&*(#$)(*#%^)#@)!!!!

I'M SO ANGRY.

That's why I'm yelling at you in capital letters.

I'll spare you too many gory details, but the situation went down like this:

I was at PetCo with Ryker, walking around so he could get in a few smells and I can recall with fondness the days when we could buy him the cute toys. The ones he destroys in 15 minutes. A lady walks up to me, and the conversation goes as follows.

Crazy lady: Oh. My. Gosh. A vizsla. Where did you get him? How old is he? He's adorable! Ohcomeandgimmesomekisses!

Ryker wiggles happily over. He's too young to sniff out the crazies.

Me: His name is Ryker. We got him from a breeder in North Alabama.

Concern creases her face in an instant. She stops petting Ryker and looks at me in anxiety.

Crazy lady: Which one?

I tell her, and she stands up.

Crazy lady: You're going to have health problems. And have you fixed him? Yep you have. That was wrong, you shouldn't have. You should have waited until 18 months. You're a first time owner, aren't you? I can tell. This is why you need a Vizsla contact like me. You've done things wrong. But you didn't know.

Stunned, I stare at her and try to answer.

Me: Really?

Crazy lady: Aren't they great to train? The six month rescue I just took in, I've only had for a week and a half, and she's already squared away and totally obedient. It's just that easy, you know, when you know what you're doing like I do. Do you run him? How far?

Me: Sometimes on leash, mostly off leash. If it's on leash, only 2-3 miles. But that's not very often.

Crazy Lady: You're running him too much. You're going to damage his growth plates. I know, I have six Vizsla's and a rescue. They call me the crazy Vizsla lady around here, isn't that right Ed? (She yells at an employee walking by. He nods politely and continues on his business because HE can sniff out the crazies.) I've had them my whole life. Let me give you my information, I'll hook you up with every single Vizsla owner or breeder in the business around the world. That's what happens when you've been in the business as long as I have. Ask Ed, he knows. I'm here all the time. That energy he's got is pretty typical of Vizslas, can you handle it?

At this point my blood is bubbling in my skin, and I can't take it anymore. I unleash on her all the fury of a first time mom to a stranger who dared educate her on how to raise her perfect child.

Me: Excuse me, but who are you to question if I am qualified to take care of this dog? This is MY dog, and I have done a damn fine job of raising him, and I'll continue to do a damn fine job of raising him without your contacts or help with it, thank you very much. Don't you dare tell me there is something wrong with him. He's a perfect dog, from an excellent breeder I plan on buying from again despite your incredibly rude reference to them. Who are you to know anything about me and my dog? I hope you realize you have just pissed off the wrong unemployed woman with a lot of time to raise hell in your life. You're lucky there's not a lake around, or I'd throw you and your narcissistic self love into it you southern biddy!

The woman stares, flabbergasted. Then, with tears in her eyes, she profusely apologizes and takes her leave with her metaphorical tail between her legs. Ed strolls by and gives me a high five, whistling as he goes and disappearing at the end of the aisle.

OK FINE.
It didn't exactly end like that.

More like me excusing myself after she handed me a paper with her facebook, her email, her phone number, her social security number and the library of congress reference number to the book she wrote about how great she is. In my passive-aggressive rage I crumpled it up in my fist once outside and threw it in my car with a cry of rage and the wish that Husband had been around to open his can of Army Infantry kick ass.

Then I did the only thing there was left to do.

I called my mom.

Stupid Little Rattles.

Husband and I have great ideas.

The problems come when we drag other people into them, like Husband's parents.

This picture is a summarization of the view while on the partial night hike we took them on this weekend, in a sincere attempt to show them a good time.

Our style.

When Dahrl was here in August we went on a hike at Pine Mountain a little later than expected. It ended up getting dark, we stumbled our way through the last mile via moonlight and had a great time. We've been talking about doing it again ever since.

Except Husband forgot to check the lunar calendar.

To say that Cindy-Mom and Father Stephen were troopers would underestimate it. The stumbled through an hour and a half of nothing-to-see-blackness. (Except for the little red light attached to Ryker's collar that bobbed incessantly as he ran... non stop.) They even laughed when we got lost, found out we were on a horse trail, and had to double back.

To say that Ryker was tired would overestimate it. He was fine.

To say that the suspicious little rattle that began as soon as Ryker began sniffing out a certain spot with particular interest didn't worry me, would definitely underestimate it.

I'm not overly fond of suspicious little rattles in a dark southern wilderness during a month known for snake to be mating when you can't see the ground and your dog is overly curious.

I thought, and still kind of do, that hiking in the dark is a new sensory experience. You pay attention to everything, (especially the prancing red dot that's leading the way) in a way you don't when you can see. Like the sounds of the forest in the wind, or the sudden whisper of birds taking off. The milky way coats the sky in a fog when there's no flashlight to blind your night vision. If you stop, and listen, you can hear the leaves fall.

But then I thought, meh. It's just a walk in the dark and a few lost toenails after all.

It's Katie's Turn!

Conversation. Of. The Day.

Katie and Husband are at Kohls, after a three-month struggle over trying to get Husband a new suit. (He's still wearing his pre-mission suit. At 28. Pre-Mission suit. At 28.) After intense 2 month debate the two agree that they will shop for at least an hour, no more, or until a suit is found within said hour. The clock is ticking. Husband knows that. He dawdles. He talks on the phone. He does anything but walk towards the door so they can go look at another store.

Katie, with a frustrated breath snaps her fingers and says out of pure, frazzled motherly instinct,

Katie: Ryker, come!

Husband stares with an open mouth, as Katie dissolves into giggles, reassures him it was an accident and promises a blog post.

Math and Pecan Pie

I did some math this week. 

Pecans Tree + Fall = Free Pecans!

I was under-prepared and had to use my can opener to crack them open.

Then I wikihow'd harvesting pecans, like any normal person would do, and stopped the frustrating process of trying to shell them.

'Parently you gotta wait for that.

We went camping this week in North Georgia. Can YOU spot the Vizsla in the road? Yeah, I typically couldn't either. I reverted to asking him to avoid the red colored mushrooms on the side of the road, and called it good. For the record, he paid attention when I told him. I consider that warned.

Husband was doing some Young Men's Spelunking stuff, so Ryker and I went hiking for 3.5 hours. The scenery is partially redemptive.

You can't hate ANYTHING in greenery like that, even if it IS humid and your hair is fro.

Picturesque, no?

 Ryker is helping me write my book, as you can see. I was sitting just in front him. He wormed his way there, then rested his head on my laptop.

I think he was trying to tell me something.


Then again, he worms his way into everything, as you can see below.

And, he's leggy. We can't take him walking where we used too, because it's deer season. Tell me he doesn't look like a deer? We get it all the time.

At Least He's Reliable....

I wasn't going to do this.

Really, I wasn't. Mostly because Husband was expecting it, and that's not any fun at all. Plus, two posts in one day? What is my world coming too?

Aren't we supposed to love our neighbor? Doesn't revenge just weaken us?

But then as I thought about it I realized that contemplative revenge is much sweeter than anticipatory revenge. And no one has to read two posts a day, that's up to you, not me. Overload on your part is not my problem.

Justification is almost as sweet as payback.

Conversation. Of. The. Day

Sitting on the couch after watching a few episodes from the Big Bang Theory Season 2. Ryker is on Husband's lap, asleep. Probably with his paws straight up in the air.

Katie: What time is your yoga class?
Husband: 7:30. I should probably go get my yoga pants on.

Katie knows he's being sarcastic. He's much, much too masculine for yoga pants in public. 

Katie: You can always borrow mine.
Husband: Wouldn't the butt be way too saggy on me?

Catastrophic silence ensues as the two stare at each other. Husband averts his eyes in abject horror and an admission of guilt. Katie prevents him from speaking any further, as only more damage comparable with Hurricane Katrina would result.

Husband is currently washing the dishes.

It's not that I hated you, August...

3 Importants Things To Note Since My Last Post In July

1. I've developed a new obsession with Fage Greek Yogurt. (Thanks, Dahrl)

2. Husband was so bored on day 2 of being graduated that he cleaned the Den Of Iniquity.

3. When working out yesterday there was a 20-25 minute span where I didn't see my heart rate below 182. Almost barfed. It was great.

Now that the crucial details are out of the way, onto Savannah Georgia and other parts of South Carolina that we liked much better than Georgia...

He just can't help it...

Conversation. Of. The. Day

Katie is busy cleaning the house. Husband is sprawled on the couch and has been for several minutes.

Husband: Hey honey, what are you doing?
Katie: Cleaning the house. (sidelong glance) By myself.

Husband: (indignant) Not true! I helped.

Katie: Really? How?

Husband: I stacked the magazines on the coffee table five minutes ago.