You Don't Have to Call Me Darlin', Darlin'

Dear Coworkers, Contractors, Vendors and Other Interested Parties Who Possess a “Y” Chromosome:

There seems to be some confusion regarding how you should address me.  Recent monikers have included: “honey”, “baby”, “sweets” and *ahem* “love”.

At this time, I’d like to note that my name is Leigh Anne.  I’ll also gladly answer to Leigh, L.A. and LAB (which is what my family & close friends call me).  Did you notice that none of the aforementioned names to which I’ll respond include “honey”, “baby”, “sweets” and *ahem* “love”?  No?  Let me break it down for you.

Below is a quick questionnaire that will assist you in determining the proper name to use when addressing me.  Give yourself 1 point for each “yes” answer.  The higher the score, the more appropriate it is for you to use the endearment of your choice when speaking with me.

1. Are you related to me?
2. Do you share a bank account with me?
3. Have you seen me naked as an adult? Give yourself 2 points if your answer is yes…and you liked it.
4. Did you walk me down the aisle at my wedding?
5. Have I ever asked you if “my ass looks big in this”?
6. Did you pay for my college education?
7. Have you known me for 40+ years?
8. Do you routinely wake up in bed next to me?
9. Have you ever walked my dogs?
10. Do the words “I love you” routinely occur in your conversations with me?

Now calculate the number of “yes” answers to find your total.  I bet it’s zero. Although more blog readers than I’d like to admit can probably answer the first part of #3 in the affirmative. *ahem* again.

Do you get my point?  If you’re not my father, brother or husband…I’m not your “honey”, “baby”, “sweets” or  “love”. 

I know what you're thinking:  Gosh, Babe LAB, why don't these rules apply to women? Because it's not skeevy when another woman calls me "honey", you moron.   Guess that makes me a Sapphic Sexist.  Deal with it. 

I know it may have rocked your world a bit to hear that ladies don't get all weak-kneed when you call us "Darlin".  I think I hear your paradigms shifting.  Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.  When you call me "baby", I assume a) you can't remember my name and you're too afraid to just ask me to remind you what it is, and b) you're a douchebag sleazeball.  Not necessarily in that order.  In other news...MY EYES ARE UP HERE, MISTER!  But that's a lesson for another day.

Hugs!

LAB

Gift Wrapping Makes Everything Better

Recently heard in my household:

Jeff:  Did you get a new purse in the mail today?
LAB:  Of course it's new.  Who would want a used purse?
Jeff:   That's not what I meant. Who's buying you purses?
LAB: I bought it for myself.  They didn't have one in the store, so the sales lady had one shipped to me.
Jeff:  But it's gift wrapped.
LAB: Gift wrapping was free.
Jeff:  You had a purse gift wrapped and shipped to yourself?
LAB:  I had a gift card enclosed, too.
Jeff:  Oh, Jesus.  Hand it to me.
LAB:  *hands over card*
Jeff:  *reading* "I hope you enjoy this as much as I think you will".  You wrote yourself a damn gift card?
LAB:  Also free.
Jeff:  What did the cashier in the store say when you told her what to put on the card?
LAB:  She said I was a genius with a great sense of humor.  Seems you're the only person who disagrees.

Wait till he sees what I put on the gift card for the boots being delivered next week.

The One Where I Run Down the Highway Like a Moron

You've probably figured out by now that I love dogs.  I can't explain it.  Dogs appeal to me on some visceral level that people just don't.  Most people kind of suck, and most dogs don't. I'd choose a bad dog over a good person any day of the week.

My newest dog pal is my new neighbors black Labrador Retriever puppy named Amos. Like most young dogs, Amos has boundless energy and not a lick of sense.  That's part of his appeal.  Also like other young dogs, he's a damn Houdini figuring out new and improved ways to escape their back yard fence and finding his way to our yard.  Our yard = Valhalla for dogs, but instead of Valkyries we have copious amounts of poop.

We live on a fairly busy street, and Amos' welfare when he gets loose has been an increasing concern of mine.

This morning on my drive to work I pulled onto the local highway (Peachtree Industrial Boulevard, for those who are familiar with Atlanta), and I spotted Amos weaving through four lanes of traffic.  My heart dropped just about to my knees, and I made a quick U-Turn to try to corral him.

I pulled over to the side of the road and called him, hoping the idea of a ride in the car appealed to him as much as it does to my dogs.  No dice.  So I started chasing him down the side of the highway to see if I could stop him.  I initially tried to call him to me gently, but when that didn't work I started screaming "AMOS STOP!  AMOS STOP!", hoping he might find it in his heart to turn around.  Amos thought the chase was a fabulous game and took off running.

At this point both Amos and I are weaving through traffic, but only one of us looks like a moron doing it in a bright floral dress and kitten heel sandals.  I think it goes without saying that I didn't catch him.

Eventually I was sweaty and out of breath and Amos didn't look like he was even remotely getting tired, so I decided I'd just go to Amos' house and get his family out to find him.

I hurried back to my car and turned back onto my street to get to Amos' house as quickly as possible.  I pulled in the driveway and his Dad was standing next to his truck.  I jumped out of my car, took a minute to catch my breath and yelled "Amos is loose on the highway!  Amos is loose on the highway!"

Amos' Dad looked at me and then looked into his backyard, where Amos was staring back at him.  Then he looked straight at me and said "Nooooo.  I'm pretty sure that's Amos right there."

Um, yeah.  So I  just spent half an hour chasing a strange dog through traffic on the highway.  No wonder he didn't stop.

I'm just going to go ahead and admit that Tuesday made me her bitch in record time this week.  Is it happy hour yet?

LAB vs. the Garbage Disposal (Version 3.0)

Last night my arch-enemy, the garbage disposal in my kitchen, fired yet another shot across my bow.  And scored a bullseye.  My kung fu is not strong.  The disposal started acting up on Saturday night when I shoved a cooler full of leftover ice down it after the Auburn game. And what self-respecting garbage disposal chokes on ice, for crap's sake?  The opposite side of our double sink started backing up in the ice incident, but eventually everything went down and I didn't give it another thought.  Guess you see where this is going.

Perhaps you remember my post last year about the sauerkraut geyser, which also contains the story of breadcrumb cement.  Good times.  I credit the fact that Jeff and I are still married to my unsurpassed skill at groveling for forgiveness.

But back to last night.

Due to Jeff's work schedule, there is a period of 7 straight days every 5 weeks in which he's home for dinner with me every night.  Other than these 7 days, we only have dinner together sporadically, if at all.  I treat these 7 days as the Super Bowl of cooking.  It's the Holy Grail of Gastronomy!  I spend quite a bit of time planning and prepping and shopping and cooking.  And I love it!

Last night was day 3 of the weeklong dinner blowout, and Low-Country Boil was on the menu (although in my family we call it Frogmore Stew).  As my Southern friends well know, Low-Country Boil contains shrimp, andouille sausage, fresh corn-on-the-cob, fingerling potatoes, onions, celery and copious amounts of Old Bay Seasoning.  I also toss in some Red Stripe beer and clam juice, but that's a trade secret!  Last night's batch came out like this:

 Smells like the Carolina Coast!

And you serve it like this:

I can cook, bitches!

Obviously, part of preparing Low Country Boil entails cleaning and deveining the shrimp.  I've cleaned a lot of shrimp in my time, so it only took me a matter of minutes to take care of a pound-and-a-half of shrimp and get it ready to cook.  A lot of people use scissors or a knife to devein shrimp, but I recommend a crab pick.  Works like a champ!  

When I was finished prepping the shrimp, I had a big, stinky pile of shells to dispose of.  I figured they would make the trash stink to high heaven, so I shoved them all down the garbage disposal and ran it for a few minutes.  Everything seemed fine.  Famous last words. 

So I made the meal, my brother Scott joined us, and we feasted like we hadn't eaten for days.  Because it was *that* freaking good! 

After dinner, we were all in the kitchen while I was washing dishes and Scott was getting ready to leave.  I noticed that the sink wasn't draining very well so I hit the garbage disposal switch.  It sounded  odd, but eventually the sink started draining a little better.  Jeff noticed and the following conversation ensued.

Jeff:  What's wrong with the sink?
LAB: It's draining really slowly since the ice yesterday.
Jeff:  Ice would have melted by now.
LAB:  Well, I also shoved a bunch of shrimp shells down it today.
Scott: *Looks at me behind Jeff's back and vehemently shakes his head "no" and then points at the trash can.* 
LAB: *Mouthing the words "Oh, Crap." to Scott.*

I figured I had choked the garbage disposal with shrimp shells.  I can't get in trouble for that, right?  The sink was draining really slowly at this point, so I hit the garbage disposal one more time and....nothing.  It didn't turn on at all.

Jeff:  I'll take a look at it tomorrow.
LAB: The sink's not draining at all anymore. 
Jeff:  *sighs loudly* I'll take a look at it now.  But I swear to God, if you did something stupid to it...you're dead.
LAB:  I didn't do anything stupid this time!  I swear!
Jeff:  We're about to find out.
LAB: Want me to get a bucket from the laundry?
Jeff:  Nope.  Just hand me a plastic bag.
LAB:  Why do you need a plastic bag?
Jeff:  To put over your head.  So you can never break anything again.
Scott:  Oh, shit! This is awesome!  I think I'll stick around for a while.  I'll be right back, I'm grabbing a beer.
LAB:  Not helping, asshole.

After checking to make sure I hadn't blown a fuse, Jeff started taking apart the sink and Scott reached into the garbage disposal to see if he could find anything stuck in it.  Jeff continued to give me dirty looks.  He was clearly worried he was about to catch me doing something phenomenally stupid as usual. But I just *knew* I hadn't done anything stupid that would have broken the garbage disposal.  I'm extremely careful these days!  Because I really hate those damn "LAB, you're a disaster" lectures.

I figured Scott would pull out a handful of shrimp shells, which surely I couldn't be in trouble for.  Our heavy duty garbage disposal should be expected to handle shrimp shells, right?  I was confident I was going to be blameless for once.

Scott dug around in the disposal for a few seconds and then he got a strange look on his face. He pulled something out...but I couldn't get a good look at it.  He showed it to Jeff, and then Scott busted out laughing and held it up to me:

Crab Pick, anyone?

Things suddenly started to move in slow motion.  I was muttering "oh crap, oh crap, oh crap" and slowly backing out of the kitchen.  For a brief moment, Jeff was at a complete loss for words.   Then he looked at me, shook his head, made a loud sigh and turned around to start reassembling the sink.

Have you ever seen a man after he has just admitted complete & total defeat?  Like he knows he's in a winless situation that he can never, ever get out of?  Like he's in a spiral of suffering that will never end?  No?  I see that look on a regular basis in my marriage.

Scott headed out the door with the following parting shot: "I don't recommend you ask him to straighten the crab pick out for you.  You might not like what happens."

I've been trying to figure out a way that this isn't all my fault, and here it is:  When I was buying the shrimp at the grocery store, I asked the seafood clerk for peeled and deveined wild-caught raw shrimp.  But they don't sell it.  All they had available was shell-on shrimp, which I had to peel myself.  This whole situation could have been avoided if Kroger had just sold peeled shrimp.  Therefore...I blame Kroger.  The bastards!

Boomer: Big Dog, Little Courage

When we adopted our Great Dane, Boomer, four years ago, one of the things that attracted me to him was that I figured no one would mess with me if I had a giant breed dog.  Yeah, right.  You may think I'm pathologically friendly, but you don't know the definition of those words until you meet Boomer.  And get slimed by his big, wet, jowly face.  It's all part of the experience.  He loves everyone, without exception.  And he shows his love by hammering the top of his head into your crotch.  You're welcome.

One of the things Boomer is definitely not?  Brave.  He's the biggest chickenshit Momma's Daddy's Boy on the planet.   He's afraid of basically everything.  Except strangers.  He freaking loves strangers.

Anything out of the "norm" sends him into orbit.  Which is why we have Doggie Diazapam at my house.  Valium: It's not just for overanxious career girls anymore.

Last weekend, Jeff was traveling and I was left home alone with the dogs, which basically guarantees that something ridiculous is going to occur.  Naturally, Boomer elected to used this opportunity to be a giant pain in my ass.  Because he can.

Everything was perfectly normal when I went to bed.  Marley was in her dog bed next to me and Boomer was camped out in the Queen-sized bed in the guest room, which he commandeered shortly after coming to live with us.  Also because he can.

Around 3:30 a.m., I heard him pacing up & down the hardwoods in the hallway.  Click, click, click, click. Stop.  Loud sigh.  Turn around.  Click, click, click. Stop. Loud sigh.  Turn around. This is Boomer's universal sign of distress.

I figured he needed to go out, so I got up and let him out in the front yard.   He did his business and we went back to bed.

Fast forward to 4 a.m., and:  Click, click, click, click. Stop.  Loud sigh.  Turn around.  Click, click, click. Stop. Loud sigh.  Turn around. Jesus, Boomer.

I thought may be he needed to go out (again), so I got up (again) and let him out into the front yard (again).  He didn't even get off the porch. Bastard!  Obviously he didn't need to go, so I opened the front door, and...nothing.  He wouldn't get off the porch and he wouldn't go back in the house.  Mexican standoff!

I've found myself in a lot of strange places at 4 a.m. on a Sunday, but standing on the front porch in my pajamas with a giant dog who won't come inside isn't normally one of them.  There's a first time for everything.

That's when I realized that whatever had Boomer spooked was inside the house.  Awesome.  Now we're all going to die.  It occurred to me at this point that I was glad (for once) that anywhere I go in our house I'm within 20 feet of a gun.  Is that Dueling Banjos from Deliverance I hear?

We were standing on the front porch like a couple of assholes and I held the door open while I decided what to do.

That's when I heard it.  Very faintly.  Chirp!  Boomer heard it too, and he jumped behind me and cowered.  Or at least his big ass tried to cower.

Oh, for Crap's Sake!!!!  Boomer was terrified that the smoke detector was chirping because the battery was low.  Jesus H. Christ.

I got a spare battery, dragged out the step ladder and pulled down the smoke detector.  After some wrangling, the battery was finally replaced.

Here's where I made a tactical error.  I saw the "test" button on the smoke detector, and figured that I'd hit it and hear a strong Chirp! verifying that the new battery installed correctly.  So I pushed the button.  What harm could it do?

Do you know what happens when you press the "test" button on a smoke detector?  It goes off.  Like fireworks.  Flashing strobe lights and Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!  Like the freaking 4th of July in my kitchen.  At 4 a.m.

Obviously, this did not sit well with Boomer.  He took off like a flash, careening into everything in his path.  One circle around the house.  Two circles around the house. At this rate, I wasn't going to have much house left when he was finished.

One the third circle I was able to tackle him and corral him in the kitchen.  And I have the bruises to prove it.  I spent the next half hour laying on the floor with him saying "It's OK, boy. It's OK, boy.  It's OK, boy."  He probably still doesn't believe me.  I made a very big production of picking up the smoke detector, carrying it to the back door and putting it outside.  That seemed to help calm him down.  Slightly.

Around 5:30 a.m. I finally got him back on his bed and I went back to my room.  Another crises resolved!  Guess now I can claim yet another ability has been added to my arsenal of critical life skills.  LAB: Defender of chickenshit giant breed dogs against the heinous threat of a dying smoke detector.

If you're considering getting a Great Dane for home protection, I suggest you consider another breed.  A Chihuahua, perhaps.

 This is not the face of a killer.

End note:  We were warned when we adopted Marley that Dalmatians are one of the most high-strung breeds of dogs, but do you know what she was doing during all the commotion?  Sleeping.  That's my girl!