Can't Win For Losing

The husband and I have been blessed with a decent sized backyard. As a result we have loads of wildlife. Nothing of the coyote or mountain lion sorts, but lots of birds and rats with fuzzy tails. This is a great enjoyment to us and we do much to encourage visits, more so, permanent move-ins. However, I'm having a heck of a time catching said creatures on film. I took over 30 pictures yesterday and these are the only winners:

I continuously miss the greatest shots-that-even-National-Geographic-will-hire-me-for of all time! Or it's that I move to get the picture and the 50 different sorts of wildlife take flight in one big lift off. Yesterday, I was even crawling on my hands and knees in my house just to get shots through a window/screen that you see posted here. I'm not so good at this camera thing. Or it's my camera. Or both, because in my little head, it can't just be operator error. Seriously. I need help. So, I'm going to look for a new bright shiny camera as well as hunt for camouflage outfits. And not the bright orange please-don't-shoot-me either. Maybe even something along the lines of dressing as true shrubbage? The husband will be so excited! A new camera!

By the way, these are my heroes. They are going to catch those fuzzy tailed rats one of these days, if I only open the door. . . .

Your thoughts? Suggestions?

Trimmed Nose Hair is Part of the Job

The husband, working hard to dig those holes.



Chobie supervises. Mmmmrph.



The one tree has flowers. Many do not.



Bush number 9 - only 44 more to go. . . .

Update on the yard work:

• We bought 50 pieces of sod. We need 200 more.
• We've planted 18 of the 53 bushes. Only 35 more to go.
• I've halted my embargo on Starbucks. I heart grande non-fat vanilla lattes once more.
• One tree now has a garden below it. One more awaits.
• One planter has been planted. 4 more to go + 20.
• 25,000 visits to the garden shop. 25,001 visits to the hardware shop.
• The sprinkler system was dug up and checked by the husband. It will now be buried and remain as is.
• Have managed to continue our workouts. No, no not together.
• It is suppose to start raining at 2 PM today. That'll be fun.
  
• Found more fire ant hills than wanted or needed. Still don't understand the validity of these creatures.
  
• 7 bags of yard waste hauled. Only 50 more to go.
  
• More money spent on lawn/yard than a 4-day vacation. Priceless.

Am I the Only One Who's Scared Up In Here

For those of you who feel slightly hornswaggled by my last posting. I must apologize as well as cleverly come up with another subject for your reading pleasure. . .

I have been contemplating lately that it's been a long time since I've been put together and appropriate in my appearance. I live in workout clothes and ponytails every day. This has made me realize that my level of acceptable appearance in public has diminished greatly over time, especially since I no longer work professionally. In an office. In the public. My acceptable level of appropriateness is so minuscule to me that I now do what I never said I'd do even if I got hitched, which is go out in public sans makeup or not even brushing the hair. That's what ponytails and hats are for anyway. Why bother? This; however, is not a pretty sight to see or, to quote the 40-Year-Old Virgin, "this is not a good look for me!" It's a wonder people don't run from me as if I've just sporked my own eye out and left it there to hang in all its glory.

Furthermore, most of you know of one of my afflictions called, you-will-be-carded-until-the-day-you-die. (I know! I know! Most of you are shouting, "Oh. Just SHUT UP about this already!") But you see, it's not flattering to me. It never has been. Sure, it would seem to be a fabulous affliction, but I can assure you it is not. I constantly get carded if I try to purchase the fire water, enter a pub or do anything that has any remote possibility of running into alcohol. Always. It's not complimentary, mainly because people are just rude about it. Rudeness does not make one feel young and oh-so-pretty, witty and ni-iiiiiiiice. And then, they. Don't. Believe. Me. Short of me giving them my first unborn, of which I don't even have yet, as evidence to point out the contrary that they are wrong I cannot get them to believe me. I do have proof that I am over the age of 21. *** I carry my Texas appointed drivers license with my official and bona fide birth date listed. I wouldn't even know where to get a fake ID these days. I graduated college almost 13 years ago and I also don't hold/have any questionable friends these days that could help me out with these types of things.

My point is, is that I went to the grocery store last night to pick up a few items for dinner. You know, green beans, milk, cottage cheese, potato rolls and a pack of Shiner Light. I headed to the express check out. There in the 15 Items or Less aisle, was a girl of about 18-years of age checking out groceries. She was amicable enough until she got to my pack of beer. I should mention here, that I had just gotten done with a 75-minute workout at the gym. I was sans makeup, in my sweaty workout duds, most likely did not smell like the delicate flower I usually am and had a visor on my head with a ponytail. I did not look well and I didn't really care. I wanted my items and I wanted to go home, shower and make the husband and I dinner. Instead, she looked at me. I looked at her. This conversation then ensued:

18-year-old grocery gal: You're not 21 are you? (Skeptical and disbelieving look followed)
me: yeah, I am actually 35.
18-year-old grocery gal in complete and utter shocking disgust: No. You're. Not.
me: Yes, I am. Do you want to see my ID?
18-year-old grocery gal viewing my ID and then glancing at me with a look that felt as if I'd purposely turned something off inside me that caused my brain to slowly leak out my left ear. This look made me nervous and completely uncomfortable. It showed as I anxiously laughed and put away my Texas ID.
me: I'll be 36 at the end of April.
18-year-old grocery gal non-believing: Yeah. Right.

___________________________________________________________________

*** Even when I am with the husband, I still get carded - he does not and he is FIVE YEARS YOUNGER THAN ME. Do you know how frustrating that is?

If You'd Rather Change My Diaper

I just read that Eva Longoria is the new spokesperson for Bebe. I do not heart Bebe. I do not heart Eva - though she was pretty good in "The Sentinel" - and that might give me a glimmer of hope. After all, I was totally wrong in my disdain for Ellen. I heart Ellen. Now. She seems a pretty good gal.

You are wondering as to why I am posting about Bebe and Eva?

Well, this breaking spokesperson news reminded me of something that happened almost 2-years ago for I needed a dress to attend an upcoming wedding. I used the Internet to surf through a gazillion stores to find my fabulous dress. I do not heart shopping. Strange phenomenon for a girl, I know. When it comes to buying the clothes I would rather get in and get out as fast as possible! Thus, the Internet surfing. I finally landed at Bebe. Great! There was a store in my backyard and I found a dress I loved. Somehow, I talked the husband into going with me.

Off we went. As we were walking through the mall about to make a right hand turn into Bebe when the husband spotted the Apple Store. He made a sharp left before I could even utter a syllable of protest. He said he'd be quick and meet me later. Off I went to Bebe myself. Alone.

I will clarify and start here: I am not a size 0. I never have been a size 0 except for my days in infancy and even then that is questionable. I am not a size 2, nor 4, nor 6, nor - you get the point. I am also not a teenager. I hadn't been one for almost 14-years at that point. And I thank God for that! This is all very important information for the following conversation I had with the sales associate who was more concerned with helping the rich mothers of the teeny-tiny-who-need-to-eat-a-cheeseburger-or-2-daughters. No, I'm not bitter. Just a paying customer. I had a Julia Roberts moment from "Pretty Woman," "I have money to spend here! No one will help me!" Except I wasn't a hooker dressed as a hooker, I was only a size 10.

Me standing outside my dressing room for 6.34 minutes (my best guess - it was 2-years ago).
Sales associate nonchalantly walks on by (several, several times).
Finally, "Oh. Do you need some help." (sigh)
"I do! Please! Could you see what size that dress is on the mannequin for me?"
Sales associate looks behind her, then around the room and finally to where I am pointing, which was the only mannequin in the entire dressing room.
"Um. That dress would not look good on you. You wouldn't fit in it."
She then walked away from me as if she just lifted her leg and peed on my bare feet.

I retreated to the dressing room, sat on the bench and tried my very best not to cry. I heard the husband. I invited him into the dressing room. My lip was trembling and my eyes were starting to fill with tears. He looked at me, "honey, what's wrong?" And I threw up all over him the story about what just took place. Very sternly he looked at me and said, "get dressed. We are leaving here." I said I had found some things to buy. He said, "no. We are not buying anything from here. We are leaving. Now." The husband was clearly mad and I believe that somehow he was suffocating the urge to punch or throttle this girl as I continued to try and not collapse into a heaping pile of cry on the dressing room floor. I changed. We left.

The husband took me outside to a bench where I finally broke down and cried with his arm around me.