humor

Big Foot? That You?

~ thedailydish ~ Leave a comment

Last night my husband & I were out on our back porch, stargazing.  It was late (around midnight), and dark.  After viewing through the binoculars and telescope for a while, we decided to relax for a few minutes before turning in.  We’re sitting there quietly, when we hear this rustling noise coming from the other side of the yard, maybe 60-70 ft away.  The first time we heard it, neither of us said anything, but after the 2nd or 3rd time, my husband asked, “Do you hear that?”  I said, “Yes.”  But it was hard to make out what it could be.  We keep a box fan in the room right above the porch, and the whirring noise of the motor was drowning out the sound.  Another rustle.  Then another.  My husband announced he was going in to get the flashlight.  “But what if it’s a Yeti?” I joked.  He went inside.  The rustling noises continued.  Sitting there in the dark, alone, I was getting a bit nervous.  I started thinking about Big Foot.  You know, I don’t think they’ve ever truly discounted his existence completely..  What if…?  I counted the seconds.  John seemed to be taking his sweet time.  That big flashlight was just in the adjacent room, what could be taking him so long?  I heard the fan switch off above me.  What the hell-?  HE’S UPSTAIRS?!  Another few minutes ticked by.  I was starting to sweat, wondering whether I’d be carted off by the time he got back.  The rustling noises had increased slightly in intensity and volume, perhaps b/c the fan was off – or maybe b/c Big Foot was getting hungrier.  And Closer.  FINALLY. John stepped back out onto the porch.  I breathed an audible sigh of relief and said, “WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOU?”  He explained he had to go to the bathroom.  I told him I could have been eaten by the Yeti, which at that point was nearly visible across the yard (in my mind, anyway).  He laughed and sat down beside me.  Very quietly we counted 1,2,3, then ON with the flashlight.  Light blazed across the yard, illuminating the guinea pigs’ pen, and one extremely determined red fox perched right on top!  The fox stopped pawing the lid and looked up, as if to say. “Excuse me?”  We stared at each other for several seconds, before John stood up to make chase.  The fox took off, hesitantly, and we went to check on our poor pets.  They were all fine.  Fortunately the handmade pen is super sturdy and has a thick, wire lid for exactly this purpose (to thwart would-be predators).  I petted the piggies, and then worried out loud about the fox coming back.  My husband reassured me, “Oh, I’m sure he will, babe.  He’s probably here every night.”

Grease stains, Ice cream cones and Walmart – Oh MY.

~ thedailydish ~ Leave a comment

A couple months ago, I was in a pickle.  I’d put a pair of pants up for sale on eBay before noticing they had a subtle grease spot on one of the legs.  What can I say, I’VE BEEN DISTRACTED.  As luck would have it, the pants sold and I was left in a quandary.  I couldn’t sell misrepresented merchandise, but I didn’t want to forgo the sale if I could help it.  So I looked online, searching for a sure-fire way to get that grease out.  Trust me when I say there are a lot of questionable suggestions out there.  Everything from talcum powder to WD-40 to Cheez Whiz is supposed to remove grease.  But I needed foolproof.  I didn’t have time to spare, and I didn’t want to further damage the pants in the process.  Several websites spoke glowingly of a product I’d never heard of before.

Dawn Power Dissolver.

Dawn Power Dissolver is a spray cleaner made to remove caked-on crap from dishes, but people online raved about it taking grease off ovens and more importantly, OUT OF CLOTHES.  I wasn’t optimistic, but figured it was worth a shot.  It wasn’t expensive.  And if it worked…  OOooh!!  So I googled the stuff, trying to find someplace to buy it.  The only store w/in miles?  Walmart.

I don’t normally shop at Walmart.  Apart from what it’s done to local economies, I hate the parking lot.  Nowhere else on earth (apart from Christmas Tree Shops) are pedestrians put at greater risk.  But I needed THAT SPRAY.  I told myself I’d just be quick – in and out, then home.  But being at the Walmart here (versus the old one in Philly) was sort of a novel experience.  Whereas the Philly Walmart offers rock-bottom prices in filthy surroundings with hordes of half-dressed shoppers, the store here is ginormous.  It’s new and super clean.  And, perhaps b/c of the cooler climate, the clientele here wear more clothes.  I may hate Walmart, but I love bargains.  So after I’d picked up a bottle of spray, I got a cart and tooled around the NASCAR-sized arena.  I bought a new mop.  Some hamburger buns.  And then I remembered my older daughter wanted ice cream cones.  She’d been asking for them for a week, I’d kept forgetting.  I found them, helpfully located at the end of the frozen foods aisle.  They had several boxes, I reached for some at eye-height, feeling joyful as I put those Joy Cones into the cart and proceeded to checkout.

I returned home to launder the pants.  The Dawn Power Dissolver worked WONDERS! removing the grease stain completely w/ no ill effects whatsoever.  My daughter enjoyed her ice cream cones, whilst I mopped happily and my husband grilled burgers for our buns.  We all sang Kumbayah and .. and… AND!

The first part of my story is completely true.  Dawn Power Dissolver IS the best grease removing spray in the world.  I sprayed it on those pants, waited 10 minutes and then washed them.  The stain came out like magic, I marveled at my good fortune, and everyone was happy.  As for everything else..  ALL LIES.  The mop broke the first time I used it, the burger buns were stale – but the biggest kicker were those cones.

Does this look like the face of a happy child?

She is, after all, holding a box of JOY.  You’d think she’d be a bit thrilled.  But no.  And why?  B/c Walmart and the Joy Cone Company played a terrible trick on me.  Oh yes they did!  And here is the rest of my story.  (ALL TRUE.)

Look at the package.

Pretty, right?  Attractively colored, sure to please.  Placed at eye-height, just where I’d grab it and stick it in my cart.  It’s a box of ice cream cones, for pete’s sake, what the heck could be wrong?!  BUT IF YOU LOOK CLOSELY..

You will see each and every one of those 60 (yes, 60) cones is actually .. smaller than the size of my THUMB.

Here is one of the cones beside our (quite average sized) ice cream scoop.

One of these things is not like the others,
One of these things just doesn’t belong,
Can you tell which thing is not like the others
By the time I finish my song?

Although my husband was simply overjoyed by these shrimpy JOY cones, thinking they would restrict our daughters’ consumption of ice cream significantly, my daughters & I were not amused. AT ALL.

Those tiny ice cream cones might look cute, and charming, and if they were sturdy, they indeed might hold something other than the two drops of air inside.  They might even hold – gasp – a spoonful of ice cream!  We could have stood round scooping a good cup or two total of ice cream into all 60, placed them in a bowl or on a tray and eaten the whole lot of them, whilst chuckling heartily at the hilarity of it all, snapping pictures, and wondering when we were going to do it all again.  Instead, when I tried spooning the barest wisp of ice cream into a single one of these cones, it left the damn thing in crumbs.  Each of those petite ice cream cones is a ruse, a mere TEASE.  You cannot get ice cream into any of them, without smashing them into smithereens, unless your ice cream is soup.  Whereas most people would chalk all of this up to experience, WHHHOOOPSIE, I bought some tiny ding-dong cones, MY BAD>, I am not one of them.  REMEMBER?? I am a crazy woman having to sell greasy pants on ebay to get by !!!!!! That dollar or two I spent on that box of worthless ice cream cones – and believe me, they are completely worthless, was TOO FREAKING MUCH.  I do not like being had.  Joy Cones, FOR SHAME.  And here’s an idea for you.

Please tell me what I am supposed to do with the remaining 58 minuscule cones I still have in my possession.  B/c apart from the above, I cannot think of a single thing.

Life with Kiwi.

~ thedailydish ~ Leave a comment

Have you ever found yourself asking: Is a pet bird right for me?  Nope; me neither.

I don’t profess to be a bird expert, but I do speak the language.  I live with a parrot named Kiwi.  Or as I call her, my birdie appendage.  Kiwi is a gold capped conure, a small species of parrot native to Brazil. We adopted her several years ago. And when I say adopted I really mean my husband was offered a parrot for free and then brought her home. Not that I minded, but I want to make clear I had NOTHING TO DO WITH IT. We were told at that time she was young; maybe 2-3 years old. Also, her name was Robin.  Not a bad name, but I felt strange calling a conure ‘robin.’  So I named her after a fruit instead.

Kiwi quickly bonded to yours truly and I now spend the bulk of each day w/ Kiwi nesting in my hair, grooming me and generally making herself comfortable. Most of the time I don’t mind, but when she gets particularly engrossed in picking my face, it can be a bit distracting. Especially when my husband starts screaming, UUGHH WOULD YOU NOT LET THE BIRD DO THAT!  In addition to surrendering much of my physical person, I have also surrendered my wardrobe.  Most of my shirts have holes and keeping anything with buttons or a zipper intact is a near impossibility.  Let’s not forget the matter of her “birdie business,” which she does at will and with abandon.  Suffice it to say, I change clothes often.

Kiwi has one goal in life.  It is called I MUST DRIVE ALL OTHERS AWAY FROM THIS WOMAN.  See, Kiwi likes me.  A LOT.  And like all stalker/victim couplings, it’s a special kind of relationship.  Normal people can talk on the phone.  They can leave the house.  They can hug their children without ducking down and glancing around wildly.  The day my husband brought Kiwi home, I went from being a free woman to a claimed territory.   And not just my body.   I’m not talking boogers here (though she definitely wants those too).  Kiwi wants ME.  She wants all of my love & attention and BOY does she let me know.  Her voice can be deafening at times.  She also likes using her beak.  NEVER ON ME! mind you.  No, just on anything and everyone else.  I am her property alone and the rest of the world must be kept at bay.

In this way, she is much like my husband.  Yet the constant pull for my attention can wear thin.  When her jealousy reaches intolerable proportions, I tell her NO.  I stick her back in the cage.  Over and over.  And OVER AGAIN.  But she never lets up.  My husband says, “Baby, you tell me when and the bird is HISTORY.”  But I just look at him.  And he knows.  We all know.  Kiwi’s here for good.  Even though I did NOT bring her home, I can’t turn my back on her now.  I’ve off-loaded too many pets over the years.  And my parents aren’t interested (I asked at Christmas.)  It’s unfair to tame these animals, make them dependent on us, and then abandon them when they grow too needy.  Though trust me, the temptation often abounds.

Not to discourage anyone, but there is a reason birds are considered EXOTIC pets.  Exotic can mean non-native, or topless, but in the case of birds it’s really code for unusual.  Bird people are also an unusual species.  Long on patience and short on clean tops.  As far as birds go, parakeets are pretty easy.  I had one as a kid.  But as you get into the larger species of pet birds, things change dramatically.   The mess, for instance.  Parrots are poop machines.  Just ask anyone who’s ever been to my house.  And like all birds, they are social.  They do not just need but indeed demand companionship.  Many large species will also outlive you.  Apart from this massive time commitment, you need to consider your living circumstance.  Birds are noisy.  The squawking may drive close neighbors (and often you) insane.  And lest I forget to mention, birds can be nippy.  If permitted, they will chew you, your clothes and your furniture apart.  All of this – the noise, the biting, the destructive tendencies, can be lessened through proper training, but in some semblance will always remain.

Now that Kiwi is “mature” (meaning reproductively), I’ve begun wondering about her gender.  Although many birds are dimorphic (i.e., you can tell whether they are male or female simply by looking at them), gold capped conures are not.  I have always referred to Kiwi as a girl.  I put a little nest thingy into Kiwi’s cage ages ago.  I’ve never actually seen her in it (she sleeps on top of it), but I do occasionally glance in there, just to see if she’s produced anything.  I know Kiwi thinks of me as her human mate, so I wonder why she hasn’t yet laid me an egg.  Which (were she female) she’d have likely gotten round to by now.  She is certainly a very happy bird.  Plenty of food. and attention.  Hmm.. In order to establish her gender w. certainty, I could have a DNA test done.  Which isn’t a big deal, but frankly I’m not rushing to do.  Deep down, I’m starting to think Kiwi is a boy.  But I still call her my (favorite nickname) “Bird Girl.”  Do you think it’s confusing?  I don’t think she/he cares, but still.  I wonder.