#tbt: Camping All-Star

As you read this, I am either getting myself psyched up to go camping, or actually driving to a campsite with my dear Evanshine. We will be celebrating our nation’s birthday as our forefathers intended: with grilled foods, fireworks, and sweat.

I get a little PTSD whenever someone suggests camping. You see, when I was a wee little girl, I went to camp Judy Layne Girl Scout camp. I got to take a mess kit, which is something that my doll Molly had in miniature, so I was surprisingly okay with the idea.

However, disaster seemed to strike soon after arrival every single year.

In 1992, I struggled mightily enough with outdoor sounds and bugs that I felt the need to describe it in my diary:

To add insult to injury, my parents took Ross to see Cop and a Half while I was away, which I had been wanting to see.

Then in 1995, I had a near-death experience in knife safety class. We reported to a shelter for class, where our teachers told us we would either be “honing” (haha) our skills on a block of soap or a tree branch. Obviously I elected tree branch, since I am an artist and artists don’t work in soap. The teacher told us: “The First Rule of Knife Safety is never cut toward yourself. Now, before we start class, go get yourselves a stick.”

I headed out into the woods and looked carefully at nature. Each stick candidate had something wrong with it – one was broken, another bendy, too little, etc.

But then I saw it. The Stick. It lay on the ground, seemingly bathed in the glow of angelic light. Only one tiny branch stuck out to the side, marring what was otherwise the perfect medium for the masterpiece I was about to create. So I whipped out my trusty Swiss Army knife and cut that branch off – cutting toward myself.

The knife, which had probably never cut anything before, went straight through the wood, through my thumbnail and into my thumb. It didn’t even hurt, which was nearly as surprising as the enormous amount of blood gushing into the leaves. One of my fellow Scouts screamed. I screamed.

A counselor came running, wrapped up my hand in a bandage and told me we’d go talk to the camp manager’s husband, who just so happened to be a real live EMT and could bandage me up properly. This was reassuring, but still I burst into tears, fearing the worst. I was losing a LOT of blood.

“Am I going to DIE?” I asked through my sobs.

The counselor looked at me like I was the crazy one. She was the one voluntarily working at a camp for an entire summer! “Uh, no.”

Despite these comforting words, I know that I barely survived Girl Scout camp that year. It is only by the grace of God that I somehow survived losing gallons of blood and am here blogging to you today.

My mom even noted this camping trip in my School Days book...
Not only did I slice my thumb open, I also got 80+ chigger bites!!

 

So you can see why I struggle with the idea of camping, even at my mature age. Wish me luck that I come back with all my fingers and toes. God Bless America, and God Bless air conditioners and hot showers when I get home.

(IF I get home…)

2014 Hate List: Vol. III

It’s been a while since anything has really gotten my goat – probably because of all the good yoga vibes I’ve been stockpiling. But the more I go to yoga, the more convinced I am that I really hate yoga mats. Here’s why.

2014 Hate List

by Allison Buckley

1. Hedgehogs.

2. Cold temperatures without snow days.

3. Eating and being healthy.

4. ABC being cryptic with what "goes down," so to speak, between the Bachelor and his ladies.

5. Yoga mats.

They are incredibly germy and disgusting. Imagine yourself for a moment in a room heated to 105 and pumped full of 40% humidity. Now imagine that the room is packed chock full of women and men in skimpy clothes. Now imagine that as they start to move into various yoga contortions, these classmates start to sweat profusely, dripping sweat onto their towels, their mats, and the carpeted floor.

Now imagine that you are me, and have been scared of contagious diseases since that time in 1989 that you found your mom’s nursing school textbooks in the basement and looked at pictures of smallpox, and that you remember the MRSA outbreaks in gyms that were all over the news a few years ago.  Do you see how this could be a problem?

Allow me to indulge myself in a little diagramming:

all photos from leisure fitness.com

As you can see from my highly technical illustration, the germs from the yoga room floor make their way onto the bottom of your yoga mat, which you then roll up on itself. The floor germs are then transferred to the top of your mat that you stand on. Remember, folks, that I majored in science creative writing so I have a pretty good understanding of how this all works. I’m convinced I’m going to get MRSA from my new hot yoga obsession. BUMMER. But at least I’ll be in shape to fight off the infection … ?

I don’t know. There is probably an easy solution to this – such as disinfecting the mat, or buying a washable one, or something else smart. But I prefer to wallow in my hate list, so I’ll keep on keeping on.

Speaking of yoga, though, you know what else is gross? When people’s sweat drops directly onto your body when they step over you on your mat. Also, when someone who is taller than his or her yoga mat picks the spot in front of you and his or her giant, calloused feet get on your mat, get too close to your face, or even touch your head while you're trying to relax. I think we can all agree that is not very pleasant. Why am I taking these classes, again?

Namaste, friends.

2014 Hate List

Good morning, friends. I assume you're all reading from home because you've taken a personal day to celebrate the arrival, at long last, of Juan-uary. Or perhaps you're home because of record snowfalls and death-defying temperatures. Sadly, we got almost no snow in tropical Lexington, and while the low temperature is predicted to be a balmy -3 degrees, by the time you read this, I will be at work because I have to go to court in the morning and unfortunately the courts are not closed in honor of this cold, cold holiday.

I hate it when other people get snow days and I don't. In fact, I've been feeling so much hate watching the Snow-Go Report that I've decided to start a new regular feature here on the tudor house blog: the 2014 Hate List. I know most people (including myself) have resolved to be nicer, kinder, gentler, and more positive in the year 2014. However, I think we can all understand that there are just some things that you hate no matter how positive you otherwise are. So without further ado, I present to you: my 2014 Hate List! I will be adding something I hate at least weekly, or as often as I find myself hating something. Last week's entry was, of course, hedgehogs. This week I add two: cold temps without snow days and eating and being healthy.

2014 Hate List

by Allison Buckley

1. Hedgehogs.

2. Cold temperatures without snow days. See above. It ain't right.

3. Eating and Being Healthy. This was another of my New Years Resolutions this year, and even though I know it's good for you, I really hate it. I made cabbage soup last week in an attempt to eat healthier, and it was gross. I added chicken to it so that I could think of it as a real meal, and it was still gross. Then I had tons of leftover chicken so I made chicken salad for dinner the next night. The salad was better, but still not quite as tasty as a delicious pizza or a Cinnabon. Scientists, please quit looking into rockets, spaceships and delivery drones and focus your attentions on a pizza that tastes just like real pizza but is actually made of carrots and green beans. And while you're at it, a puppy that always looks like a puppy but has the maturity of a full-grown dog. Is that too much to ask?

And then I made the mistake of going to my first ever Pilates class! I hated this too! First, my yoga mat has been rolled up in the basement so long that it spent the whole class rolling up and hitting me on the head whenever I tried to lay down. Then, the class was supposed to be only one hour, but I'm pretty sure it was about 5 hours long. And, it was so hard! The pictures of people on Pilates DVDs are quite misleading - they look so cool and calm and collected, but they don't tell you that your legs will be spasming uncontrollably by the end of an hour of trying to hold them in the air at hip height. But I will go back next week ... ugh!

As much as all of this is true, don't worry too much about me, loyal readers. I fully plan to order several pizzas and make a giant bowl of popcorn to celebrate the return of Juan Pablo tonight...and if all my co-watchers are unable to attend because of bad weather, I guess I'll just have to eat all of it myself.

Never Mind!

On Tuesday, I said that Evanshine gave me the go-ahead to buy a hedgehog for my Christmas gift to myself! This was not entirely true. I do believe we would have eventually reached an agreement where I got to adopt one of those little cuties, and had I not done some extensive research online, I'm pretty sure there would be one sitting in my lap right now. However, my research revealed that hedgehogs are, in fact, filthy little creatures who seem not to have many redeeming qualities.

I read the hedgehog Bible - Pet African Hedgehogs: A Complete Guide to Care, available for free on the website of a local hedgehog breeder. I had to double check that it was a real link and not just some spam, because OMG, it really turned me off of "hedgies."  Allow me to explain...

The book provided a little quiz to see if you were suited to hedgie adoption. If you answered "yes" to all of the questions on the checklist, you passed the first stage and could continue to read the entire 124-page manual. First up:

[  ]  I understand that hedgehogs are nocturnal and I can't change this.

OK, fine. I like to sleep, too. So far, so good.

[  ]  I understand that I will be poked by my hedgehog.

Hmm. This sounds a little less appealing. But I guess that is to be expected. I'll answer yes.

[  ]  I understand that hedgehogs are expensive and I have money saved for emergencies.

Hold on. What do you mean, expensive? I see the price tag of around $225-$275. I'm okay with that. But do they have to, like, go to the vet? I thought animals that could fit in your palm didn't have to do that.

[  ]  I understand that some hedgehogs are grumpy and never become friendly.

Me too. So is Mabel. A hedgehog would fit right in!

[  ]  I understand that hedgehogs do defecate and urinate on people, sometimes frequently.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. That is pretty gross. Do they provide diapers with these things? And, excuse me, but what does "sometimes frequently" mean?

If the points above haven't turned you away, and you answered yes truthfully to everything on the checklist, a hedgie might be a great fit for you!

Uhhh... Please, show me one person who wouldn't honestly be "turned away" by the idea of getting poked, peed and pooped on by a very expensive, nocturnal animal. But I shall continue to read the manual, because maybe they have some redeeming qualities.

Ew, gross. Frothing and foaming at the mouth, but no rabies? I'm confused.

And here's where it gets really gross. You may want to quit reading here if you have a weak stomach or are a visual reader like me.

This is where they really started to lose me. Boy time? Ick!, and the fact that you might have to use nail polish remover to clean up after them is downright disturbing. No thank you. Another cat is looking more appealing every day...

OH SICK. I am grumpy enough when I wake up without the task of uncaking poop from tiny little hedgehog feet. I think I am not cut out for hedgehog ownership, unfortunately. But they really are cute. Search for them on Pinterest and see what I mean if you don't believe me!

So, this is why I have changed my mind and will not be dropping a few hundred dollas on a hedgie. I am, of course, still open to the thought of puppies, kittens, micro-pigs and possibly a rabbit. Stay tuned.

Post-Christmas Boasts

Welcome back, my dearest readers. I hope you had a great Christmas, full of cat naps, gossip mags, and napping cats. Oh, and family time, and most importantly of all, gifts.

I did. After spending Christmas Eve gorging myself on a feast from the land and the sea, I worried that I would not be able to partake in the Christmas Day meals my and Evan's families had in store. Not to worry. I rose above the full stomach and nausea to conquer all of those meals, too.

Before I get to bragging about my Christmas gifts, let me tell you about yet another similarity between Kate and myself (me? I don't even know. It's late. I've spent the last 4 hours creating my new blog header ... please tell me you noticed?). Kate was not allowed to bring sweet Lupe with her to Christmas with the Royals, apparently because the Queen's little corgis are total jerks and would have eaten him alive had he shown up. In a similar snub, my own mother barred Mabel from our family's Christmas celebrations.

Why, you ask?

Like the Queen, my parents have a dog with a bad-itude. Meet Buddy Jr.:

Who, me?

Buddy is not welcoming of guests in his home. He is particularly averse to small children, my brother, and Mabel. The last (and only!) time he was invited into the tudor house, he snuck out of my mom's eyesight and chased Mabel all over the place, causing a serious relapse in anxiety and leading her to move into the bathroom sink temporarily:

If it weren't 12:24 a.m., I would have made a hilarious speech bubble on this photo. Sorry.

Anyhoo, my dear mother refused to let her own grand-cat attend Christmas, which certainly put a damper on things. Like Kate, I am quite fond of my furry child, and I couldn't enjoy the days as much without her on my lap, biting my wrists, etc.

And poor Mabel was forced to stay home, drowning her sorrows under the empty tree.

On a lighter note, I am proud to brag that for Christmas I received a flying pig, permission from Evanshine to buy myself a pet hedgehog*, and my favorite gift of all:

No, your eyes are not deceiving you! My own piece of Royal Wedding Commemorative China!

 

Despite the Queen's my mother's best attempts to spoil my Christmas spirit, it was a wonderful mid-week holiday made even brighter by the fact that approximately everyone I work with took Thursday and Friday off! Now I'd better get to coming up with a list of resolutions before tonight at midnight...

See you next year!

* Technically, I have not received this gift...  Yet. 

Who Dey

What did you do this weekend? In addition to buying all of the milk at my local Kroger, I went to the Bengals game. You might have heard, but this friendly little winter storm named Cleon visited Kentucky and half the rest of the United States this past weekend, making travel a little … shall we say, dangerous. But a little wintry mix couldn’t stop me, Evanshine, and our friends Courtney (after whom poor Courtney, Jr., may he rest in peace, was named) and Mike from making the trek to cheer our Bengals on to victory. I know of several things worth risking life and limb in a treacherous car ride, and Bengals games are clearly at the top of that list.

If you’ve had the pleasure of attending a Bengals game or marrying one of their superfans, you have heard their ridiculous “fight song.” I think that a Barney (as in the purple dinosaur) employee may have been fired for writing dumb lyrics and then hired on by the Bengals to pen this little ditty. It’s truly silly, as you will see. No offense to Evanshine, who sings this song around the house from time to time. But maybe that songwriter did have a little musical genius in him, because as I lived the life of a dedicated Bengals fan yesterday, I realized that the lyrics actually described my day! Or should I say, my who-Dey. See what I mean:

Hear that Bengal growlin',

This would be me. I was growlin’ as soon as I woke up and heard the freezing rain on my roof. I growled some more when I looked at the temperature (24°) and then the forecast high for the day (27°). Me no like cold weather.

  

Mean and ang-a-ree,

Still me. I tend to get mean and ang-a-ree when I’m cold. We picked up quite a few hand and food warmers, but my toe warmers malfunctioned when they got wedged too tight inside my weird and ugly “hiking boots” that I was lucky enough to find in my basement left over from my middle school Girl Scout Camp experiences. I use the term “hiking boots” loosely because they are Candie’s brand. See?

  

By the way, when you decide to pull your middle school fashion mistakes out of storage, I highly suggest pairing them with skinny jeans. Great look if I do say so myself. 

Here he comes a prowlin',

We were pretty much prowlin’ as we drove up I-75 to Cincinnati. If by prowlin’ you mean going 45 and sometimes being momentarily blinded by the disgusting goop flying off of maniac truckers passing you in the slow lane. I think I’ve discovered a new anxiety of mine – death by snowstorm. I hereby apologize to my fellow passengers for screaming “TRUCK! EVERYBODY FOCUS!” when truckers tried to pass us.  But hello, haven’t you seen the terrifying results of a wreck with a semi? No thanks.

Please note the ice on the sunroof.

Lean and hung-a-ree,

I was pretty hung-a-ree all day long. I ate approximately 25 donut holes on the drive up, then two “chili wieners” as the Skyline employee pleasantly called them when she delivered them to my table, then some cheese fries at Cheddar’s back in Lexington as a celebration of surviving the game.

We were not, however, looking our leanest with approximately all of our clothes on under our puffy coats. You see?

An offensive brute,

These would be the fans sitting directly behind us. They did not care for me and Courtney, who they said “acted like we just came from church.” I wonder if they would have changed their minds about us if we’d taken them up on a sip from their colostomy bags filled with Buffalo Trace? They were kind of offensive, but I also kind of loved them. They went to a strip club after the game. Too bad they didn’t invite us to join.

They did like Evan, though, because of his sweet ‘fit:

Somebody still has stage fright about being shown on my blog. 

Run, pass, or boot,

Boot? Did I mention my boots?

And defensively he's rough! Tough!

You know what else was tough? Scraping the sludge off my car at a gas station on the way up. Thanks, Evanshine. You’re a peach.

Cincinnati Bengals,
That's the team we're gonna cheer to vic-to-ry!

Touchdown Bengals!
Get some points up on that board
and win a game for Cincinnati!

Indeed we did. The Bengals defeated the Colts and solidified Evan’s place at the top of his fantasy league for another week. Sorry, colts. I do wish Cincinnati would take after you and build an indoor stadium, though. I might be a better, less ang-a-ree fan if they did.

Unsolved Mysteries

I had some photos taken of myself this weekend.

The photos were taken by Evanshine, at my request, to show you, dear readers, a little mystery that has popped up in my life lately.  You might notice that I appear to be missing a large chunk of what used to be my bangs. This is unfortunate for many reasons, including the fact that bangs are located on the front of your face where people tend to look at you in everyday life. 

I first noticed this problem when I was getting my hair cut and Stephanie asked me what happened to my bangs. I didn't really have an answer for her. Since it's Thanksgiving, and I would be thankful for my bangs if I still had all of them, I've put together a list of the most likely suspects so that I can get revenge on them. Because that's what Thanksgiving is all about!

In compiling my list, I considered (1) motive, (2) access and (3) other suspicious circumstances. In no particular order, the top three suspects are:

1. Evanshine. 

In a murder, they always say the first suspect is the spouse. I think it's the same in this situation. If Dear Evanshine would let me post his photos on this blog, you would know that he has recently decided to grow a beard. He would like you to know that this is not because of No Shave November, but because he is original and thought up growing a beard entirely on his own. 

I was looking at his beard the other day and noticed that, while most of the hair on his head is brown, there are a few strands of blonde hair as well. Where they came from, I don't know. Unless they came from my head. He certainly has the access and suspicious circumstances abound. However, I'm not sure what his motive would be, but that's what they always say about a spouse on spouse murder when the investigation is just beginning.

2. Mabel.

If something bad goes down at my house, Mabel is generally at the top of my suspect list. She has the motive, since we have a love-hate relationship and it's always possible that she is in the hate phase. She has the access, too, obviously. And suspicious circumstances?

Definitely. Check out her latest photo. She's been shedding more than ever, lately, but she still seems to have a full head of hair.

3. Wills.

And as much as I hate to suggest it, my dear friend Prince William is my third suspect. He has the motive: I have a much stronger friendship with Kate than he does. Access? I WAS just visiting Apartment 1A in Kensington Palace the other day for Baby G's christening. And suspicious circumstances?

We all know he has been having some...coverage issues with his hair recently. But check out this recent photo of my boy Will. That comb-over looks familiar.

I wish I could give you some closure on this, loyal readers. But, based on my list of suspects, this case is far from closed. I can only hope that, come Thursday, I can be thankful for one more mystery solved.

IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION THAT WOULD BE RELEVANT TO THIS INVESTIGATION, PLEASE LEAVE YOUR CLUES IN THE COMMENTS SECTION. IF YOU DO, I'LL BE THANKFUL FOR YOU THIS HOLIDAY SEASON.

To Mabel, Somewhere Around Your 4th Birthday

Baby George is "growing up fast," according to my girl Kate. Well guess what, my friends? Mabel is growing fast, too. Told ya Kate and I have quite a bit in common!  In honor of Mabel's quick growth, I have written this letter to Mabel on her 4th birthday. OK, somewhere near her 4th birthday. More like the 4th birthday of when I got her. Please excuse the fine layer of cat hair all over the photo above...gross. I'm going to vacuum when I get home. 

Mabel,

I took you to the vet last Thursday for your fourth birthday checkup, which was only 2 months overdue. I have seen other bloggers writing monthly letters to their human babies so that they will be able to read them later and know when they started talking, eating, walking, etc. I don't see why the norm should be any different for cats. I am way behind with your letters, obviously, but I thought I'd write you a fourth birthday letter that you can look back on fondly in the years to come.  I would have posted this last week, but it took me this long to recover from your incessant (but oh so cute) howling on the 15 minute drive to the vet. Love ya.

Measurements: You weigh 11.6 pounds, which the vet says is 1.6 too many. That seems like not much until you think that would be like 20lbs overweight for a human, or 1,120lbs overweight for your average 8,000lb elephant. See how good I am at math? I'll teach you math after you master not peeing on my stuff. But I digress. You love your food and you hate exercise, so you will probably stay overweight. You are pretty long, but won't stay still long enough for me to measure you, so I'm not sure exactly how long. Based on how fat you are, I'd say you are in the 150 percentile of cats your age. You're Mommy's little chunker.

Talking: You are a big talker! You say "meow," "me-OW," and "MEOW." When you are confused, you kind of make a "mmmMMM?" noise that is just precious. I could listen to you talk all day, except for when you are talking to me as you walk across my face at 5am because your automatic feeder hasn't fed you yet. Then it's not as cute.

Eating: We are doing cat-led weaning, so you just mainly eat whatever you can find. You eat Adult Light catfood because of your weight struggles, but sometimes when you look extra cute we give you a can of WET FOOD! Your dad thought you deserved one last week after the vet fiasco. I disagreed but you got your tuna deelite. I wish you'd develop an eating complex or something but you seem truly unashamed of your girth.

Meds: You are off your meds right now, which may be changing based on the comforter we found with your pee all over it. You sometimes take Prozac, which dries out your eyes so that you need eyedrops as well. It's pretty adorable trying to give you eye drops. When your Herpes flares up, we give you medicated treats as well - 12 per day is the recommended dose! No wonder there's so much of you to love.

Diseases: Anxiety, obviously, and the Herp comes and goes. We're not sure how you picked that up, but we sure are proud of you.

Well, Mabel, you are truly a treat to live with. I just love seeing how you are growing and changing, and I can't wait to see what you become! We are all aspiring to publishing a new series of "Fat Cat Falling" photos one day. You're our golden ticket, and we couldn't love you any more.

xoxox,
Mommy