Why I Married Him, part two

The cemetery where we walk our pups has a lot of really fantastic trees. Right in front is a live oak that has suffered storm damage. The groundskeepers and the tree people worked together extensively in past seasons to try to save it and it appeared their efforts were paying off.

Then we got our freak snow storm.

Poor tree.

You can tell from this picture the reason we’re losing so many trees: none of the leaves have fallen yet; most haven’t even turned. We haven’t had to rake. Eight-plus inches of wet snow on top of that is bringing those suckers down.

I don’t have a “before” picture, but take my word that before Saturday night, the tree did not normally lay upon the gravestones.

I was taking these pictures and a guy passed walking his dog. He remarked on how dangerous the tree was, that at the moment of it splitting and falling it could have hurt someone.

We’re pretty aware of how dangerous falling trees are, considering how close #1 came to being hit on our front porch, considering that our neighbor was hit by one in his driveway.

I was snapping away, trying to figure how to reply to such an obvious comment without being a total dick to someone who surely must qualify as my neighbor. I needn’t have worried. My husband always has my back in situations like these.

Man: I mean, this is just so dangerous. It could have hit someone. Really, it could have killed someone!

CC: Luckily, they’re all already dead.

One and Done #5

Welcome to One and Done Sunday. One picture and five links that are worth your time.

I got to spend my break between shows Saturday with one of my best friends that I don’t get to see often enough. We went to my favorite Indian restaurant and the food was so spicy I was swearing at it, which is pretty much how I define good food. It was divine.

That has absolutely nothing to do with anything except that I’m eating the leftovers right now. Holy sh*t that’s good! The puggles are also trying to eat my leftovers. Which would be amusing, but sooo not worth the cleanup.

Here’s your picture:

An angel from the cemetery where we get to walk the pups. It’s one of my favorite places.

Here are your links:

It’s School Picture Day! You’re supposed to look like a dope. Chase McFadden on Aiming Low

Melissa Stetton, the anti-model fashion model: Pretty Bored. She’s also a pretty great photographer in her own right (thanks for the links, Deathrow)

Parenting via Martial Arts. Sh*t My Six-Year-Old Says

Cleaning up New York. One asshole at a time. [I keep swearing. I’m blaming the Indian food. Damn, that’s good.] An Angry Gladys video on My Parents Are Crazier Than Yours.

The meaning of life, comic strip version. Dear Human: The Big Picture

Happy Sunday!

Sh*t My Dog Eats

This is Casey.

Here is a partial list of contraband items she has eaten or attempted to eat so far in her two and a half years on earth:

The last half of the Gouda.

The face off a plastic polar bear.

Nails (as in threepenny, not finger-)

Poop (confirmed: deer, dog, and human).

Used Kleenexes.

Used Band-aids.

Half a roast chicken, including bones.

Rubber bands.

A tax bill.

The cable remote.

Feminine hygiene products.

Five single flip flops, each from a different $4.99 Old Navy pair.

One Keene sandal, men’s, size 11, $100 pair.

A significant hole in the sleeve of a $500 Ralph Lauren suit jacket.

Did I mention nails?

Thumbtacks, with and without a plastic coating.

Lots and lots of candy. Including chocolate. Including wrappers.

Hairballs pulled out of the tub drain.

Pencils, pens, and magic markers.

A Whopper.

Popsicle sticks.

Glass Christmas ornaments.

The same lamp cord, three times, miraculously unplugging it from the wall before finally biting through the insulation.

Bottle caps: plastic preferred, but metal will do in a pinch.

Several of the little red balls from my throw pillow that contain a hooked metal center.

The tasty plastic squeaker heart in every squeaky toy we’ve ever given them.

A backpack.

My lunch.

My dinner.

My breakfast.

My gross, sweat-drenched Bikram yoga clothes.

My coffee.

CC’s beer.

The last of the Manchego.

Books, though mostly just the corners.

Her own bed.

Her own crate.

Her own harness.

Jack’s face (not in its entirety).

A watch band.

A hand and foot off a Troll doll.

Several Webkinz, the filling of which looks like a terrible case of worms when it’s coming out the other end.

The couch.

Too much of the woodwork in the kitchen.

Not enough of our hideous kitchen wallpaper.

A bag of Oreos that she reached after figuring out how to open the pantry.

Bacon, half a pound, and the paper towel it was draining on. Though not the plate.

One-third of a sweet sopressata salami, which, having been consumed so soon after the aforementioned half pound of bacon (about 36 hours later), she immediately vomited back up, and then re-ate.

What sh*t does your dog (or child, or significant other) eat?