I am posting two pics here of me that are most unflattering. The curler one was just a couple of years ago. But the other one, is painful. I have NEVER shown this photo to anyone. The only people who have ever seen it are immediate family. I was a horribly ugly kid. Red hair, freckles, crooked teeth, big nose, and to make matters worse, dirt poor. I was made fun of by other kids at school so badly that I would come home, lay on my bed and cry. I hated myself. I hated the way I looked, and most of all, I hated having to face those same kids every day at school.

This photo is so painful for me that I almost didn't put it up here for fear of being made fun of again. That's a pain that you don't want to feel again, you know? And no matter how old you get, you never forget what it felt like.

But I'm doing it for Sign Gurl. Because I love her. Yes, she's a blogger. We have never met in person but here's what I know about her. She is real and honest. That makes her vulnerable. She loves her family. She's fun, and now she's worried that if she goes to the blog meet in Michigan people may not like her as well because she's (in her words) a big girl.

Sign Gurl, you bet everybody puts their best pics up. It's not just you. That's just common sense. Nobody looks good 24/7. We all try to make our best presentation because sadly, we DO get judged by how we look. And nobody knows better than me how bad that sucks.
I won't be in Michigan with you but I will make myself vulnerable for you. That's what friends do. You go with your heart. And do what's comfortable. I'd be there with you if I could.
(If I get made fun of again....you'll be here, right?)

If this gal can get her dumb dog to poop in a bag. Then so can I, by damn!

My dog is every bit as smart as hers.

whistling softly.....waiting...thinking......thinking.......watching......lookin around.....ta dumb ta dumb.

Boy, look how stooopid that lady looks over there. Practically got her face in the po bag.

You know, some folks just have no dignity. Her husband's gonna die of embarrassment when he sees this. Poor man.

The first odd thing I noticed occured more than a week ago when for no apparent reason my dogs normally a quiet bunch began to bark for no reason at all. Lucy, the goofy love machine would not only bark but walk around during the evening with her hackles at full spike.

Then a few nights ago I awoke to the sound of footsteps racing across my roof. Back and forth they went followed by several thumps. I fell back asleep. (jack the ripper could be standing at my bedside and long as he was quiet about it, I'd go back to sleep)
But then a couple nights later I awoke to scraping, scratching, thumping, and bumping and I swear it sounded as though it were in the room with me! I got up and looked and....nothing. Bob slept on peacefully and I went back to bed.

Then it happened. I woke up and BOB WAS AWAKE TOO! This is not normal. Bob sleeps like the dead. All of sudden I too heard....not just scratching and thumping but....yes....chewing. Bob flipped on the light. And there was a hole in our bedroom ceiling! The second the light came on all sounds stopped. When I tip-toed over to get a better look, plaster fell in my hair and for a brief moment I saw a foot. Then it was gone. When the sun came up you could see daylight through the hole in our ceiling. I swear to you, if bob had not turned on the light right then, there would have been a third body in the bed with us before morning. No question in my mind.

Now for those of you who do not know, some racoons can be viscious beyond belief. They have been known to kill small dogs and behead chickens, ducks, anything at all. When trapped they will hiss, growl, scratch, and bite. They are not to be triffled with!

"We gotta call Critter Control, right?" I suggested, eagerly.

"No. We don't need them. I'm on it." Bob assured me. That's when he and his trusty side-kick Jake became ........ The Animal Terminators. Mean, and filled with blood-lust, they bated their trap, (peanut butter and cat food), loaded their 22 and got out the baseball bat and fire glove. The men were ready for action.

I must confess to you, at this point, I, myself had serious reservations about their plan. Most especially since firearms were involved.

I found the first raccon in the trap. No hissing, no growling, no nothing. Poor little thing. She looked up at me frightened and befuddled making herself as small as possible. "I won't let them kill you. I promise. It will be ok." I whispered to her.

When the guys came up in full raccon killer gear I told them, "She's just a baby. Look at her. There's no fight in her. You have to take her to a park or woods or something and let her go. I mean it. Do NOT kill her!

"Sure, we won't kill her," Jake says, slapping the baseball bat into his hand.

They carried out the cage with the raccoon in it balled up and small looking. Pitiful. They loaded her in my car along with the 22 and the bat. As they left I called after them, "You are NOT raccoon murderers!

They came back with an empty trap. They had decided in route to let the raccoon make the call. If she left the cage peaceably with no attack, they would let her go. From here on in, each raccoon would be delt with invidually.

Less than two hours later we had another one. This one was much bigger and far more frisky. But again, he was released without incident.

A third managed to eat the bait and not set off the trap door because leaves had blocked the lever. The trap is up there again. And today Bob bought ammo for the 22 while Jake checked out aluminum bats. I have a bad feeling about this. We have dozens of these critters and some of them are not so nice.

So you have been stricken by that old gypsy curse, "The Dreaded Black Thumb"?

Not to fret, not fear. I can help. I am not only a lovely person inside and out as my photos below prove beyond a doubt. But I am also a gardener extrodinare! As proven by these lovely photos.

Can I help you? You bet I can.

In this first pic you will notice what at first appears to be an extremely dead flower hanging from a lopsided and extremely dead stem. Pay that no heed.

Let's move on. Oh wait. In this next photo you might think you see cobwebby dead limbs on what used to be a healthy ficus. Again, pay no attention.

Where were we?

Ah yes! Removeal of the Gypsy curse.

So everything I say. Just as I say it.

Now, put one bay leaf under your tongue. Next, immerse your head in a sink full of cold, not icy, water. Only the top of your head. Leave your nose and mouth free. Now repeat after me.

Foul Gypsy curse I see.
Leave this thumb of mine and flee.
Releaf these boughs and set them free.
Or I shall kick your arse.

K, dry your head and run in and see your brand new healthy plants!


Note from Crabby's secretary:

Ms. Crabcake has gone on holiday to a deserted island with no phone or internet service. Should you feel the need to vent please take it out on Milkmaid, who is her second in command.

Thank you,
Crabcakes underpaid and overendowed, secretary.

Having enjoyed many stray nuts and fruits thrown from the mixing bowl to the floor, Lucy takes up sentry duty to ensure that baking bread is not pilfered by some n'er do well passing critter.

Five minutes pass. Lucy waits, sniffs, and watches.

10 minutes in, she sits transfixed by the delectible treat rising in the oven.

20 minutes pass, nostrils begin to flair in and out, in and out, sniffing the delicious treat growing inside the magic box.

35 minutes later, timer beeps. Lucy watches anxiously as bread is removed to cooling tray.

45 minutes in, Crabby slices bread, slathers with butter, and chomps it down as Lucy, befuddled, watches wondering what has gone wrong. In truth, I forgot about her till I downloaded these pics today. LOL!

Poor dog.

The flu has struck the
house of Crabcake and someone is surely going to be murdered before this thing is over.

All weekend long sick people wars have raged. There was the blanket pull where both Bob and I would at first ever so softly pull the blanket up to our neck thereby exposing the other persons feet to the cold air outside the blanket. Eventually however it became a full on WWF free-for-all. "STOP PULLIN ON THE BLANKET, MUCUS HEAD!"

"YOU STARTED IT!"

On and on it has gone. We have been reduced to calling each other names like, Poop Face, Snot Nostril, and Slug Bucket. We have battled over the remote to the point of getting physical, arms and legs flailing this way and that.

This morning Bob came in to the breakfast table where I sat, tissue in one hand, spoon of cereal in the other and he says, "Don't you look pretty this morning." Of course this caused Jake who was having coffee with us to bray like a jackass. "Good one," he says.

"Oh yeah, well did you look in the mirror this morning, Mr. Puffy Dough face?" I shot back at Bob. Jake shook his head. "That was lame."

At night when we're watching TV it isn't uncommon at all for one of us to say to the other, "Would you stop breathing! I can't hear the show!" Illness clearly does NOT bring out the best in people. Back in the sunroom the bird now continually shouts, "CRAP! STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT!"

I tell you before this is over someone is gonna get hurt. And I also better get well like....today! Because the car show is this week and I am not gonna miss that!

I don't know about the rest of you but I think this is most definitely the most sizzlin hot HNT ever! She's a beauty. Just look at that rack. And she has all the moves goin on.

























Not to mention. A great sit upon.

There's no hope for it. I am doomed to hell. No matter how hard I try I can't seem to be a decent human being.

I fear I may be one of those people that the world is better off without. I make fun of people. I make bad jokes. I go in men's restrooms on bets to get the french tickler condoms out of the machine. My mouth has no shut off button. I act on impulse and frequently land in hot water over it. The more outrageous the act, the more I am driven to do it. Anything for a laugh.

Which brings us to last night. We had dinner with two perfectly lovely people. Only in my mind, he's lovely and loveable. She is nice to me. But I tell you she is stuck up beyond belief and talks too much, mostly about herself, her fine cooking, and her daughter the doctor. I found myself thinking....I will give you 5 dollars of the money I'm saving for my web site if you'll just shut the hell up for 5 minutes.

They are world travels. Polished and extremely well-spoken. She is a spiffy dresser. I'm a jeans and sweatshirt kinda gal. She smells like expensive perfume and soap. I smell like big yellow dog. She drinks expensive wine. I suck cheap brew outa the bottle and I like it. She eats Calamari. I eat nachos. She is well read. And can pronounce foreign words impeccably. I'm more like Tarzan when dealing with someone who speaks poor English...."Me eat now." Rub belly for emphasis. Point to plate of food.

She appears to know everything. I know absolutely nuttin honey. Seriously. I'm dumber than a bag of rocks and I like it that way. But I am completely lost when she starts gibbering about all this La Te Da stuff I don't understand. I find myself staring blankly at her necklace, like a zombie in a trance with drool dripping outa the corners of my mouth while she goes on and on and on. And oddly, she doesn't seem to notice. Just keeps talking away.

I am the dumb one and now....here I am today, making fun of her. Which also makes me a bad person. Dumb and bad. A blight to society. That's me.

I do so wish Bob would accept the fact that he has married an idiot and stop trying to put me into social situations where I clearly do not belong. I yam what I yam. Uncouth, uneducated, and a champion burper.

We are oil and water. No way do we belong at the same table.

Please don't let this distract from the fun below. And I wouldn't post it but I just found this thing and I'd thought it was gone forever. I had forgotten a friend made a special card for me with this in it. It's the eulogy I wrote for my Mother's funeral.

I give this to you all now as a gift to single Mother's struggling to survive. Know that your children will not forget. I didn't.


She was a champion.
A pioneer for all the young Mother's
who stumbled along behind her, onto
the thorny path of single parenthood.
She took no hand-outs.
Asked for no help.
Her children were her life.
She fed them, clothed them,
and slew their dragons.

She did it all with honor and honesty.
But more than this, she did it with love.
She leaves behind a legacy of great courage.
We were blessed to have her and will miss
her sorely, every hour of every day,
till we feel her gentle touch again,
in God's open doorway.

As day two begins we find Cappy in the most precarious of situations. I fear one of us may have to go in and rescue him. You guys do it. I'm scairt of the big lady with the whip.











Lou appears to have become the main course in
an old lady banquet. This may be a new low for
Lou. Though I wouldn't have thought that possible.


Ok, does anybody wanna don a black outfit and run midnight mission to rescue these two? After all, they are fellow bloggers, right?

Day one. Stripper camp. First lesson - Pole dancing.
As day one of stripper camp begins we find Lou Reed
now desperate for butane or any other form of snortable, practicing his best moves outside behind the Silver Fox Gentleman's Club as he waits for them to open.

What Lou doesn't know is, in fact, he has arrived at the Silver
Fox Senior Center and not the strip bar.

Windows begin to open as 20 horny old ladies begin to hoot and whoop tossing down granny underwear that from a distance looks very much like billowing parachutes.

What will become of Lou? Will he ever get his butane? Will the senior ladies have their way with him and leave him worn, sore, and sockless?


Meanwhile Cappy has also somehow managed to go to the wrong address. Being only 10 inches high it is easy to imagine how The Cap'n might misread simple road directions. However, how the Cap'n managed to get himself into a locked dungeon is anyone's guess. What will happen to Cappy when the mistress of doom discovers he has infiltrated her lair?

More importantly can Stripper Camp become any more embarrassing for the Cowpie Field Bloggers?

I am in dog hell. The MIL is off to Texas. My SIL in a display of "pissed offedness" would not take her dog to the kennel to board it. Course Ellie, MIL was horribly upset as the time neared for her flight and the kennel had closed leaving her nowhere to leave her dog. She called here crying.

Guess who now has the dog. A little house dog that has never been around other dogs. Most especially none like my 3. a.k.a. The Circus Hounds.

Ellie's dog has already peed on Bob's head trying to climb up behind him on the sofa to get away from Lucy who sincerely believes I have brought home a moving squeek toy. Molly, (Ellie's dog) has also emptied her bowels on kitchen floor.

My dogs are beside themselves with joy trembling in eager anticipation of the hunt. To them anything catchable is fair game to play tug with.

If you want to be part of the Cowpie Stripper adventure. sign in here and answer the following questions. Men and women both welcome. It's an equal opportunity strip club.

All comments during stripper week will be story line additions. Feel free to get at creative as you please. If you sign in, I'm writing you in. LOL!

Since Chuck asked so sweetly. How could I resist. Here ya go, Chuck. You are now front and center with Tumble on the Cowpie HNT.

It's a tumbled HNT today here at the Cowpie field. Tumbleweed deserves mega kudos cause she was just a tad wary of handing me her head. LOL!

I think she looks mahhh-vo-lous!

I love cars. I've always loved cars. I can sing in my car and nobody bitches about the noise. I can eat whatever I want in my car and nobody tells me to taste it before I salt it.

What's important to me in a car? Color. Cup holders. Cubby holes. And it's gotta drive like a dream. I was offered a used Boxster S, white with full red leather interior at an incredible price. Bob loved it. All the guys loved it. And I admit, it handled brilliantly. But ..... the cup holders were crap.

Both Bob and the dealer (a long time friend) looked at me in stunned disbelief. "You'd turn down a deal like this because you don't like the cup holders," Ryan asked.
Bob made a face. "Look I want you to get what you want but this is a great car! It's a Porsche! I love this car. Look at that leather. It's a classic. We could both drive it."

"Nope. I need good cup holders. Besides you and I can not share a car and you know it."
"Why not?" Bob asked, astonished.
"Because the last time we got burgers you were
worried I'd get salt on your seat."
"What???"
"He'll let you salt your burger in the car, right Bob?" Ryan interjected hopefully.
"SHE DOES ANYWAY! DO YOU THINK SHE LISTENS TO ME!"
At this point I felt like Bob was getting much too excited so it was only fair for me to finish this off with the final deal killer.
"Besides the dash lights aren't red" I told them.
They stood there looking at each other, slack jawed till Bob told Ryan and the other fellas who had gathered round, "See? This is what I have to deal with. She's nuts!" Being men they all agreed.





After exhausting that dealers car supply we went on to our other dealer. Also good friends of ours. Now for some reason all these guys were determined to get me into a 4 seater. I was equally determined NOT to get into a 4 seater. I wanted a sports car! They thought they'd found the perfect car after oh.....3 hours or so. They were tired and worn down. I was happy as a clam chomping down doughnuts and drinking coffee.


They brought out this indigo blue Porsche. They'd had the thing for almost 2 years and desperately wanted to move it so I admit they did offer a mighty sweet deal and even offered to throw in 2 years extra warranty. It was a 2002, I think. Again, lousey cup holders. And again Bob was aghast because he had come "this close" to owning a great little Porsche for cheap. But HULLO! Bad cup holders. Not red. No red dash lights. NO DEAL!

While the men were busy busting their humps trying to agree on a good car for me I meandered back to the maintenance section to visit Gilberto. I love him. He's the cutest! He cleans and polishes those cars till even the worst car looks like gleaming ice. And lo and behold....there she was. The car of my dreams. I climbed inside. Not great cup holders but certainly acceptable. And red dash lights!

Bob had to think it over for two weeks. All the while both dealers were frantically trying to come up with more of a power car that would be acceptable. I even looked at Coopers. Very cute and red dash lights too. But the Audi TT owned my heart. And no matter what they showed me, I came back to the Audi. Yesterday we brought her home. I'm happy and the guys are all on valium so they'll feel better soon.

I'm gonna be gone for a big part of the afternoon. Know why? Cause I'm gettin my very own sports car! WOOOO HOOO! It's red! And it has red dash lights too! Corners like a champ and there's room for Lucy in the back.

I'll take the camera with me when I go get it. I can NOT wait for this! I even have Bose stereo and seat heaters. And it's not very old either. Just a couple years.