Boring Actually Has A Lot Of Stuff In It

Maybe my days off aren't quite as boring as I think. You can decide.

I woke up at around 7:15 AM and wandered out to the kitchen for the customary (and metabolically necessary) first cup of coffee. The first thing I saw was a note by the coffee pot. Aw, how sweet! My honey-bunny left me a note! I wondered if it would be of the romantic or naughty variety. Or both.

None of the above. This is what it said:

"There is a wounded rabbit out there somewhere. After Ozark dropped it on the deck & I got him in, it was still there for a few minutes, then gone. But I think it was "damaged." You probably want to go out with them & be prepared."

See? Neither romantic or naughty. Upsetting and anxiety-inducing. I had to ingest enough coffee to feel functional, then go search for a damaged-and-probably-dead bunny. Bunnies are not very durable. Actually, dead is sad, but I was more worried about finding him not-quite-dead, because then I would have to figure out what to do about it. My options are a) rush to work and let them try to save it (which never works; see above mention regarding bunnies' lack of durability), b) let it suffer and hope it dies soon, or c) whack it with a shovel.

I do not like any of those options.

While I was in emergency caffeine consumption mode, Ozark came over for his morning skritch-fest. Lovely, except I quickly discovered that his entire head was crawling with fleas. Do I have any Frontline here? I despise using chemicals on the dogs, but it's the only way I know to get rid of flea infestations. The only way that actually works, I mean. I typically only use it once a year in the spring, and didn't have to do it at all last year. I did not see a single flea or tick on any of the BroZarkWin gang in 2009. But apparently a whole bunny-load of fleas realized their meal ticket was about to be punched, and migrated onto the huge, fluffy, delicious (if spleenless) creature that was currently attached to the bunny. By his teeth.

I also must assume that if the other dogs aren't infested yet, they will be within about 37 seconds. Awesome. I found 2 doses of Frontline Plus for 45-88 pound dogs. I put 1.5 doses of it on Ozark, and put a few drops on the other two, hoping to stem the tide of infestation until I can get more Frontline at work tomorrow.

I also realized I can't take Ozark to work tomorrow while he's a walking flea-circus. Cara, who is the owner of Ozark's puppy, Murphy, would go batshit insane. For a veterinarian, she's unusually upset by fleas.

(Scene we will not witness tomorrow. Sorry, boys!)

I went outside and quickly discovered the deceased bunny between the deck and the steps. Given the large tufts of bunny-fur on the mat on the deck, and the drops of blood leading up the steps, I should not be surprised. He was missing large portions of fur. And skin. His eyes looked sad. I watched to make sure there was no blinking. There was not. He's not only merely dead, he's really most sincerely dead. (Read that part using your Singing Munchkin voice.) How he wasn't dead when Ozark dropped him on the deck, and found a last panicked burst of energy to throw himself from the deck, I will never know.

I got a shovel and transported Poor Dead Bunny, who was in full rigor mortis, to his not-quite-final resting place. I am glad tomorrow is trash day.

(Ozark, deceptively innocent-looking bunny-muncher)

Back inside, I checked email and quickly added a second person to the mental list I started yesterday. This list is "People Whose Heads I Would Like To Tear Off And Throw In The Nearest Open Sewer." Only then I decided that title wasn't nearly painful or horrific enough for the people in question, so I sat down and spent about ten minutes envisioning pleasantly excruciating and bloody tortures that might be better suited to their crimes. (Oh, yeah. I gots the mad angries, and I can hold a grudge For. Ev. Er.)

After that, I decided it was time to "wash that gray right out of my hair," and proceeded to the bathroom. They've re-formulated my Clairol Natural Instinct hair color. This disturbs me. They're now "cremes," and they re-named all the colors. Still, I persevered and soon had a head full of orange goo. It never turned maroon like the old kind did. I was kind of worried. In the end, I seem to no longer have the gray, but I am also lacking much of the darkest-auburn sheen that I always got before. But it's not orange, so I'll deal with it.

Back on the Sofur, I started thinking about cookies. I recalled that I had suggested to Tom last night that I might - perhaps - make him chocolate chip cookies today. You know, since I've recently become a compulsive baker. (And have gained at least 20 pounds, which is becoming more disturbing as the day I have to try to fit into last year's capri pants draws ever nearer.) I decided regular old chocolate chip cookies are far too pedantic for someone who actually has a virtual recipe box on allrecipes.com. (Yeah, I know. I can't believe it, either.) I searched and found a chocolate chocolate chip cookie recipe and commenced to baking. (I now have 5 dozen cookies that someone has to eat. Soon.)

Ozark has spent an unusual (for him) amount of time out in the yard today, lying in wait. He is hopeful that a search party consisting of the Poor Dead Bunny's friends and family will show up. He is anticipating another velveteen chew toy. Given the flea situation, I'm content to let him stay out there a while.

I'm supposed to be working on re-naming the hero for my new book. I started a list, but the criteria is ridiculously complicated. It cannot start with a J or an M, because two other main characters' names do, and that makes things confusing. It can't be the name of someone I know well, because I have to be able to invest a completely unbiased personality into this character. It should be short, strong, not too common or too unusual, and not sound like a fake romance-book name or a fake cowboy-type name. I gave up and thought about working on my heroine's character study, but my brain refused to cooperate.

I got hungry and decided that Tom should bring home Davanni's pizza. Then I ate some stuffed peppers and didn't care about pizza anymore. However, it was too late. That bell cannot be un-rung, so we will be getting pizza. Plus, I have towels in the dryer and clothes in the washer, and Tom always washes and dries his clothes right after work, so now I am stressing about that.

I just realized that while my hair color did not provide the color satisfaction I would have liked, it also does not stink. And by that, I mean it does not reek with chemical smelliness. The color itself might stink in the terms of quality. I'll decide tomorrow when I get ready for work.

At this point, just shy of 4PM, I plan to continue reading Nice Girls Don't Date Dead Men by Molly Harper on George-the-Kindle. (The second in her Jane Jameson vampire series. It's awesome, and you should totally read it.) Even though I have technically accomplished very little today, I've decided I'm done.

Other than eating as many of the cookies as my sugar-intolerant, gastric-bypassed system will allow. I'll worry about the capri pants another time. Like when I'm trying to fill my baked-goods-inflated ass into them. Sigh.

Rambling Prose

You know how when you spill something disgusting, like a half gallon of well-past-its-expiration-date milk, and you sop it all up with a gigantic wad of paper towels, and then the paper towels are this big, soggy gob of drippy grossness that weighs about 37 pounds? That's how my brain feels these days.

Conversations resulting from brain-dead-ness:

(Watching commercial in which wife sticks Cheetos up husband's nose to stop his snoring)
Me: Wow. What a great idea. Do we have any Cheetos?
Tom: Hey, it's Lobsterfest.
Me: (Refusing to be distracted by untrue mention of my favorite of all the Fests) No, it's not. We missed it. It will be months and months before it comes back. (Sigh)
Tom: But now you're not thinking about Cheetos, right?
Me: No, but now I kinda want to stuff lobsters up your nose.
(Not sure if that would work as well as Cheetos. He might suffocate if his airway gets all clogged up with claws. But at least I'm trying! He should be encouraging me to find cures for the snoring problem that don't involve suffocating him with a Memory Foam pillow. At least lobsters would be interesting on the police report.)

(Getting ready to watch NASCAR race which might or might not ever take place, given the current view on the weather radar. I say put pontoons on those race cars and let's get the hell on with it. However, my problem at the moment stems from the fact that I think it's strange - and annoying - that I have to be subjected to a Christian invocation before each and every NASCAR race.)
Me: I have issues.
Tom: I know.
Me: No, I mean I have a specific issue right now.
Tom: Oh.
(Because apparently, those are two distinct situations.)

Then there was a conversation I had with a friend, in which she was saying that she had to move out of Minnesota because even though Minnesotans always tell outsiders that it's really nothing at all like the movie Fargo here, it totally is exactly like that. I'm planning to beat feet out of Minnesota within the year, headed for Ohio (most likely) and she wants to go to Virginia. I told her she should make sure it's really not at all like Deliverance, because they'll probably say it's nothing like that, but it might be like the big, fat, Minnesota/Fargo lie. I don't know if Deliverance is even supposed to have anything to do with Virginia, but she's looking at a pretty rural area, and I've seen close-enough-to-Deliverance type people even in northern West Virginia, so I think it's important to be very sure about such things before actually moving.

See? This is why I haven't been blogging. Lack of coherent thought process, and a tendency to get lost in run-on sentences. I've had a lot on my mind.

Remember that windfall I've been anticipating? Hopefully by Labor Day? Well, good news/bad news. It seems we'll get a portion of that, about 1/4, within the next month. Then... who knows. Maybe 6-12 months for the next chunk. And while it will be great to have some money soon and pay off the evil, blood-sucking (and not in a good way) Chase card, as well as a few other things, and be able to start some of the repairs/upgrades to the house so we presumably can sell it when the rest of the money shows up... it seems that this whole new bit of information will result in our not actually moving for as long as a year. Which could mean another winter in oh-my-fucking-god-I-hate-Minnesota. Which... is not good.

Plus, there are a bunch of other things that are driving me nuts but are way too trivial and boring for blog-fodder. Also, I can't stop baking. Yesterday, I made lemon-blueberry bread (with sugar/lemon glaze, but without the nuts, which I do not believe have any place in baked goods). Turned out I didn't have any sort of handy-dandy utensil to grate lemon rind, having only recently discovered that there is a whole aisle of "kitchenware" at SuperTarget, none of which I have needed even once in the last 26 years. I bitched so much about having to haul out the entire giant food processor that I've had for 10 years and have used twice, and then figure out how to use the stupid thing, just to grate two tablespoons of lemon rind, that Tom came home from the store today and presented me with a grater. Which I guess means he liked the lemon-blueberry bread and would like me to make it again, but with less bitching.

That's about it. Over and out. I must go now and try to remember how to use punctuation, and also figure out where to put my new grater.

Evidence

The insanity continues.

(Exhibit A: Homemade Devil Dogs. Like, from scratch.)

Devil dogs taste like "back home." Who knew? But I forgot to save any filling to fling at Tom. Won't make that mistake again.

Demon Possession Threat Level: Crimson

Remember my recent post about my suspicion that I had been abducted and replaced by an alien because I suddenly did some uncharacteristically domestic things? And then, a few days later, I was back to my lazy, apathetic, unmotivated self? And we all relaxed and came out of hiding, believing the threat of Rachel Ray-loving aliens abducting us was past? (Mental memo: Find out if Rachel Ray is, in fact, an alien. Because that would explain a lot.)

Well, we may have been a bit hasty. But now I don't think it was aliens at all, but demonicus domesticus, a Domestic Demon. (The first known case of such a demonic possession was Betty Crocker. Then June Cleaver. Look it up.)

I manage to repress the demon's will most of the time, but it keeps sneaking out. On Thursday, I made the crispy, meringue-based peanut butter kisses. And I even took it beyond the recipe, because I melted some chocolate chips and smeared that on top. (Overachiever, even when demonically possessed.) Yesterday I made a different kind of peanut butter cookie... and I followed one commenter's suggestion to use more peanut butter and to roll the balls in sugar before baking. And I decided, all by my own little self, to put chocolate chips right in the batter rather than stick them on top.

I don't even particularly like peanut butter cookies. But lacking most ingredients, that was all I could come up with.

Last night, I asked my sister for our mom's Devil Dogs recipe (Like a Suzy Q, but a bajillion times better). She had it, and I had to caution Tom that if I make them we can not have a repeat of the incident that took place when we were in high school. Mom was making Devil Dogs, and I was sampling the cream filling. Tom decided to taste it, too, and the next thing we knew we were outside chasing each other around the trailer flinging cream filling. (No, that is not a euphemism.) I was pissed because I couldn't catch him. He, however, could catch me, and I ended up with a lot of sugary deliciousness in my hair. What a waste of sugary deliciousness. (No, still not a euphemism. Jeez, what is it with you people?) Today, Tom refuses to commit to a lack of Devil Dog Cream Filling Battle Rematch. If he starts one, he'll be sorry, because I seriously doubt that my Domestic Demon will let a mere mortal best us in battle.

I've also spent time on AllRecipes.com finding an acceptable chocolate banana bread recipe. Not the chocolate chip banana bread I've made twice recently. Just actual chocolate flavored banana bread. I've even considered getting out the only two cookbooks I own: The 1982 and 1984 Southern Living Cookbooks.

Today, I went to SuperTarget. After I figured out where they keep the "baking ingredients" and put a number of these items in my cart, I went on a supermarket safari to determine where the "kitchen supplies" area was. Because I had no freakin' idea. Turns out it's a couple of aisles over from office supplies. I got a cheap set of measuring cups and spoons, because I only had a single Pyrex measuring cup and spent a lot of time guesstimating what I was throwing in the mixing bowl.

I almost bought a pizza pan. Seriously. A pizza pan. Because last night Tom was taunting me by saying how much he'd enjoy homemade pizza. I used to do that years ago when The Boy was little. I might have even had a pizza pan.

After all this disconcerting behavior, I had to console myself by buying a ruffly little watercolor skirt and a purple camisole, and then I went to the liquor store. I forced that nasty Domestic Demon right into the back of my brain. For now.

But I'm really starting to want that chocolate banana bread.

Maybe I need to work out some sort of timeshare arrangement with the demon. In return for occasionally allowing it out to do kitcheny things (as long as it cleans up after itself), I'll be allowed to wallow in all my slovenly glory the rest of the time. Eating demon-made baked goods.

It might not be a great idea, though, because I do not need the baked-goods-related weight gain. It's been a long winter, and I've been eating like I'm still bulking up for hibernation. Only I didn't hibernate. I just kept eating. And now I'm starting to bake my own goodies, which I think is exactly like cooking your own meth. Sure, my baking isn't going to cause any explosions (probably), but the seams of my pants are under extreme stress as it is.

Or maybe we need to find a good exorcist. Just wait till after it makes the chocolate banana bread.

I'm Not Morally Opposed To Money, Really!

Blogger has the option to "monetize" a blog, but I've refused to do it, despite the small amount of revenue it might generate. Why? I post and you read it. Right? I could guilt you into clicking on a few ads, couldn't I? Any money is better than no money, isn't it?

Not necessarily. I would have no control over the ads that appeared on Fermented Fur. They would be randomly placed, based on keywords. I'd probably get ads for shopping websites (though I am a professed non-shopper), anti-aging products (most of which are crap), literary sites (which are rip-offs targeting hopeful authors), dog foods and supplies (99% of which are disgusting, and I would never use for BroZarkWin), and (doG forbid) links to sites that sell puppies online. I have some ethics. I won't pimp garbage that I don't buy or services that I consider beneath contempt.

I've gotten emails from "business owners" asking me to place a link to their sites on my blog. In return, they offer me a reciprocal link or some small payment from their "limited budget." (As if I'm supposed to feel sorry for them? For spamming me? Not bloody likely.)

One was for an odd site offering some sort of athletic shoes. Because, you know, I'm so into sports, exercise, and assorted physical activities. Another was for a site that helps people find a dentist in the San Diego area. Guess I never should've written about my tooth-related traumas of the past several months, which is the only reason I'd have even appeared on this person's radar. I live in Minnesota. Finding a dentist is San Diego isn't a cause near and dear to my heart. I'm not going to clutter up Fermented Fur with useless, unsightly, and annoying junk like that.

But, hey, the rule about advertising isn't set in stone. There are products I'd allow to have banner ads or links here, if any of them ever asked me. In fact, I wish they would ask me. Aside from a bit of cash, I'm happy to promote things that I believe are good, high-quality, deserving products.

What would those be? Kindles, of course, but Amazon doesn't need any help from little ol' me. Mainly it would be dog stuff.

The Honest Kitchen dehydrated raw dog food
Sojos dehydrated raw dog food
Bravo!, Stella & Chewy's, Nature's Variety, Primal, and Northwest Naturals raw frozen dog food
Green Tripe ground raw dog food
Wellness Core grain-free dry dog food
Standard Process whole food supplements
Animal Essentials and Kan Herb supplements
Dog Gone Pain herbal pain-relief supplement
Caring, ethical natural pet supply shops such as It's A Pet's Life (Plymouth, MN), Woody's Pet Food Deli (Minneapolis, MN) and Hero's Pets (Littleton, CO)

These are just a few products that I use regularly, that we sell at our clinic, and that I know are actually good for my dogs. The shops are ones I've visited and recommend, and know the owners.

I'm sure there are awesome foods and products out there that I haven't tried personally... but, hey, send me some samples, people, and I'll do the research. If you meet my (admittedly rigorous) standards, we can talk about a mutually beneficial arrangement. I'm not anti-money or anti-marketing. But I am anti-whoring-out-my-blog-to-promote-worthless-shit.

I just realized that this would not only be good for the obvious participants (Yours Truly and the businesses)... it would be good for you, too! If my potential income happened to be commensurate with the number of click-throughs and views, I'd probably post more often! See? Win-win-win!

I shall now sit back and monitor my email for mega-million-dollar offers from ethical natural pet product companies. And skritch Darwin's tummy, because he's lying here on the Sofur with me, looking all cute and hopeful. I also have to dangle my left arm between the Sofur and the end table, because we had some thunder a while ago, meaning Ozark is wedged down there and could use some comfort. As you know, dogs are always my top priority.

All Clear

For those of you who took Tuesday's advice and boarded yourselves in the basement and are reading this on your smart phones... it's safe to come out now.

It seems I entered some sort of fugue state a few days ago, and while there I - or someone impersonating me - made a full cauldron of soup (Yes, a "cauldron." What else could it be?) and chocolate chip banana bread. She/It also vacuumed copious amounts of dog hair from the carpet, and did not guzzle any wine. I know - it is still freaking me out a little bit.

I'm still unsure if it should be attributed to alien abduction or a doppelganger, but the point is that I'm back now. I'm sure you remember me. The cynical, self-centered, apathetic, lazy, wine-swilling, reclusive bitch with all the dogs. Yep, that's me.

I was probably returned because I had to go to the dentist yesterday, for what was the final time, regardless of the opinion of the staff at Otsego Dental. What alien or doppelganger wants to sit through a "full mouth debridement?" Probably none, and definitely not the one who had gained temporary control over my brain.

Hell, I didn't even want to be there. I don't know how long a regular dental cleaning takes. I can, however, testify that a full mouth debridement takes an hour and a half, and leaves your gums looking and feeling as if you're suffering from an advanced case of scurvy. This is what happens when you have not had your teeth cleaned in eight years. The procedure is apparently only slightly less involved than excavating a pachycephalosaurus from a 75-million-year-old fossil bed. I can definitely confirm that it uses many of the same tools.

So, I have returned. The best part about the whole situation is that there is still plenty of soup and some chocolate chip banana bread left. Whoever was handling things in my absence sure made some yummy stuff. And if she'd show up again for a while when it's time to bulldoze junk out of my house so we can get ready to sell it, that'd be awesome, because that's one part of the whole "Leaving Minnesota" adventure that I'm dreading.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled, non-basement-hiding activities.

If It's Not Aliens, It's Something Just As Bad

Dear FFFans,

Try not to panic, but I have reason to believe that Lori has been abducted and replaced by a simulacrum.

Earlier this morning, she professed her determination to remain on the Sofur, reading smut on George-the-Kindle, all day. In fact, last night, she had this conversation with Tom:

Lori: I worked my ass off today. I'm not getting off the Sofur at all tomorrow if I can help it.
Tom: Do you really have to get off it? You've got the computer and George right there.
Lori: Yeah, I love it. It's like Command Central.
Tom: So, why get up?
Lori: (points to the right) Because the bathroom is over there. (points behind) And the kitchen is back there. (pauses, considering) But seriously, if I had a mini-fridge and a potty-couch, I'd never have to move.

She is, obviously, quite committed to her Sofur Slugdom.

Yet this morning, she did some disturbingly out-of-character things. Before 10 AM, she put on jeans. While it is true that many people leave the house in their plaid flannel jammie pants, she never does that. She also applied eyeliner, because if she doesn't have on her terribly dated eyeliner she claims to be unable to recognize her own face. Then, she put on shoes. Shoes.

She drove to SuperTarget and began buying (brace yourselves)... ingredients. She has a powerful, nearly pathological aversion to ingredients, because those imply an intent to cook, which she avoids at all costs. Yet there she was, with her red shopping cart, cruising up and down the aisles, selecting ingredients.

She is now, as we speak, in the process of making vegetable bison soup. And chocolate chip banana bread. Both. From. Scratch. Read those last three words again. It's the only way you might start to believe them. I don't know how she's going to accomplish this, but must assume that by the end of the day there will be a huge cauldron of soup (because she can't make a small batch) and a loaf of chocolate chip banana bread.

The only thing she bought that was not directly related to soup-and-banana-bread-making was... yogurt. Low-fat yogurt. Which is almost healthy. And totally atypical.

It's terrifying, actually.

On top of that, she was seen emptying the canister of the vacuum, implying that she may actually make use of it some time today, probably when BroZarkWin are outside. Why would she do that? She's developed the inability to see dog hair on the carpet, much to Tom's everlasting disappointment. But the evidence speaks for itself.

Are you hiding under the bed yet? Should we suspect a doppelganger? Alien possession? Pod people? Some sort of personality-altering brain worm?

If you weren't already prepared to barricade yourself in the basement, you should start collecting boards and nails and enough supplies to last you till this situation is resolved. (There's no telling who might be next!) And the most unsettling part of the story is about to be revealed.

She did not stop at the Liquorette on the way home, despite having barely a single glass of wine left in the fridge. True, there is bourbon, but still. Wine is yummy. She loves wine. Currently, Alice White Lexia, to be exact. Yet she did not stop to visit Tim and Bill and Young Guy and Woman With The Long Hair, or any of her other Liquorette friends.

It's like she's possessed by June Cleaver - well, a little bit... it's not like she's going to dust or anything - when she's normally way more like Peg Bundy or (on a good day) Roseanne.

If this bizarre behavior continues, I'm going to count on you to mobilize the Men In Black. There's no way Tom is going to do it. He's going to think this impostor is a definite improvement, as long as she will also agree to Wii Bowling, thigh-highs, and flirty skirts. Not all at the same time. Usually. Sometimes you have to multi-task.

The fate of this household - or possibly the world - is in your hands.