OMFG….for reals……


I opened up the front door to let the dogs out and THIS was on the front porch.
Of COURSE the dogs went bugshit.
Of COURSE the little bastard went off like a timed sprinkler.
Of COURSE a highspeed chase ensued.
omfg. the smell.
I suppose its fortunate that the skunk had bad aim and didn’t get either dog. What he DID get was the front porch….. the front door???….who the hell knows, but the smell is unreal and it’s infiltrating the house as I type. In case you were wondering? Fresh skunk spray actually smells like onions, really strong onions. This is so nasty.
I’m going to go find the Anti-Icky-Poo spray and douse the front porch.

A weekend for movies

I dislike this man intensely

But I love this movie.

It is just really good. And it wouldn’t be so good without that man. You must see it.

We should all be obsessed with porn-star prostitutes and have a full greek theater chanting for us.

And then there’s this movie, The Dreamers. It is borderline disturbing.

And very weird, extremely strange. But Eva Green is visualy stunning, and plays a very good role. She hits every character quirk dead-on, and makes you almost believe that a young, extremely beautiful woman can manipulate the world around her to fit her every whim. At least thats what I took away from it.

Shouldn’t something happen?

Eeeep. I’m another year older. 35. Shouldn’t something…..happen? I mean, there’s a full moon and everything. Surely SOMETHING should happen. Oh, hmmm. Maybe I don’t want anything to happen. It could be bad. It’s not like when I turned 25. That was a cool year. Now, 28 was a really good one, but 25 was cool too. Now 35. Maybe I’m just reaching the top end of a demographic. Yipes! Or if you look at it in a glass half full skew….I’m at the bottom end of another demographic. Woot!

However you look at it, this is how I feel;

And I am the only one screaming.

Someone paid good money to aire this….

PuppyBowl II, that is. Unbelievabley stupid. Nothing but puppies, in a roundpen, with astroturf marked off like a football field, playing. That’s it. That’s all. Just puppies. Playing with toys. And drinking water, which you get to see via…..bowl-cam.! I just sat, mouth slightly agape, not believing that there are people out there who are struggling to make ends meet, not able to pay the rent or buy groceries, and yet someone felt compelled to spend ungodly amounts of money to aire this crap. So dang stupid. Until you get to the half time show……even more stupid. 30 minutes of kittens, playing, with perky-feel-good instrumental music playing in the background (the same obnoxious music that played for PuppyBowl). They called it the kitty half-time show. Mind-numbingly DUMB. And then they went back to PuppyBowll II. You’d think they would have some commentary, or SOMETHING…wait, they did call a “puppy penalty” everytime one of the little buggers crapped in the end-zone. Some dude in a striped shirt blew his whistle, threw his arms out and made a very official sounding penelty call, then scooped the puppy shit up with a paper towel and blew his whistle again to signal that the “game” was back in play. Wooot. What a job.
Do not, for one second, assume I sat and watched this. No, Art was gone, eating junk food and watching grown men crap in the endzone. I was at home, doing housework and flipping thru a bazillion stations with nothing on, and this crap just kept going on and on and on and on everytime I flipped past it. THEY RE-RAN IT IN THE EVENING. Insane.
So, the dogs checked it out for a few minutes, barked at the TV and then wandered off to find something productive to do. I, remain….dumbfounded.


Swing dancing looks like it hurts. Or maybe it constipates you. This girl does not look like she’s having much fun….
I just took another look at that picture and was just thinkin’, thats all.
Conclusion; swing dancing is painful, avoid it.

The little lamb that could

Cheat death, that is. Twice. We ended up with 4 new lambs about a week and a half ago. One mom was a young ewe, first time mommy. Dumb as a box of rocks. Really. She rejected one, and was mildly ambivilent about the other. So I suppose this is where we’re supposed to be all google-eyed and “oh, let’s save the little lamb”. And that is exactly what we did. Sorry, we are not really farmers. We do not stand by the “if’n it lives, it lives, ifn it don’t, well there’s more where it came frum ‘ventually” Personaly, I cannot stand by and watch something die if there’s ANYTHING I can do to avert that fate. And so that’s how the lamb ended up in our bathroom sink. It was near dead when I found it up in the lambing shed. Amazing what a hair drier and some fresh sheep milk will do. I really never thought I’d be out, in the wet stanky hay on my hands and knees MILKING A SHEEP. A very very unwilling, stupid, slimey-crotched sheep. Nor did I ever envision tube feeding something so cold and near death as this little lamb was. I did not imagine it would have come back the way it did, wanting more and demanding to be kept alive. Poor Art, he tolerated me yelling at him to “hold the damn thing still, we need milk or she’ll die” as I violated that stupid ewes udders, he stared at me like I had two heads, fussing so much and getting so angry over the dilema this little lamb was in and the prospect that it really might die if things weren’t done right. He’s a very tolerant man.

And then I got dumb. I figured, heck, she’s doing great. Let’s just put her back with mom and see what happens. And, um, well let’s just say that was stupid. Art found her near death again the next day. He brought her to work and Margo and I put her back together again.

“Well, doc, whatcha think her odds are”

“Oh, I dunno…….. it’s a sheep. I do dogs and cats, but, um, I reckin ’bout 50/50.” (in her best backwoods drawl, which is pretty durn convincing if I must say so myself)

“Hmmf. Well, it IS just a sheep. Think she’ll be able to go back to her ma?” (the stupid in me refuses to be kept down, it rises in big “stupid” bubbles and pops outta my mouth despite my better intentions)

Insert uncontrolled laughter here. No, uncontrolled guawffing, complete with snorts and short bursts of giggles. Yeah, that was more like it.

when she finally caught her breath,; “Uh, I hate to break this to you Lisa, but you gots yerself a bottle-baby. ”

Insert more laughing, and not by me, mind you.

Then she gets on the internet and pulls up all sorts of info on the plethora of infectious diseases and grotesque parasites sheep carry, nay, infectious diseases and grotesque parasites THIS sheep is most likely toting around, just waiting to make everyone within a 50 foot radius incurabley ill.


But it was so darn cute. Deadly, sure, if you believe everything you read. But really, darned cute. So we wrapped the little wooly death bomb up and toted her home to feed every 2 hours.
“Let my peopleeeeeee gooooooooooooooo……”
We named her Grace. As in, amazing Grace. Cheated death twice. Now she lives in a dog crate, and is fed every 4 hours. I’m trying to convince her that sheep SLEEP at night, they do not eat. Yeah, right.
These are a few of the last pictures of her in the house.

She is a pooping and peeing machine. She goes NOWHERE near my carpets, her poopy little feet bounce around OUTSIDE with the dogs. She races with them, it’s adorable. Dee has a prey drive that’s hard to contain, so there are no unsupervised dog/lamb sessions. And I’m fairly certain the dogs will come down with some sort of ick because they swarm around her and play with her. But I’m paranoid (Thank you Dr. Hogan, thank you ever so much) and we’ll cross that bridge and let Margo say “I told you so” when we get to it.
Oh, and the other babies are just fine, thanks for asking. One of them looks like a cow. We’re calling it “Cow”. How original.

Shout out to the D-Square!

I feel a little bad. She has been here since July, and she has yet to make it to our webpage. Well….NO LONGER WILL SHE BE DENIED! No longer will she hide in the shadow of the Dretti, of The Horse, of….sheep. I give you…….Dee Dee! Or as she is known to her closest friends and family…D-Square *, or if you are in her “inner circle”….Sqwar.

*D-Square, you know….DD, D-squared? Geek humor, and we are all (except Jack and Andretti) Geeks in this house. Especialy D-Square.

And, my personal favorite…….

Dee is Andretti’s full sister. While we got Andretti as a puppy (I would post a puppy picture of him, but NO! This is D’s post….no sharing allowed!) we got D-Square from her breeder (Windrock Sighthounds in Colorado) in July, when she was just 13 months old. Kim knew that Dee needed a family where she could be slathered with affection and attention, where she could play with another dog without getting her geeky dorky butt whooped by the big kids, where she could be the center of someone’s heart, where she could steal all the toys she wanted and still have more to consider stealing. That was here. She came HOME, and we are so grateful to have her! We love her so much, she is so silly and beautiful. She beats the heck out of almost everything Dretti does (but we don’t tell Drett that part, boys are better left in the dark about some things). She shows better than him, she courses better than him, she steals toys better than him and she can hunt better than him. Don’t get me wrong, Dretti is the first and most wonderful dog ever to be placed in our hearts. But D-Square….she just appreciates everything so much, and has such an undying love for both Art and I. She loves to curl up in bed and doesn’t move, as long as we are close to her she’s happy. She love to be sung to…I know, it’s so stupid, but she just melts when you sing to her (doesn’t matter what you sing, she loves it all the same. Neither Art or I can sing worth a damn, so the Sqwar is either tone deaf or just really devoted!) We wouldn’t give her up for anything!
So, Go D-Square….you the BitchBomb!

Who’s yer pony!?!!

That would be Jack! But lets make it very clear, he’s not a pony. He’s for reals a horse. And the most awesome horse ever!

This would be Art, explaining the house/farm rules to Jack. As he mentioned in a previous post, he’s not really a Horse Person. Hence his in depth conversations, his very serious de-briefing of The Horse. What he doesn’t know is that while Jack hears him, he’s not really listening. This photo was taken before we got Jack home. Which is kind of a funny story.

You see, first I was all like “Where’s my Pony?!?”, and Art was all, like, “No pony for you, dumb horse crazy girl!:

Then I was all, like:

Then Art was all…..

But I didn’t give up! (Cuz I was bored, you know, with no pony and all….) so I was all, like, “no Pony???!?? ….’Kay then, hows about some more of …..THIS…..”

And Art was like….sigh……

And the next thing you know…..PonySkrill!

I suppose Art figured rearranging the budget was easier than dealing with a horse-crazed pouty-ass wife 24/7. I am spoiled, did I mention that? Spoiled freaking-rotten. I suffer no delusions in that area. I know how priviliged I am to have such an indulging husband, so I don’t wanna hear anything about how horrible I am. I know, and I am forever grateful, cuz being spoiled is awesome.
So, meet Jack. Get Back Jack is his registered name. We calls hims Jack! Duh.

Jack is The Best horse ever! No, really. “What makes him so great?” you ask?

“Can he Tap dance? Can he break-dance? Can he swing-dance? Can he….do higher math?

No, no, no…and….not without a calculator.

“Is he one of those psychic horses? Can he talk? Is he one of them fancy-pantz trick ponies? Does he sprout wings when you feed him peanut butter and bologne with katsup on rye bread???”
Again……No, gosh I hope not, definitely not (cuz when they do tricks you have to dress all dorky to make it look sooper impressive, in short, YOU have to wear the fancy pantz)…and, ewwww, gross. Peanut butter and bologne with catsup on rye?…that’s just nasty. Plus, everyone knows winged horses are always white, and I absolutely refuse to have a white horse. They show every little stain.

Jack is great because he’s so sweet and squishy. He’s like a big puppy dog. He follows Art around without a halter or lead, just goes where ever Art asks him to (there are cookies involved, trust me, lots of horse cookies). He “helps” with whatever you are doing. He doesn’t kick, bite, buck, rear or otherwise be a butt-wipe. He’s turning Art into a “horse person”, minus the crazy part. He’s rebuilding my trust in a good horse. And he looks so fine, you can’t help but wanna be his friend. What’s not to love about that?