Jimmy Hoffa was Buried in my Ductwork

The “great mouse event” inspired George to have our ductwork cleaned in anticipation of the new furnace installation.   (After moving in we couldn’t get a handle on the mice in the lower level, until while getting bids for a new furnace they discovered a hole in the ductwork.  Seriously, a hole! It also had a sign on it inviting every mouse in the county to move in and have a freaking party.)

The duct cleaners pulled in with a trailer loaded with a giant vacuum that gave new meaning to the word suck, and proceeded to give our ductwork a blowjob.  While I expected 25 years of dirt buildup, and I hoped to eliminate the source of those freeloading mice; I did not imagine they’d need to stop several times to unclog the hundred-gallon disposal bag.

In no particular order they sucked out:

·      Balls

·      Water gun

·      Miller Lite cans

·      Sponge

·      Chunks of concrete

·      Big bones (I told you Hoffa was in there.)

·      Grout

·      Bath towel

·      Whole piece of insulation

·      TONS of rodent nests filled with both dead and ALIVE vermin (Got ya you nasty rodents, and good riddance.  In case you were wondering I refuse to share my house with rodents of any kind and will happily bludgeon, trap, or shoot them. And YES, I shot one running out of the garage.  I waited till he hit the dirt driveway and blew him into a million pieces with a BB gun and loved every minute of it.  Don’t cry “humane treatment” to me… It’s a disease ridden mouse people.)

·      Lots of paper

·      Baby bottle

·      Horseshoe

It was like my Ghostbuster’s Stay Puft Marshmallow Man nightmare all over again…thank you very much Dan Akroyd…except instead of coming down the streets of NYC, this shit was coming down my ductwork.  I’m pretty sure I saw Jimmy Hoffa go “sucking” by on his way to the bag that will soon end up in the landfill. 

The question puzzling me is who the hell were the former residents of this house?  Why a horseshoe?  A whole piece of insulation?  A baby bottle?  If you are going to screw-up the ductwork at least do it with something useful like a bag of Maui Waui or a sack of hundreds.

According to the duct cleaners they’d been doing this for a long, long, long, time and we were the WORST, yes sir, the Number One worst mess they ever encountered. OMG, they are probably going to use pictures of that shit in their next commercial. I vote we build our next house so there are no leftover surprises from previous owners.

Things That Freak Me Out - Volume One

There is something inherently wrong with Tomato Juice.  It begins heading south with the color – too red when served straight, and moves into the orange-pink zone when you make a Bloody Mary. Worse than the color is the gooey texture and thickness. It’s just not right.  There is a reason the drink was named Bloody Mary, and I’m sure it has something to do with a horse and carriage accident.  I read that Mary went for a ride one Sunday afternoon hoping to see the handsome Prince who liked to swim in the calming waters of a mountain lake.  His guards spooked Mary’s horses as the carriage neared the lake and they raced up the cliffside until they tumbled over the edge, plummeting to the lakeshore below.  Poor Mary splatted everywhere, and when the Prince saw her mangled body he was so distraught he called to his manservant to bring him a Vodka.

            It’s plain to see why the sight of Tomato Juice freaks me out, and I may have to call my manservant for Vodka.

            Another freakish occurance are those green screens the meteorologists stand in front of to do their weather forecasts.  Aliens.  It’s the only explanation.  I’m sure it’s a plot by the government to convince us there is a scientific explanation for why the weather map appears on your TV, but in the studio is only a green screen.  I’m not buying their story.  It’s just another load of crap to cover the truth.  If I believe the green screen theory, then I’d have to believe Congress really is in session more than one day every four years, and that they actually accomplish something other than spending my future social security.

             Those self-checkout machines at the grocery store totally freak me out.  They never read the bar code correctly, last week one tried to charge me $43.12 for a banana.  And don’t even bother waiting for your change, because the damn thing isn’t coughing it up.  The little checker inside has already taken your change and gone to the Subway for lunch. 

            One of the big box stores in our area just put in new self-checkout machines.  You scan the item, put it on a conveyor belt and it runs the item through a glass enclosed box before spitting it out the other end.  IF you’re lucky.  I scanned the item, put it on the conveyor belt and red lights started going off, sirens blared and four security guards showed up.

            “Step away from the machine lady,” the guard said looking down the barrel of his double-ought shot gun.

            The other guard looked at the printout. “I see you were trying to steal a TV, by putting a pack of gum on the belt,” he said as he picked up the offending gum on the conveyor belt.

            I looked at the printout. “Yep, that’s right, the read-out says the item is a $3000.00 HD TV, you got me.  I stuck the 60-inch screen in my bra.  Wanna search me?” 

            I hate when you open a bag of shredded cheese and it’s all wet.  Two days later it will be a glob of molded rubber.  How can something that tastes so good, turn into a tire patch for my mountain bike?  I think the Dairy Association is holding secret meetings in Mootown on ways to create more money by making my cheese wet and my milk sour before it hits the grocery shelf. If I can buy organic milk and cheese that has an expiration date of six weeks, then why can’t I buy full-of-preservatives-and-antibiotics milk  and cheese that lasts longer than it takes me to get to my car after I pay for it?

             George uses one of those Bluetooth earpiece phones.  The obvious freakish thing here is why isn’t it a “Blue Ear” instead of a Bluetooth?  I was so confused by this when I went to the doctor for an earache, I pointed to my ear and said my tooth hurt.  He upped my loony toon meds. That point aside people using these phones simply look like they belong in the state mental hospital.  You know who I’m talking about…those whack-attacks walking through stores talking to themselves.  I don’t believe for a minute they’re talking on a phone.  It’s a disquise so they can talk to their various personalities and pretend they are normal.  I don’t need an earpiece to talk to all the voices in my head.  I’m proud to be multi-tasking and willing to admit it.

            The thing that freaks me out the most is when I drop something and it rolls under the stove.  I have heart palpitations just thinking about if I really need to retrieve it.  I swear the portal to the underworld is under my oven.  If I stick my fingers under it to get the runaway olive, a Being will grab me and pull me in.  I know this is true, because I saw it once.  That otherworldy Being sucked my little brother into the void when he went for his animal cracker.  Some people may try to tell you I’ve always been an only child. They are just afraid to admit the existence of the portal and the real reason I don’t have a brother.

What do potatoes and vaginal grooming have in common?

I was searching the internet for a recipe for Parmesan Potatoes. A healthy cooking sight popped up with a great recipe, however after the recipe was a suggestion for me:

"If you like this, you may also like…Vaginal Grooming: How Safe are Down-there Beautification Trends." Below that was a photo of a naked woman from belly button to crotch, with what looked like the bristles of a whisk broom covering her "down-there."

If I like potatoes, I'm suppose to like vaginal grooming? Can anyone explain this to me? I'm so grossed out I will never be able to eat Parmesan Potatoes again.

GPS is the Devil's Tool

After five months of winter we headed out for our annual spring escape. The morning was warm, the sun shining, the travel cups full of coffee…what could possibly go wrong?

The Devil. Demons. Evil spirits. Comedic space aliens. Don’t care what you call it, there was some serious shit going down from the moment we pulled out of the driveway. For us, travel shit is normal so I don’t know why I would expect this trip to be any different, but my optimism is fucking endless.

“Did you plot the scenic side-trips on a map?” I asked George.

“I don’t need maps. I have GPS.” He assured me.

One hour later he pulls into a “Shit and Git,” turns off the truck and starts playing with the GPS. “Problem?” I ask.

“This road isn’t taking me where I want to go. So, I figured I better pull over and turn on the GPS.”

I take off my seat belt, and grab the Whiskey out of the easily accessible bag behind my seat. (I’ve played this game before.)

“A little early for whiskey?” George asks.

“A little early to be lost.” I reply pouring a healthy shot (or two) in my coffee. We probably shouldn’t be allowed out without supervision. But since the kids won’t admit they belong to us, and they don’t have a trust fund to hire a nanny for us, we get to roam the world inflicting havoc as we go.

A few minutes later I dare to ask, “George, I realize I just polished off my coffee but aren’t we going in circles?”

“Yep, Lulabelle keeps routing us in a circle and I was curious how long it was going to take her to figure out she’s lost.”

“Screw her. I’m sick of her being the other woman in your life, take the next right and get on the damn highway.”

“Are you sure it’s a right turn?”

“Unlike dear Lulabelle, I can read signs.”

We reached our destination without further need of whiskey.  And woke the next morning ready to tackle a day of hiking, wildlife watching and rock hounding.  However, the wind had a different agenda…sustained winds blew at 35 mph with 50 mph gusts. Twice I got blown into the Madison River while standing on the bank.  We ended up spending most of the day hanging in the wonderful town of Ennis, Montana…home to 340 people and 11 million trout.

You can’t go wrong in a fishing town with places like the Lure Me Inn, On The Fly Espresso, a bowling alley named the Fish Bowl, and Willie’s Distillery where we sampled Montana Honey Moonshine.  The whiskey was smooth and tasty, but the label made me buy it. (Did you believe that reasoning?) The label is handwritten and included the Bottled on date (11-Feb-2015), Batch number (14), Madison River Flow on that date (1030 CFS), Ennis temperature (48 degrees) and Bottled by name (Terry).  We also tried, and purchased, the Huckleberry Sweet Cream Liqueur (Bottled by Cher) all of which took the bite out of a blustery spring day.

The weather forecast I had so meticulously followed before deciding to stay in the mountains for our spring outing was totally wrong. It was not slightly breezy, with highs in the mid 50s and sunny. In fact Mother Freaking Nature gave us none of those. The second day we woke to 25 degrees, snow, and the dreaded spring ice on the roads.  Pack the bags we’re going home!

George turned the hubs in, 4-wheel drive engaged, and Lulabelle the GPS directing us. We really didn’t need directions home, since we weren’t taking any scenic routes.  But George wanted to see if Lulabelle could find her way home or if we needed to retire her to wherever old GPS’s go, which I hope is a special kind of hell just for them.

Luck shone on us as we followed the plow throwing copious amounts of salt on the road. Safely out of the ice we enjoyed the scenery until:

“In two miles, turn right at Simon.”

“Why does she want us to turn off, and why is a dude named Simon standing at the turn-off?” I asked.

“Not sure, but I promise to ignore her just like I ignore you when you are side-seat driving.”

“In one mile, turn right at Simon.”

“Geez, she is persistent.”

George looked at me. “I am familiar with that tactic.”

“In half a mile, push driver out with Simon.”

“Hey look at the sign sweetie,” George interrupted, “she means Salmon, not Simon.”

“I keep telling you this is what happens when you put some foreign British voice on the GPS. She doesn’t read or speak English.”

“I admit I have no idea how she got Simon from the word Salmon. But her voice sure is sexy.”

“Sexy voice won’t help you when she directs you off a cliff.”

“In .2 miles, turn right at Simon.”

“SALMON!” We both yell.

I look at George as he drives by the exit, Lulabelle squawking at us to turn around, “You realize we were both yelling at an inanimate object?”

“I’m not convinced there isn’t something evil and humanly unexplainable living in that box.” George said.

“Do you think it’s safe to turn her off, or does she have powers transcending the on/off switch?”

“Maybe it would be safer to just turn her volume down.”

“Try all you want smartass, there is no way to turn down the volume on a woman if she doesn’t want to.”

“At least I’ve proved a point, that women get lost just as much as men.”

“Really! Are you sure you want to start that argument Mr. I-took-us through-Nebraska-cuz-I-missed-the-turn-to-Colorado?”

“I didn’t miss the turn to Colorado, I decided to go to Cabela’s in Nebraska.”

“Well, you should’ve bought a new and smarter GPS there.” I said.

“Are you sure you want to start an argument about me getting something newer and smarter?”

Well, craaaaap.  Lulabelle and I were both quiet the rest of the way home.