Brown mutt for sale

A few days after the kids moved into our house, a friend recommended that we go to a comedy show to cheer ourselves up and relieve stress through laughter. Dealing with the fire stress, Christmas holidays, and kids has been different and difficult at times.

Then it occurred to me that my family provides a good bit of laughter. I could put on the rosy glasses and adapt a better attitude, therein find some funny. (And take my meds. Those are important.)

So I'm going with the cheaper version of a comedy show: almost middle-age kids, teen grandchildren, child-size grandchildren, and a great-grandie trying to learn to crawl and walk at the same time. Almost all of us living on the same house lot. 

Let's add to that menagerie of people, the menagerie of pets: three Maltese pups in the small camper; one Maltese in the big camper; and in the house a sweet schnauzer named Lucy and the newest member of the menagerie: The Mutt.

The Mutt, aka the brown dog, the stray dog, that damn dog, has one or two irritating habits. His moniker depends greatly on his antics and the amount of cleaning required of the the adult dealing with him. His bad puppy habits are so despicable that I decided that we needed to "rehome" him. To that end, I put a small ad on Facebook:

Brown mutt for sale. Real cheap. Answers to every command he knows. Trained to clean trash cans. Will self-load into any vehicle. Eats anything. Can dig trenches and make gates. Loves everyone, good with small children (able to teach them how to fall correctly and rebound quickly). Paying $5 to come look at him, plus $5 if you take him home. 

Thus far I have received no takers. Will, however, defended Mutt and insists he is part of the family and Jolie loves him. Therefore, he cannot be rehomed. Uhm, that's coming from someone who doesn't have to pick up after him, repair the fences he breaks, refill the holes he digs, run him out of our camper, or walk in the dark with Mutt jumping on knees, thighs, and ankles. I just know that Mutt is determined to see me fall in the gravel just for the fun of watching me roll. No doubt he will help me up and kiss all the boo-boos. 


By now we've gotten used to him and expect him to come bounding into a set of knees at any second. His favorite pastime is to tease the Maltese puppies when they are outside. We built a small yard for them right outside the camper. It's where we feed them, let them get some exercise and take care of outdoor business. 

Mutt has been trying for weeks to dig into the yard, which shows his IQ level. Few animals work to get in a cage. We can't allow that because Mutt weighs more than the three Maltese together. Translate that into every day someone has to shovel dirt and rocks back into the holes he's created. When he not escaping his freedom, he's using it to annoy the Maltese by running around and around their yard so that they feel the need to bark and chase him. It's a mean game of "Not It" that no one can win, not even the humans who try desperately to chase him away.

Cotton is my forever dog, so he comes with me almost everywhere, which requires walking from place to place. While Cotton was out few days ago, Mutt ran back and forth in front of him trying to engage a game of tag. He bomb-rushed into Cotton and rolled him into a couple of cartwheels. I barely snatched up Cotton before the second assault and tossed him into the camper. 

Believing he's a big boy with a full set of teeth, Cotton was somewhat miffed and wanted blood.  He bounced back out yapping and snarling, so I caught him again this time in midair and received a nip on the arm for my efforts. While I dealt with the maniac in my arms, Mutt bounded past me into the camper. You can't imagine the joys of playing hide and seek in a small camper until you play with a mad Maltese and a crazy Mutt, who is actually good at all of his games. 

Peacocks, owls, and ants

Several years ago our son and his wife lived next door to a family who owned peacocks. They were lovely and colorful and fun. Until nightfall. That's when they would make these loud, scary calls. It didn't help that the house was a rental with poor lighting outside. Or that the peacocks had full run of the entire area. They were allowed to stop traffic, visit neighbors, ride on the backs of four-legged animals if they wished.

Oh, and the yard. Not a "yard" so much as a former field that had been converted into a pecan orchard, that had been converted to a place. There were holes from crumbling railroad ties, dips that held ATVs hostage, and mounds of....well, wait for it. Walking to or from the house was an obstacle course that often caused your body to suddenly twist into a convoluted pretzel. 

At precisely the right time, an owl would hoot in those creepy sounds that big owls make. You know that sound: low and deep and breathy. The ones that echo off the pecan trees. Those ones.

Sometimes you stepped on a soft mound of freshly ground dirt. To which your response had better be high stepping at a fast clip before something below smelled your flesh. 

Red fire ants in Louisiana tromp up your foot at the same time, like a troop of Roman soldiers, they search out their field of attack under socks and pants, so when the officers yell "charge," they take one synchronized chomp. There is no pain like the burning pain of Southern fire ants, but Louisianans are bound to secrecy so as not to discourage tourism. I can say no more.

Inevitably there would be a hole waiting for the step immediately following the drop into the ant hill. It worked in the order of sinking ant hill, high step, high step, hole, drop. "Hoo hoo hoot." And an onslaught of slapping at your ankles until the realization that you're the one flaying around.

Of course, during this attempt to remove the monsters eating you alive, your legs were still working. Once in motion, they just went. Nothing in your brain signaled them to stop because everything in your brain is working at the ants. Once a body is in motion, the body stays in motion, remember? The problem is that your body  forgot the laws of motion while traveling at 3.1415 miles per hour. Something had to give. 

The knees are the first to go, remember? One knee caught your body weight in a thud, while the other foot pawed the grass in an attempt to get ahead of the rest of you. That happens instinctively. But it never works. The only time instinct really did any good was much later. After you'd clawed your ankles, broken your knee (the good one) and had a slight heart attack. The good news is that a slight attack kept your heart pounding. Ah, you could race to the door on one bad knee and no ankles. Any door would do. 

More likely than not the door would be locked, but still, it was a door. It's possible to jerk a locked door open if your heart is pounding hard enough to get adrenaline to your hands. You'd had that attack...there was adrenaline.

Of course, getting to the door required running on air. As in not touching the ground. You see, at night pecan tree roots rise out of the dirt in an interlaced course with the sole purpose of grabbing a toe. The roots were easy to evade: one need only raise the toe of each shoe just ever so much higher than normal. Everyone knows that tree roots are harmless under the foot. Feet are too big for roots. However, tree roots can grab toes; thus, the toes are in danger. But if you run fast enough, you can hover above the roots and get to the safety of any door.

Or you could be a big brave person, puff out your chest, and let your husband go to the car to turn on the lights.

Goodbye, Gold: A Horror Story

WARNING: This post may be a little gross.  Parental Guidance Suggested - some material may not be suitable for children. AL (Adult language) DS (Disturbing scenes)

I have had gold in the back of my oral cavity for years. And years. This gold cost us dearly at a time in our life when we could ill afford rice or other, much less important, staples. It's been mentioned as a source of equity, though we've never had to cash in.

Until recently. Apparently the price of gold has risen. Enough that the crown decided of its own volition to spend itself. While eating a Little Debbie Swiss Roll, I suddenly bit down on something hard and frightening. Despite the Swiss Roll deliciousness, I spit out the offending rock. The rock was golden and gross. In its place was...nothing. Immediately I became upset at the thought of this great loss and prepared to throw the contents of the paper towel into the trash. My husband insisted that I carefully place the golden rock into a zipper-type bag. Of course, only a freezer-grade gallon-size would do as there were no other containers. 

At what must have been 4:00 a.m., my husband roused me from my sleep and insisted that we see a dentist. Gold rock in hand, I sheepishly sat in the dentist's chair and showed him the bag. 

"Ah, good," he said, "it is perfect. We'll have you back together in no time." The dentist cemented the golden rock back into it's rightful place, but that would not do. I could not eat for the worry that the thing caused. Within the hour my entire face hurt and my teeth could not reach the food I funneled in. Swallowing whole forkfuls of rice and gravy cause a horrid aching in my throat. By the next morning I was crying to return to the kind man and beg him to remove the golden piece. 

"No, no, I can save it," said he. "It is a quick, painless procedure." To set things right the dentist used sandpaper to grind the gold like coffee beans from the crown's smooth top. 

Ah, but he was a mean, deceitful adversary and, while he took some of the gold, he left sharp edges, a piece of shovel and one small, pointed fork. Below all this hardware was a void that the remaining gold would use to store sustenance while it conspired to escape once more. 

First it allowed the tongue to pry and push, but many hours later the tongue became exhausted and gave up the work. Next the gold set its sights on the cheek. This cheeky fellow pretended to help, but the gold saw through the its impudent ways and gave it a good lashing. Like a child the cheek would not learn on the first offering. It often interrupted the workings of the gold by getting in the way, laughing at it's attempts, or sleeping alongside the gold when it rested. 

Thanksgiving turkey quickly found the void and proved itself useful in strengthening the gold. Christmas ham with its salty properties calcified the cement. However, it was the January fireworks which caused the grinding and clenching that would bend the golden savage. Suddenly, the void gave way to an avalanche of crumbling, calcified cement smashing and cutting into gums, tongue, and cheek. Yet, the golden rock remained in its place.

"The crown must be removed," I cried. "I can take it no longer."
"No," said the dentist, "I can save it." But I knew he could not.
Once more he tried in vain to convince me, "It can never be replaced. You must let me try."
"No," I responded with tears in my eyes. "I shall see an oral surgeon who will do whatever it takes to remove this insidious gold."

Two days later I received the call. "Today. 3:00. A place called AOS. Do not be late," said a sinister voice. I know not whom.  Though it required much investigation, I deduced the place where the surgeon does his barbarian work and begged my husband to drive me.

"I cannot go alone. I am terrified and fear that I may not return," I cried. After much begging and pleading on my part, he relented and angrily snatched the keys from my hand.

We arrived at a large, dark building in the middle of the city. I know not where as there were many twists and turns, and I could not see out the window crouched on the floor as I was. After much cajoling, followed by many curses and threats, the love of my life forced me from the car. 

He then pushed me into the building where the windows were tinted and covered with heavy blinds. Tears streaming down my face, I signed form after form. Perhaps I am signing my life away, I pondered, but nothing mattered save the removal of the golden rock.

I alone was allowed beyond the heavy door and lead down a long hallway. I was placed into a machine that spoke to me in an eery, other-worldly voice before enclosing my head in a contraption that swirled and turned until I was dizzy. "Open your eyes," said the tomb-like echo, "and back away from the machine." In a trance, I did as I was told. 

Before I could gain self-control, I was taken to a closeted room where I was interrogated for what must have been hours. Relenting, I provided the answers they wanted and was moved to another, smaller room with a couch where I was to lie in stillness. Without warning, the chair moved and I found myself in a position akin to hanging upside-down. I held onto tiny bars, knowing I would land on my head should I fall.

A man laden with instruments of torture, calling himself "Dr. Smith" entered the room. I squeezed my eyes shut. The woman next to me forced my mouth open and placed a vise between my teeth. Ratcheting my mouth open until I was certain my jaw would break, she said something incoherent to the surgeon. The words they spoke were of another language; I understood nothing. 

Dr. Smith proceeded to stick me with what may have been needles for I felt them probe deep inside my gum, beyond the area of the gold. My brain bursting, I lay quietly, though surely I trembled in fear, tears forever streaming. 

I never lost consciousness and sensed that I was aware of everything that transpired, though I can remember nothing of the episode from the time that Dr. Smith began his hideous work. There may have been some sensation of pressure or pulling, but I will never be sure.  

At some point, I was brought upright and Dr. Smith questioned me further. There was an abyss where the gold had once been. It bleed but strangely I did not feel pain. Eliciting my secrecy, someone gave instructions for my care and showed me the door and I wandered into the bright sunlight, where my husband found me mute but seemingly whole. As we sped from this place of agony, we looked at each other stupefied but, speaking not a word, we wondered...where was the gold?

Link Ups! 

A finish, though not a quilty one.

Crazy Mom Quilts (Finish It Up Friday)

Confessions of a Fabric Addict (Can I get a Whoop! Whoop!)

Sunday Quilt Inspiration: H U M O R

Pretend words here.

**change some to often

I am a librarian and I would catalog it,
but I'm busy cutting, sewing and quilting.

And so, the tour de force...

Honestly, I know it's batman but I don't get how it's funny.
 Could someone explain it to me?  

And the tour de force...

PO, Pay, Passports

Have you tried to get a passport recently? Richard and I spent four hours in this sweltering heat doing just that. Thank goodness, I'd prepared for the disaster that we all expect when dealing with government entities: we found our birth certificates; made sure to have cash, checks, and cards; brought driver's licenses; packed lunch, water, supper and sleeping bags. 

Oh yes, I also read all the directions on the website, fill out the forms online saving them to my Google drive, and checked the hours of the post office (PO) we planned to use. Together we called the boys just in case 48 hours passed, so they could tell search dogs where to begin.

We started early. At the PO we discovered that our birth certificates are worthless. Seriously? We've had these for almost 60 years. These babies allowed us to get SSNs. Mine put me through college (twice). They married out of our parents' hair.  And encouraged divorced on several occasions. To replace such important official documents, there is only one place to go: The Courthouse. 

Now this is Louisiana where The Courthouse is important. Confederate generals may stand guard over the proceedings. (You just never really know.) George Washington, Huey "The Kingfish" Long, Edwin Edwards et al stare down from gilded frames hiding cracks in every recess of the walls.

Give the parish $1034 for papers that are different from the originals only in that most some of the information is wrong--on the new certificates. 

Go to the office supply store to make copies of the online forms because we needed paper versions. Why have the forms online, you ask? For the convenience, they answer. The real reason however is that as applicants we must raise our right hand; swear that the information is correct, bona fide, and unscrupulous; and sign under penalty of law that our children will without argument vouchsafe our identities. 

Back at the PO Richard begins his "processing" while I run back to the office store and get my "papers" since we got two for Richard (lucky b-word), but none for me. Richard flirts and gets his picture taken--it's great. What can I say? He's a good-looking guy. 


I race back to the PO, fix my hair take out my ponytail, refresh my lipstick and grimace for what is possibly the worst picture I have ever taken. I never take good pictures, but really? My eyes are open, so she says, "This is the one." 

I look like I'm a prime suspect on one of those cop show that Richard watches: sweaty, red faced, wild mussy hair, no makeup. In other words, impeccable. I had just trotted (okay, slowly) four miles blocks in 200 90 degree heat. Meanwhile every speck of makeup had dripped off my face, except what I had scrubbed onto my sleeve. Disgusting, I know, but "them's the facts."

Unfortunately I don't have a mug shot; I am certain I'd have been decent in comparison.  Thus, for the 10 years I will look exactly like myself on the one official document that I must use to travel the world. In other words, I can go anywhere looking horrible while my handsome husband is turning the eye of every security guard who frisks him he runs across. I doubt I'll be frisked. 

A passport costs $110 and the expedition fee is another $60 and the application fee is $25 and the execution fee is $25 for a total of $5261 per adult. 

Sage advice for those without passports: prepare, print and make copies all your documents. Go to at least three ATMs for unmarked bills. Then prepare to cheese it up a bit. Maybe don't go after running a full marathon on a hot day. Better yet, have your passport photo taken on your way to your next swanky party.

The Garden Wars: A Ship Sinks

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Mayday! Mayday! THE ANTS ARE COMING! THE ANTS ARE COMING!

Ahh, well, there's only one way to take out the enemy...with full gear and enough ammo. Really it's the only way. Men, you know.

So we've had a great deal of rain. Flood stage and higher. People have lost homes. Rivers overrun their banks kind of rain. Darn sky!

With rain come the ants. Fire ants. Sugar ants. Red ants. Flying ants. Ants with no name. They are allowed on my kitchen cabinet. Actually, that's a problem but it's my problem. The garden, however, is scared ground. Remember the Garden War has begun. Ants may cause a gardener to lose to another gardener. So we can't have ants in the garden. Or aphids. Or chickens. Or anything that may eat a leaf. Leaves are good. Ants are bad. Simple. 

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But ants invade, although this wasn't really a tactical move, they were flooded out. So in their defense, it really was the sky's fault. Darn sky! But they should have moved to the pasture. Or my kitchen cabinet. Somewhere safe. Instead, they moved two feet from scared ground. They had to go. 

I am at fault since I warned a gardener to be careful and not stand in the anthill while we were on the daily admiration walk to admire the plants, the leaves, the heights, the vegetables. Then admire the garden in general. Kneel and say a pray for good weather, good harvest, and a kicka-- win. Walk to the next garden and repeat. There are several boxes, remember? It takes a while. 

This particular day, however, I noticed The Anthill. Easy fix. Pour an oil-based liquid on the hill and strike a match. It's what country boys do, you understand. Oil-based liquids are easily accessible, make whooshing sounds, and cause havoc. All three of my boys are reliable pyromaniacs. I, myself, can start a campfire with one match and the items I gather in the woods. It's written in the official "True Southern Rite of Passage Handbook" (section 5, article iii, line 6) True Southerners must be "capable of building a safe fire without harm to human, animal, live vegetation, or self using only natural materials and no more than three matches." It goes on to say blah, blah, blah, blah...

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Adam met that standard at about the age of two, maybe three. He was toddling around gathering wood, so he couldn't have been very old. Today, he can start a safe fire with a wet brick. So he started a fire. It's an interesting way to de-ant a garden. 

That the ants weren't actually in the garden was just a small sticking point. They were around the tall creosote pole that held the electrical wires to Adam's shed. The wires weren't connected to the shed. They were just holding the pole up. Maybe one day they'll carry electricity all the way from the transformer to the shed. Maybe not. 

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But the electrical pole was not the problem, the ants were the problem. So Adam poured paint thinner around the pole, not on the pole, it was to be a safe fire, and struck the lighter. It was a little disappointing that the paint thinner didn't whoosh, but it did upset the ants. In fact, it was upsetting enough that the boy poured on more paint thinner. 

Hmm, there wasn't enough oil-based liquid, so he got out a small can of some other Napalm-like liquid and poured. The fire got hotter. Ahh, now the ants were climbing out of the depths of the nest. They were toast and soon the fire died down to barely a smolder. Not even smoke. Everyone safe. See, a safe fire. That was Saturday.




On Sunday it was easy to explain to the electrical company why the electrical pole was lying on the ground. The wires were faulty, you see. They got scared of the little bitty (safe) fire and let go of the pole and, unable to support itself, the pole crashed to the ground. 

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Here's your chemistry lesson: paint thinner--flammable; burns like a chemical grenade capable of seeping into small cracks. Creosote--enzymatic chemical; can burn without oxygen. In fact, it can create a fire out of itself. And that, my dear readers, is what happened.  A week later and there's still a smolder of laughter.

Pin It Weekly #143

When I saw this Snapchat picture on Pinterest, I just had to share it. Forget the curling iron (I don't use those), have you ever done this with your fabric iron? I know I have!

I've been working on a scrap quilt for a while now. It's taking longer than I thought it would, but there are a few reasons for that. First, work is kicking my tail--I come home exhausted and nap away my studio time.  

When I do get into the studio, I've been working on small projects that are fast and easy. Finally, I've taken a commissioned project, so I'm putting away two of my own projects: a strip quilt that I pulled fabrics for and the scrap quilt. 

I was hoping to finish the scrap quilt before starting the customer quilt, but I have a deadline. That means my project goes on hold. Before putting it away, though, I was enjoying Pinterest for scrap quilt ideas . 

You can find all these and many more on my Pinterest board, "heart, quilts."  And for good measure, check out this quilt that was at QuiltCon in February.