I'm a Pork Dork

Happy Valentine's Day everybody! I'm really rocking it. It's 7:09 p.m. The romantic dinner I planned is, as that former president used to say, "A DISASTER," I'm still wearing the nightgown I woke up with, only now it's covered in food stains, and my feet hurt gawd-awful.

Basically another typical day in the Webster house.

I had told Dave, DO NOT BUY ME ANYTHING FOR VALENTINE'S DAY. Only this year I meant it. No, seriously. Hizzoner is off work recuperating from carpal tunnel surgery and we're broke. Well, we're always broke, but now we're broker than usual. Again, as the Orange One used to say, "WE'RE THE BEST BROKE, NO BROKE IS BROKER THAN US."

Of course Dave bought me a sweet card and enough chocolate to make a dentist orgasmic. 

Feck.

So as not to appear a total romantic failure, I offered to cook dinner. A nice dinner, you know? Especially since I haven't cooked since Dave had his surgery. Yes, he cooks with a bum hand. (I know, it's sad. Very, very sad. But you're jealous, amirite?)

I planned to make pulled pork, with creamy mashed potatoes, squash (he loves it, and that is NOT fake news), and a cake. Sounds good, right? 

Well, the cake turned out alright. (It was a mix. Hard to screw THAT up.) But the roast, um, is still basically raw. Frozen in the middle. At - what time is it? 7:22 p.m. And don't forget about my unbathed body in the grease stained nightgown. Sexy as hell with raw pork. 

I sawed the roast into pieces and shoved it in the Instant Pot for round two. The squash and potatoes are drying up like my sex life. I looked out the window a while back and thought, I bet there's a lot of rub and tug happening out there tonight. Probably lots of anti-maskers were out dining at local restaurants, enjoying the premier's decision to allow in-person dining again, spreading the love, spreading the COVID, going home and spreading other things with full bellies, a wine buzz, and really bad garlic breath.

We might eat sometime tonight. Not sure how romantic it will be - we'll probably wind up noshing on peanut butter toast and watching another episode of Wentworth on Netflix. Lots of smut on that show. Probably the only smut going on in this house tonight. Unless Dave gets excited over dirty old women, raw pork, and whine.

I smell the squash. I think it's burning.

P.S. Yes. It burnt. Here's a picture.

Feck.

The Problem With My Groin

I did something to my groin. 

No, not THAT. Something to the space where your leg meets your abdomen. Well, actually, my leg and my abdomen. Sorry, didn't mean to imply anything about your groin.

What happened, was, I had climbed off my exercise bike and tried to get on the bed, as all athletes do after exerting themselves ... work out next to the bed and then flop on it to catch their breath so they don't fall over and croak.

My groin had been bugging me for about a week, but nothing to write home (or a blog) about. It was just sore, like I pulled a muscle or something. A small muscle. Like, one strand of muscle, the thin type. Nothing any cannibal would want to barbecue.

But when I got off the bike, sat down on the bed, then went to lift my legs to lie down, I screamed bloody murder! It felt like someone stuck a knife in my groin. Not that I know precisely what that feels like, but I can imagine that if I was knifed in the groin, it might hurt like that. 

Dave came running upstairs to see what I'd done this time. (That man is in such good shape from running up and down the stairs all the time to look after me - and HE is the one who should be looked after. Two weeks ago he had carpal tunnel surgery and he's at home to recuperate and eat bon-bons, but he's too busy mopping the bathroom floor and traversing the stairs for bon-bon eating.) 

I told him what had happened, so he lifted my legs up onto the bed, then spread my knees so he could have a look. The resulting pain was agonizing.

"JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH DON'T SPREAD MY LEGS!"

"I have to look," he said. "Here, let me turn on the light."

Why is it men always need the light on in the bedroom? 

"Don't worry," he said, placing his hand on my knees, and gently pulling them apart, "I'll be gentle."

"NOooooooooo," I hollered. "That HURTS."

He sat back on the bed. "I don't know what you want me to do." 

"I want you to put Dr. Ho there."

"Between your legs?"

"Yes," I replied, losing patience. "But use some of that lubricating gel first, it makes Dr. Ho work better."

This all happened yesterday. I am pleased to announce that Dr. Ho knows his stuff and things have relaxed under his stimulation. I also took a few anti-inflammatories, and stuffed a bag of ice down my pants. Things are still a little sore, but the sharp pain from yesterday has eased.

I do have a small lump in my groin, so I'm not sure if it's a pulled muscle, or a hernia, or just a fat lump. Has this happened to anyone else? Should I see about it, or just wait? Time heals all things, or so I've heard, but I also have to give some credit to my threesome with Dave and Dr. Ho. Such masculine hotties they both are ...

Something Different

This morning I was complaining about every day being the same, so I flooded the bathtub.

I wanted something different, right? And that was different. Also wet. And messy. It was amazing how much sodden dust and cat hair was discovered by the 539 towels Dave used to soak it all up. Of course Dave cleaned it up - I couldn't be expected to do it. After all, I hadn't washed my hair yet. My bath wasn't finished. I totally felt justified to scream for my husband, who was downstairs trying to enjoy his lunch, to come upstairs and mop.

 "Just throw all the wet stuff in the laundry basket. I'm going to take it all down to the laundry and wash it when I'm done," I said from my fortress of bubbles while my own personal Cinderella bent to the task at hand. He really was bent. I had a lovely view of the crack of his ass as he worked. "You might as well give the area behind the toilet a wipe," I added helpfully. "It's already wet and it could use a good cleaning."

He didn't say anything, just cleaned the toilet area while I watched his rather lovely hind end wiggle as he worked.

"Oh, and would you mind passing me my book?" I said. With a smile.

When I finished my bath, I picked up the laundry basket full of sodden towels and realized it was too heavy for me to lift. I am, after all, a delicate flower.

"DA-AVE!" I hollered. "IT'S TOO HEAVY. I NEED YOU."

Up he came, lifted the basket like it was a box of air, and took it downstairs to the laundry room, which is directly below the upstairs bathroom, and was floating in half an inch of water that had leaked through the ceiling. 

He is an amazing person, my man Dave. I wonder what I'm going to get him to do next.

Skipping Hallowe'en

Tell me how you really feel about Hallowe'en.

We did it! We skipped Hallowe'en. Our house was one of those dark houses, all buttoned up, with the inhabitants hiding inside like Scrooges caught up in the wrong holiday.

It was the first time I've ever done that. Do I feel guilty? HELL NO! We saved a couple hundred bucks not giving candy to all those dirty little pot-lickers, scamming us with nary a backward glance. Most of 'em don't even say "trick or treat" anymore, and almost all of 'em don't know how to say thanks. Ungrateful. Greedy little buggers, all of 'em. Screw them all, I say! NO SOUP FOR YOU!!!

I was nervous, though, getting ready for the onslaught. Had to do it early, 'cause the little darlings start early in these parts. Soon as school's out, they take to the streets, pillowcases in tow, a sea of pink princess dresses from Walmart, runny noses, cold feet, whining toddlers, and babies in strollers. Babies. What a scam that is. Everyone complains about teenagers trick or treating - I know damned well it isn't that baby eating those Tootsie Rolls.

So I started at 3:30 p.m. Drew the curtains, closed the blinds. Hung a bath towel from the curtain rod on the front door to close off all the little lace peek holes on the existing curtain. Shut the doors on the bedrooms facing the street. Brought snacks to our back-facing bedroom. Had a shower in the dark. Crept around the house in bare feet. Paced. Hid. When Dave got home from work, I hustled him through the door. "Hurry, hurry," I screamed, as one of the neighbour's kids - excited about the evening ahead - tried to talk to him. "Don't. Encourage. Them," I hissed, as I slammed the door behind him. At my insistence, he dismantled the doorbell, and then turned the Netflix volume high so we wouldn't hear the feeble knocking,  nor the insipid cries of the tiny, hungry, chocolate-smeared zombies that they are.

No, I don't feel guilty one little bit. Their parents all voted conservative in this year's two elections, and with the United Conservative Party's horrendous new budget, who has money for Hallowe'en?

Damned if I'm gonna treat their tiny conservative offspring for that trick.

Black Day in July

You know? I'm not even surprised, hearing about the shootings in Dallas. Strangely not even all that sad, and anything but shocked.

I'm numb inside. Immune to the trending headlines that speak of death after death, murder, brutality, hate, and still the misguided and patently stupid belief that guns will fix everything.

The U.S. has been heading for a meltdown for some time. It's so broke. There can be only so many black lives taken by police before the guns are turned around. The anger, the frustration, the justified belief that nothing will ever change, that black lives don't matter, has created a simmering cauldron that is way above the boiling point. 

I don't condone it, of course. I hate guns. But I'm not surprised. 

It's ridiculous that the U.S. has a reputation for its stance on terrorism, and yet it's not terrorists Americans should be worried about: it's each other. I'm not going to offer up any prayers because I believe that's a complete waste of breath, spit and time, but I do send condolences to my American friends, and a sincere hope that they can find a way to muddle through this nightmare they're forced to endure. Talk about a black day in July.

***

I posted this on FB tonight; thought it was worth sharing. For what it's worth.