Sugar doggy.

BASEBALL!?!??!?!

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I can’t watch The X Factor tonight because of rain delays for some baseball game airing on Fox. I’m displeased. Why? Why must Fox ruin my Wednesday evening? I WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO IT ALL DAY LONG!!!!!!

Not all was lost. I did bust out a mean meatloaf tonight. Boy was it good. It is now officially one of the only things I can cook. Slowly adding to that list. We’ve got meatloaf, and…..meatloaf.

I make tacos sometimes, but I don’t think that counts.

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So yesterday, my dog was over at his dog-friend’s house, whose owner (Bob) is having his entire yard resurfaced. Basically he had guys over at his house all afternoon pouring fresh loose dirt all over the place and raking it evenly across the yard. My dog decided to plunge into Bob’s koi pond and then jump back out and roll in the fresh dirt for about 15 minutes moments before I brought him home. I have never seen him this dirty in his entire life. He was literally coated in mud from head to toe. The only thing untainted was the white tip of his tail. It was a disaster. I marched him directly home and made a bee-line for the bathtub as quickly as I could get him in there, avoiding him jumping up on the couch or the bed. I scrubbed, soaped, and rinsed him til he was squeaky clean, and then let him loose. He smelled delicious.

“Raleigh smells good. What kind of soap did you use?”  Trent asked.

“Just his normal puppy shampoo,”  I replied.

“Smells different,”  he said. I shrugged. It’s not like I could confuse puppy shampoo for Garnier Fructis.

But I could confuse it for this:

And I did.

I was in such a rush to get the muddy mutt clean, I accidentally grabbed my strikingly similar looking bottle of brown sugar vanilla bubble bath instead of the milk and honey puppy shampoo.

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It was a delicious mistake. He smells like baked goods.

Howard the hummingbird bit the dust. I kept her alive for a good long five weeks. I think five weeks is a pretty impressive amount of time to keep a wild injured bird alive, considering the fatality rate. Poor thing. Not even sure what happened. She just suddenly couldn’t open her eyes or lift her head. Probably got too wasted off nectar and OD’ed. Poor bird.

WELL, I will leave you with another diddy I recorded today. A nice little Norah Jones song for a rainy afternoon.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T1zVIQW6lxc

GOODBYE!

Sorry for yelling.

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C:   You should try some country.

B:   I hate country, Cole.

C:   Not all of it is good. Like, the twangy stuff sucks, but the other stuff is pretty great.

It’s like whiskey. You just gotta keep trying it and eventually you’ll find something you like.

Feces Pieces.

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My dog rolled in shit again today. Right before I left for a nice fancy dinner at Red Lobster. He smelled like roadkill. Shit isn’t exactly Miss Dior Cherie. Terrible timing. I went back inside, squirted a hand towel with Dawn dish soap, and scrubbed his head and back with it, then left for my endless-shrimp meal. I wasn’t about to let a feces covered canine ruin my evening plans. After stuffing myself with seafood, I came home to my shit-fest dog, just ranking up the place. I had no choice but to give him an aggressive bathing.

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He knew. The little bastard tried to escape. For the first time ever he resisted the bath. He loves shit that much. Bird poop, cat poop, raccoon poop—he can’t wait to find it and rub his face in it. I’ve never known another creature to love the smell of shit as much as this dog. He did not want it to come off. I scooped his stinky carcass up and dumped him into the shower, where he received a very serious scrubbing with about half a liter of puppy shampoo. I almost had to use vinegar. Unreal.

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Tonight was the first time I ever ate at Red Lobster. I was suckered in by their endless shrimp special. Shrimp refills, as many as I want? Who can say no to that?

It was way too much. They served me enough shrimp to sink a shrimping vessel. I’m going to reek of garlic and butter and seafood until next Wednesday. Just like my dog. Except I smell like food, and he smells like diarrhea.

Red Lobster’s biscuits are a problem. They’re so delicious. I can see myself becoming physically dependent on them. They’re so buttery and soft and wonderful. I want to crawl inside one and hibernate for the winter, then eat my way out of it in the spring. Also, their mashed potatoes? Creamy heavenliness. Those two items alone would keep me coming back.

I like that they named the restaurant “Red” Lobster, as if we didn’t already realize that lobsters were red. Give me a “wet” water please, waiter. Redundancy.

Everyone in the restaurant was the size of a mini van. So many fats. They were there for the endless dishes too, obviously. Red Lobster is like a casino buffet for seafood. People who are eating there consider it a swanky meal because it has “lobster” in the name.

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I really love caesar salads. Nothing gets me going quite like a crispy, slightly anchovy, asiago and romano sprinkled caesar salad with crunchy croutons. Mmm. The issue that I have with salads however is that once I run out of croutons, it’s game over. I can’t keep eating just lettuce. It doesn’t work like that. I need some crunch in my lunch, you know?

I was really excited to get that to rhyme. It was anticlimactic.

Well, I hope you all had a wonderful weekend filled with whiskey, fast food, and shame. Until next time, I bid you adieu.

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“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

Pissing contest.

A 14 year old dog peed on my leg today. I was standing there minding my own business talking to its owner, and it lifted its leg and pissed on my foot. Stuck a flag of ownership right on my calf, as it were. I was pissed. You don’t just go around pissing on other people. This isn’t a party at R. Kelly’s house.

I spent the better part of the day dreaming about consuming a creamy, cheesy bowl of Velveeta Shells & Cheese and watching television up on my arrival home. The clock slowly ticked on, and as my long day finally came to an end, I made it back to my apartment and made a beeline for the kitchen cupboard. There, I was disappointed to find that all the boxes of Velveeta Shells & Cheese had been eaten. I was dismayed. I rummaged further to find that we did still have some off brand “Great Value” macaroni and cheese, and figured it wasn’t a terrible substitute.

I brought the pot to a rolling boil and dumped in the pasta. As the timer slowly crept downward, I made my way to the fridge to get out the milk and butter.

We were out of milk.

Bah! I exclaimed. I double and triple checked the fridge to make sure I wasn’t just a blind retard, but found nothing. Then I thought, aha! I’ll just call Sharon, the lady who lives in the apartment above me, and see if I can run up there really quick and grab a half a cup of milk. I called. Busy signal. I called again. Still busy.

I called three more times. STILL busy. Who doesn’t have call waiting these days? This isn’t the Stone Age.

I opened the fridge again. Still no milk. I sank to using water and sour cream.

As you can imagine, it wasn’t the same. I ended up using a lot of ketchup to mask the slightly off flavor of the cheesy/watery/sour creamy mixture.

I went into the living room with my bowl of macaroni and question mark and plopped down on the couch, switching the TV on, hoping E! or Comedy Central would have something interesting enough on the air to distract me from the weird macaroni.

….I couldn’t figure out how to get it to work. So here I am, alone in silence with my shitty bowl of water noodles.

All in all the macaroni thing didn’t work out for me as planned.

I think it’s also valid to add at this point that my day started by being awoken by the harsh, shrill, and invasive sound of construction workers jackhammering the concrete street directly in front of my house. Not exactly the best part of waking up.

Tomorrow will be better.

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….right?

Bye.

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[Words With Friends]

Z:  [gadi]

B:  What the hell is gadi? Bitch.

Z:  Zouk??? Everyone gets one.

Burn notice.

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I got bitten by a chihuahua today. Its name was Chloe. I was pissed. I went into this lady’s house and was greeted by three psychotic jumping yapping “dogs,” darting here and there and barking like lunatics. I already despise tiny yippy canines to begin with, but this really put the nail in the coffin. After staring down at the hysterical, annoying noisemaker as it bopped around my ankles, I turned to walk up the lady’s stairs. That’s when I felt a sharp pinch on my right upper ankle. “What the hell?!” I exclaimed. The freaking asshole bit me.

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I should have drop kicked it across the living room. I wanted to put my hands around its hamster neck and squeeze the life out of it. It’s not like it drew blood or anything, but cripes. Chihuahua teeth aren’t exactly meant for attacking. They’re meant for eating Taco Bell. I hope it gets stepped on by a cat and dies for its distasteful deed.

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I got a sunburn yesterday. I deserved it. I said “f-ck off, sunscreen,” and I suffered the consequences. I’m stinging. Bad. I feel like I’ve been attacked by jellyfish. Unlike you real gingers out there though, my blistering sunburns turn into a warm, bronzy glow within days, and continues throughout the summer until it builds into a true Puerto Rican brown and people start mistaking me for Eva Mendes.

I turn Casper white in the winter again though. Can’t win em all.

It was 94 degrees today. 98% humidity. This is ridiculous. Am I in the Amazon rainforest, or the shitty state of Pennsylvania? I’m withering away, Mommy Nature. Give me a break.

I was walking around this person’s house today taking siding measurements, when suddenly my foot slid across something very slippery. I looked down to see that I had stepped into a “hot out of the oven” pile of dog shit that had been sitting in the scorching hot sun all afternoon, smearing it at least six inches. It was grotesque.

That about sums up my day. I look and smell like dog shit.

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I just saw a comment from an acquaintance of a young woman who just discovered her first unplanned pregnancy of many to come, and it said this:

“You both will be great parents, all it takes is love.”

…And money, time, sacrifice, two full time jobs, and a lot of help from mommy, daddy, and the government.

This is why there are so many dogshit parents out there today. They think all you need is love. This is an unplanned pregnancy, Debra. This isn’t The Beatles. This girl just ruined her entire life, and you want to sing oldies songs? Say what you mean. “You’re f-cked.”

Well, happy swelling, mom.

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“Hey! Who wants to go get ice cream and keep secrets?”

Fryday, Fryday, gonna get down on Fryday.

One of my friends took a picture of this poster ad on their cell phone in Philadelphia. A picture is worth a thousand words.

Yes, Jermaine. It is you “they” are looking for. “They” being the state police, of course. Creep.

Kidding. It’s Lionel Richie. Still.

As you may or may not know, I am a roof salesman. Therefore, I deal with several crews of roofers on the daily who build the jobs I sell. One of our newest crews is a bunch of guys from Kyrgyzstan which is in Central Asia. One of the main religions in Kyrgyzstan is Islam, so most of these guys are Muslim.

This particular crew of men has been working on the roof of the house that I currently rent and live in for the last couple of days, and I have noticed that when I take my dog outside and he goes near them, most of them avoid coming near him and act like he’s carrying the plague. They won’t pet him or play with him or give him any attention of any kind. I Googled “Muslims and dogs” out of curiosity. This is what I found.

Muhammad made strange and harsh statements about dogs and these edicts affect dogs in a tragic way. Muslims render dogs as unclean, “impure” and worse. Per Muhammad’s orders most dogs were to be killed and all dogs of a specific color (black) had to be killed. Then Allah’s apostle forbade their killing. He said: “It is your duty to kill the jet-black (dog) having two spots (on the eyes) for it is a devil.”

This is my dog:

.Raleigh = Satan.

You learn something new every day.

I watched Clash of the Titans last night. Imagine waking up with one of those gourd creatures in your bed after a night at the bars.

Vom.

I watched one single episode of Freaky Eaters on TLC, and I think that was enough. The particular episode I viewed was of Eric Willmann, “The Fry Guy.” Eric eats virtually nothing but french fries. He remains a normal weight. This is my dream come true. Sure, he’s got heart disease and cholesterol higher than teenagers at a Bob Marley concert, but if I could count how many times I’ve said, “I wish it were feasible for me to eat nothing but McDonald’s french fries for the rest of my life without morphing into Kirstie Alley,” I’d be driving a Rolls Royce.

Anyway, the point is, the show is unbelievably dramatic, the hosts are terrible, and Eric doesn’t understand the definition of “active.” He said, and I quote, “I’m very active. I skateboard at LEAST once a week, if not twice.”

…

Okay, Eric. I’m VERY charitable. I’ve added a $1 donation to my PetSmart purchase at LEAST once, if not twice. Let’s not get carried away.

For those of who have been on edge, biting your nails, wondering how my hair fiasco is progressing, let me just say this: I just took a shower and shampooed the shit out of my hair not once, but twice, using at least a metric ton of Garnier Fructis, and even after the second rinse of shampoo AND rinsing out the conditioner that followed, the tub was filled with bright pink sudsy bubbles. It looked like someone sprayed the Pink Panther with a hose.

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So, that’s what’s going on with my noggin. Thanks for stopping by.

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“I want you to trim the fat.”

“What?”

“I want you to fire all the fat people.”

Seeing double.

Zooey Deschanel and Katy Perry are identical, biological twins. When is Mythbusters going to go ahead and prove this? I want a DNA test. It’s the biggest conspiracy since JFK’s death. If they’re not twins, they’re clones. Somebody’s hiding something.

Speaking of twins, I would really like to see Jennifer Aniston’s. The gossip news had my hopes up, telling me her rack would be out on display for the world to see in her upcoming movie “Horrible Boss.” Unfortunately E! squashed that rumor and spoiled the fun. How does this woman stay so impossibly sexy all these years? I’d stick it to her.

I hope she reads this.

(She won’t).

Haagen-Dazs has really figured out how to nail their flavors over there at the ice cream factory. It’s like they have an ice cream laboratory where they’re breaking down the science of putting actual desserts into ice cream form, and they’re doing a REALLY fantastic job of it. Recently I have tried the bananas foster, the blueberry crumble, and the spiced peach crumble flavors, and MY god are they ever good. They absolutely put the original desserts to shame. The flavor descriptions they describe on the containers themselves are mouthwatering on their own. They describe the flavors like a fine wine. It gives me a woody just reading about how the ice cream is going to taste before I even get to taste it. Let me give you an idea; let’s use the blueberry crumble:

Simmered ripe blueberries folded into dense blueberry ice cream with rich, buttery cobbler crust crumbles.

Flavor top notes: Bright, ripe blueberries.

Finish notes: Sweet cream, tart fruit, buttery cobbler crust.

I just salivated on my space bar.

It’s more mind-blowing than your taste buds can possibly imagine. You need to experience this elixir of life. Don’t waste any more time. Your tongue will do the macarena in your mouth, and give your molars a lap dance. What I’m trying to say is, Haagen-Dazs is like your mouth on ecstasy.

Do yourself a favor and boost it to the nearest grocery store, STAT. I might go ahead and purchase an extra deep freezer unit so I can stock pile it top to bottom with these delicious, decadent flavors, just in case Haagen-Dazs means business with this “limited edition” stuff. You would be wise to do the same.

My dog went on poop strike for two entire days. This was frustrating because it was raining 80% of the time those two days, and I spent more than 10 minutes at a time on probably 6 or 7 separate occasions standing in the wet, cold down-pouring precipitation waiting for him to stop holding out and drop a deuce. “Surely he has to give in soon,” I thought. “I mean the dog usually poops 3 or 4 times a day. There’s no way he can just quit cold turkey for 48 straight hours,” I rationalized.  He did though. He refused to ‘do the 2’ from Friday afternoon until Sunday night. Hopefully he’s back on schedule, because this rain is not stopping for another 8 days it looks like. I don’t have time for this shit. (That pun was totally intended).

WELL, I’m off to stuff my face with more blueberry crumble. Adios, amigos.

Rebecca.

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“Don’t be angry just because I bought some kickass donuts.”

La Manana de Navidad!

Christmas Day has finally arrived, girls and boys! The anticipation nearly killed me. We truly have a wickedly white Christmas this year. This morning we excitedly scampered downstairs, poured some coffee (not that I had anything to do with that part since coffee tastes like dirt and tree bark), started the Charlie Brown Christmas CD, and wandered into the living room to dig through our overflowing stockings (thanks mom), and begin filling our bellies with sugar. Our Christmas tree had a mountain of gifts that could