little furry children couldn’t stay home.

After days of cleaning and laundry, we finally left the house with the pack of wild animals around 4 p.m. yesterday. And after having sprayed a couple of rooms, closing them off, ventilating them, whatnot earlier this week, I knew that it takes about four hours for the spray to dry, especially on the windowsills and tile. Oh yes, before we went, I went to the Florida State Parks website and searched for parks within 100 miles of us, then went to each result’s page, compared the map of each result’s location against writersblock‘s link to the map of all the Florida fires, and then we just decided to go south on A1A and maybe hit Sebastian Inlet. I’ve not really been impressed with Sebastian Inlet, but we figured if we got bored, we could keep going south toward Ft. Pierce.

Ok, so first stop was Petsmart. Wait, back up. First we put the kitties in the carriers, and we couldn’t remember which goes in which carrier. We soon found out. So we put Minerva in the Sherpa (wrong choice), and Sydney went into the hard carrier. That was mainly because Sydney was hardest to catch, and the Sherpa was open first. Many scrapes and scuffles later, the cats were in the carriers, Frank was in the back seat with Sydney, and Minerva was in the front seat. I got Rowdi’s canteen filled and grabbed the backpack, which I had packed with snacks, a frozen 2-liter of ginger ale, books (took those back out, because yeah, right), the video camera (this was sure to be an instant classic–too bad the video camera’s battery was dead and I didn’t think to charge it). Then I took the puppy to the car–she wore the Gentle Leader, just in case she got a little too excited about being in such close quarters with the kitties. I put her in the back seat on the other side of Frank from Sydney, and I went back in to spray the house. I sprayed the garage and the perimeter of the yard and porch last and finally got in the car.

Everyone’s hatin’ on Rowdi at Petsmart

Alright. Frank took Rowdi on a very long walk before we went anywhere. Good parents. Rowdi was great in the car. Poor thing couldn’t get comfortable, because she needs two seats for herself, and Daddy was just infringing on that territory. Sydney squeaked a little but then just got comfortable and decided that she was happy that whatever the cats were going to endure, the dog was going to endure as well. Minerva was completely quiet until I got into the car. Then she started calling for me. “Maaaaaaaaaaaa!” And Rowdi just needed to check it out. How are things in the front seat? What is going on? I told her three or four times, No, get back, back up, sit, but she was completely fixated, because by this time, Minerva was fully clawing the sides of the Sherpa (oh yeah, that’s why Sydney always goes in the Sherpa, and Minerva goes in the hard carrier) trying to escape. I couldn’t reach Rowdi’s hip (squeezing her hip always gets her attention, and tapping the side of her neck does nothing), and Frank had run back inside the sprayed house for something (I told him to hold his breath). So finally I popped her on the nose, and she did not try to stick it in the front seat again. She was utterly disinterested in Sydney. Probably because Syd was making no noise.

Now, Minerva wouldn’t shut up unless I was petting her. So I opened the top flap of the Sherpa just the slightest bit and had my hand stuffed in there, petting the kitty. I moved my hand just a little at one point, and Minerva seized her chance. She jammed her head out of that Sherpa opening so fast. And once the head is out, well. She’s a cat. So I was driving, and Frank was leaning forward from the back seat trying to help me shove Minerva back into the Sherpa. Finally, we tag-teamed it, with me shouting instructions, driving, watching the road, not the Sherpa, and coming out injured in the process. It went something like this.

SARAHK: Ok, you unzip the flap, I’ll grab her scruff and shove her in, and then you zip it. [unzip] No, NO Minerva! [Entire upper body was now out, because she is a cat, as I have previously mentioned.] Ok, you’re gonna have to unlatch her paws from the sides of the Sherpa now.
FRANK J.: Got it. Minerva, you’re BAD!
SARAHK: Watch out for the dog. Rowdi, get back! Frank!
FRANK J.: I was taking care of Minerva! I can’t do both!
SARAHK: I’m driving!
FRANK J.: Ok, I have Minerva’s claws out.
SARAHK: Ok, she’s in! Zip it! [zips] OUCH! You zipped my arm!
FRANK J.: Sorry!
SARAHK: It’s ok.
FRANK J.: You’re right. We really should be videotaping this.

At Petsmart, I took Rowdi in with me. She was Miss Perfect. I had the cart in one hand, the leash in another, was barely holding the leash with the left hand (I had my right wrist through the loop as a safety and was holding the other end with my right hand, as always), and she didn’t even try to wander off. She tried to sniff a lot of things, but I would say no, and she would stop. She never tried to walk in front of me. When I stopped, she stopped. When I said sit, she sat and looked up hopefully, because she did doggie class at Petsmart, so she probably thought she was getting a cookie for doing a super-fast sit in the doggie class place. Poor good dog. Occasionally, she got really interested in something that smelled good, but as soon as I gave a slight tug on the Gentle Leader, she moved right to my side. Good dog.

I found mice and jingle balls for Sydney, since I had accidentally sprayed all of Sydney’s cat toys, including her shredded monkey, picked up a frisbee for Rowdi, and treats for the kitties (we’d brought a bone for Rowdi to chew on). Oh, and Rowdi was perfect walking by all the other dogs in the store. All the little Mitzi moms with their matching powder puff Mitzi dogs looked all scared, but I was just like whatever, let me just maneuver my cart by you, because that’s the hardest part of getting around in this store, they make the carts so stinking huge. My dog will just follow nicely. Will your powder puff? I just smiled all nice-like. I’m so tired of people hatin’ on Rowdi.

At checkout, I pulled my cart up behind another couple, and I stayed with the front of my cart a good two feet behind them (so Rowdi was at least three or four feet behind them), because Rowdi is so aggressive- or exotic-looking. After I told Rowdi to sit (she did), the woman of the couple turned around and saw the vicious beast. She scooted forward another foot, at least. I was good and ignored her. I wanted to move my cart off to the side and walk Rowdi right up behind the woman and let Rowdi sniff her senseless. They left, and I had just finished telling the cashier how Rowdi hadn’t been in Petsmart in almost a year and this was the most perfect she’d ever been there when… Another dog about Rowdi’s size walked in the door. I knew this, because Rowdi turned, sat nicely, and watched said dog. I turned and watched while I waited for my transaction to go through. The other dog turned and tried to dart toward Rowdi. Rowdi started to spring toward the darting dog, but I had her and turned her away. She tried to jerk back to look at the other dog, and the other dog was still trying to come at Rowdi and was now growling. So Rowdi started her high-pitched bark (the same bark she barked at the feather-duster), and I quickly put an end to that one. “No, we do not act like that.” And I turned her, again, toward me and away from the dog. The other owners were walking off, still trying to get their dog under control. Rowdi gave a couple more glances but calmed down right away.

And as soon as Rowdi had barked at the aggressor, even though I already had her under control, the man behind us in line had decided that he needed to switch lines. I ignored him, too. I mean, he was already standing about five feet behind Rowdi, it’s not like he was gonna get caught up in the non-fray. Whatever.

Back in the car, Frank put the harness/seatbelt on Rowdi, and she actually got comfy very quickly and finally lay down and went to sleep.

Harnessing cats… it’s like trying to bottle air!

We got to Sebastian Inlet and paid $5, and they told us we could go anywhere except near water with our animals. Ok, so the picnic areas and parking lots. Frank got out with Rowdi and Rowdi’s bone and took her over to a picnic area. I got out harness #1 and held it right at the flap of the Sherpa. I opened the flap, and Minerva stuck her head right into the loop of the harness. I’m so smart. I put her in my lap and worked the rest of the harness onto her. Ok, one thing that ticks me off about these harness thingies? They’re all measured by your pet’s girth size. Like I walk into Petsmart just knowing my cat’s or dog’s girth off the top of my head. Same with Rowdi’s seatbelt thing. That thing was in girth. I just guessed and got a large. With the cats I was like, well… I guess they’re large… Who knows? All I know is that they both easily wriggle out of collars, so harnesses are the best thing I can think of for taking them outside and also for when we move to Texas so I can put their tags on them. Uh-huh.

So I tightened Minerva’s harness as tightly as possible, and it was still a tad loose, but not loose enough that she can get out of it. I think. Next came Sydney. That was a little harder, but since she was kinda taking in the new surroundings outside the windows, she was distracted enough that I didn’t get injured. Finally I had the leashes on both kitties.

Oh how I wish I could have found our camera yesterday. Y’all just don’t know.

I opened the door and held the cats in my arms. There was a surfer dude a few yards away. “Are y’all, like, gonna walk your cats on the beach on leashes?” “Well, not on the beach, but we’re going to try. This will be the first time.” “That’s awwwesome. Good luck with that.” “Yeah, thanks. We need it.”

I put the kitties on the ground. Both looked petrified and immediately backed under the car. Sydney started wriggling out of her harness. Oh no no no. Apparently that’s not the right girth size. I quickly grabbed both cats by the scruff and put them back in the car. Then I noticed that Sydney had one leg out of the harness. Oh, so that’s the problem! Let me just fix that… and let’s try again. So I put them back on the ground outside. Funny, they did not want to be outside! These kitties who always try to escape the house just did not want to be outside (on a leash in a harness). Sydney was trying to wriggle again, and they were both under the car, so I grabbed them both and put them in the front passenger seat.

I called out to Frank at the picnic area, “It’s not gonna work!”

Fluffy kitty pillows don’t make good driving tools

Frank and Rowdi came back to the car, and as soon as Sydney saw Rowdi, she volunteered to crawl into the Sherpa. “Yes, I would like to ride in here now, please, Mommy, and if you will just zip the flap up behind me so the big dog can’t get to me, I’d be most pleased, thank you very much.”

Minerva planted herself squarely on my lap. “And I’ll ride here. It’ll make it easier for you to reach me for petting while you’re driving. I’m helping you out. You may commence the petting now.”

Rowdi was just like “Whatever. I’m going to sleep.”

So after our five minutes at Sebastian Inlet, we left and went farther south. I’m not sure where we turned around. But at some point, Minerva decided that she would like to sleep behind my shoulder blades, between my back and the seat. So I was leaning forward, and Frank was trying to figure out how to negotiate Minerva’s removal with the least amount of damage to me, the cloth seat, and Rowdi, who was directly behind my seat. It’s a good thing Rowdi was harnessed in, because if she had decided to lean forward and sniff the kitty, Minerva would have decided to swipe either me, the cloth seat, or Rowdi. Finally Minerva was removed, but since she had been riding in my lap, the hard carrier was now inaccessible in the back of the SUV; Sydney occupied the Sherpa; and Minerva was doing her best to make it back to either the comfort of my lap or the weirdness of my shoulder blades. Many squabbles and arguments between Frank and Minerva later, Minerva finally decided she could perch upon the center console, but only if she could perch facing the back seat; this way she could keep an eye on that evil, sleeping dog, who was just over all of it. Eventually, Minerva tried to get to my lap again, and I was too exhausted for it. And then…

FRANK J.: Rowdi’s just trying to sleep, and Minerva’s scaring her for no reason! She’s just moving towards her and then hissing and swatting and spitting!
SARAHK: Just keep her. You handle the children, I’ll handle the driving. And by the way, we’re never having children.
FRANK J.: Well, maybe our children won’t try to attack each other.
SARAHK: Are you kidding? Have you ever seen children? They’re monsters! And we have our hands too full with animals!

We got home at 7:46, and Frank said that was good enough. I wanted to make sure. So I decided to walk Minerva to the door on her leash, and then I would pick her up and carry her when we got inside. I put her on the ground outside, and she just started walking. Like, “Oh, I love harnesses and leashes.” Until I started walking too, and then she was like, “No. You don’t get to lead.” And then she would do this thing where she’d lay on her side and act like I was going to have to drag her. And I would say, “Come on, bebe. Let’s go.” Like she’s a dog or something. And I’d just keep walking, and then she would realize that she doesn’t have a choice, and she’d kind of pull against me, but she walked. But probably only because she kinda wanted to go inside the house too. She only let me lead her where she already wanted to go. We got inside, and I saw that the tile was dry. I put Minerva down on the floor, and she started acting, again, like I would have to drag her, and she did make me drag her a little. It was funny. Then Frank and Rowdi showed up at the door, and as soon as Minerva saw the dog, she was out of that harness lightning fast.

Our bedroom wasn’t quite dry, so I just closed that off and opened the windows and turned the fan up until it was done. We were too worn out to get actual work done. The entire way home, we talked about how excited we were about the work we would be able to do when we got home. Yah. We were so done for the day.


FRANK J.: After I eat, I’ll need to wash some clothes.
SARAHK: Ok. [laughing] You should start with the ones that are already in the washer. [I've already washed these at least twice. Maybe thrice.]
FRANK J.: [laughing] You’re a BAD sweetie!
SARAHK: You don’t have to say it with such emphasis.
FRANK J.: What is it about moving them to the dryer? That’s like four times already!
SARAHK: Three. Three only. There’s already something in the dryer.
FRANK J.: So put them in a hamper. [I chose not to correct him on the proper usage of the word "hamper," as I wanted to keep the conversation moving.]
SARAHK: No. Absolutely not. They just… [I wanted to say "wrinkle," but they've been in there for weeks, so I think we're past wrinkled. But I'm totally planning to fluff them before I take them out! Totally.] No. They become part of the mess outside the dryer. [Good save.]

Egad, he’s demanding. At least I’m still microwaving him food. Once, sometimes twice, per day. I’m a saint!

samurai? cockroach hunter? one and the same?

SARAHK [very gravely]: Sweetie. Come see what I found on top of Minerva’s plant ledge.
FRANK J.: What is it?
SARAHK [I've seen one roach EVER since I got Minerva, mind you]: It’s a cockroach leg. A three-inch-long one. Three inches. [Note to peeps: I'm completely irrational when it comes to cockroaches.]
FRANK J.: That’s not a cockroach leg.
SARAHK: Yes it is. It has hair on it.
FRANK J.: It doesn’t have hair on it.
SARAHK: Lemme see. Huh. [I decided later that it had been dust, arranged in a hair pattern.] I still say it’s a cockroach leg.
FRANK J.: It’s apple peel.
SARAHK: On the plant ledge? Ten feet in the air?
FRANK J. [chuckling]: Yes. It probably got up there when I threw an apple in the air and tried to cut it with my sword like Zatoichi.
SARAHK [smiling, shaking my head]: So that’s probably what I’ve been cleaning off all the kitchen walls?
FRANK J. [laughing]: I’ve been suspecting that, but I didn’t want to tell you, because I thought you might make fun of me.
SARAHK: Well, I am going to blog it.

Funny, when I told essay about our conversation, she said, “Poor Frank, it must be so hard being married to you.”

I don’t throw apple chunks all over the walls. I just laugh at the man who does. I don’t yell at him for it or anything, I just laugh! Of course, she laughed at him with me, because she, too, is a woman!

And not a samurai!