I fantasize about killing wild boars.

I do.* 

I fantasize about killing wild boars with my bare hands. 

Realizing that this is probably not something that most people fantasize about, I feel the need to elaborate.  First of all, you should know two things.  One, a sounder of wild boars have taken up residence on the land where I do the majority of my horseback riding, and, two, I enjoy reading fantasy novels. 

I tend to be dramatic.  If I see a tarp or a trash bag while I’m out on the trail, I immediately think, “dead body.”  I imagine mountain lions will chase after me in the woods like they did Pa in Little House in the Big Woods.  One time, a mannequin in the barn scared the living Hell out of me, because I thought it was a dead body and that the ranch owners were mobsters of some sort who would kill me if I told anyone about it.  See what I mean by dramatic. 

Knowing this about me, it isn’t that hard to believe that I tend to think about worst case scenarios and such as I’m riding horses on the trail.  Leading up to hunting season, I imagine either getting shot, or having my horse shot out from under me by drunk hunters.  I often imagine being tossed from my horse and breaking a leg or arm with no cell reception in the middle of nowhere. 

Horses hate wild boars.  Wild boars are dangerous. Even though I follow Gibb’s rule #9 when I’m out on the ranch, it isn’t lost on me that a knife wielded by little old me is not going to do much but annoy a two hundred pound wild boar sow that is protecting her young. 

The best fantasy characters are taken down by wild boars.  Remember Robert Baratheon and the poor hunting dog from The Once and Future King?

That is why I have to fantasize about killing the damn things with my bare hands.  If I didn’t, I’d be too scared to do my job.  I like my job.

*I did not kill the wild boar pictured, but it is one of the big ones (six and a half feet long/300 lbs.) I used to encounter on the trail.

This commercial cutes me out.

‘nuff said.

PSA: What a fever blister Really feels like…

I spent the last week suffering with a fever blister (also known as a cold sore).  I’ll be the first to admit that I tend toward the dramatic. In this instance, when I say suffer, that is exactly what I mean.  From what I can tell, people who have never had a fever blister/cold sore have no idea what the hell they are talking about when they talk about fever blisters.  I’ve suffered with fever blisters off and on since I was a child, and over the years, I’ve often noticed that I tend to only receive sympathy from those people who have also suffered with fever blisters.  Obviously, this is because those who have never suffered from the scourge of the lip can even begin to imagine what the small, skin lesion or rash actually feels like.

I didn’t actually notice this as a problem until a few years ago when the makers of Abreva (the over-the-counter cold sore remedy) ran a commercial depicting people suffering with fever blisters.  It was absolutely, ridiculously inaccurate.  First of all, it downplayed the affliction, and then at the end showed a lady wearing a turtleneck shirt actually pulling the collar up and over her lips.  OMG.  If you knew what a fever blister actually felt like, you would realize that a person suffering from one would NEVER actually do that.  It would be entirely too painful.

Fever blisters are like the devil’s spawn taking up residence on your lip.  Unfortunately, they are never described adequately.  I have read many descriptions of Herpes labialis outbreaks, and most are similar in nature to the following description:

An outbreak usually involves:

• Skin lesions or rash around the lips, mouth, and gums

• Small blisters (vesicles) filled with clear yellowish fluid

  • Blisters on a raised, red, painful skin area

  • Blisters that form, break, and ooze

  • Yellow crusts that slough to reveal pink, healing skin

  • Several smaller blisters that merge to form a larger blister

Notice how, while that sounds nasty (and it pretty much is, I won’t lie to you), they fail to mention just how painful such outbreaks actually feel.  My description would include a vise grip, a forest fire, and poison ivy oil applied liberally to the lip at once.  I have drawn a picture*.  I wanted everyone in the world to know once and for all just how entirely, excruciatingly painful fever blisters are.

Luckily, I have made it past the vise/fire/poison stage of my infection, and am well on the way to having a normal lip again.  I am all kinds of excited about this development. 

One last thing I would like non-sufferers to realize… Not only are fever blisters the single most painful affliction to ones lip, they also tend to develop during times of stress.  It’s like your stress is playing itself out on your face.  You don’t even get to suffer in silence, because everyone around you knows just how stressed the fuck out you are… well, they do now. 

Hopefully, I have enlightened the masses. 

I have at least made myself feel better.

Love,

Kate

*You wouldn’t believe how proud I am of this illustration, nor how much time I spent making it.

Pickled sausages?! WHAT?!!!

I have been eating pickled sausages since I was a wee lass.  Apparently, they are a mostly Southern treat and are very popular with the beer drinking male crowd.  My dad says that he can remember eating them when he was a boy while sitting at the tavern with his dad.  I have never experienced them in any kind of bar or tavern, but my dad would buy them now and again as a treat. We all loved them.

If there was a jar of hot pickled sausages in the house, we would all try to eat as many as we could when no one was looking because we all wanted to eat every single sausage in the jar. Every now and again, you would get a jar of these delightful, spicy treats as say a Christmas or birthday present.  Those were the best.  You didn’t have to share them with anyone.  I always tended to hoard them and stretch one jar out for a month or so…

This year my little sister and I both put them on our Christmas list.  (I must admit, I only put them on my list because I saw that she had an entry for “those sausages in a jar that I loved when I was little” on her list, and I knew that she wouldn’t share if she got her own jar.)  As I walked in the door yesterday after work, my mom said, “They DISCONTINUED those sausages you guys want!” I didn’t really believe her, because, lets face it, who believes their parents when they say they found something out online. 

Lo! They Have been discontinued.  I couldn’t believe it… I haven’t been that disappointed since… (I can’t actually think of anything comparable.  I was going to say since I found out about Santa, but that doesn’t really work, because… I wasn’t really that disappointed.) Anyway, I spent the evening trying to figure out a similar product, but the closest thing I could find (which I found at The Pickled Store) were going to cost me 40 dollars and there was no guarantee that I would even like them as well as I had the sausages I’d had as a child.  

I decided to take matters into my own hands.  I searched for recipes.

Success! (Hopefully.) I found a recipe called, “Dugan! Get Your Grimy Hands off Those Pickled Sausages!” and I enlisted my mother’s help to make the damn things myself.* (Also, who wouldn’t want to make this recipe.  I want all my recipes to be written by this lady.  She’s hilarious.)  We are finished with the first part of the process, and are just waiting until the sausages are pickled enough to eat.  I am SOOO excited.  I love these things.

I will report back with a verdict.  I am sure that all three of you readers will wait with baited breath for said report. 

Just you wait… just you wait… (I have to wait, too.)

*The above picture is what the sausages looked like when we finished.  They are currently chilling out in the ‘fridge until they have soaked up all the brine-y deliciousness.  You do not understand how excited I am.

Happy #JESUSWEEN!!

May all your nuns be sexy, and candy be un-poisoned.

…until they could die and join all the other carcasses strewn across the wasteland of my soul.

I am in the mood to write an angst-filled depressing blog entry.  My current level of depression could be described as above average, and I am not quite sure exactly why this above average level of depression descended upon me.

I am fairly certain that said depression started settling in around me like a fog fairly early this morning when handed the schedule, and realizing that, no, last months cut in hours wasn’t something that was just going to go away despite having spoken sternly to the powers-that-be and hoping, futilely, that they would change their minds about having cut my hours and magically give them back to me.   They did not give my hours back to me.  Realizing this, I told myself that I did not care, and that it would be fine, and that I would get along just fine without said hours.  This is all well and good, and worked for a couple of hours.  Until… Until I realized just how incredibly pissed off I was about it. 

And then… Omg… and then, I got more angry about it when I thought more about it.  I should never think more about things.  First of all, only two of us regular employees (there are four of us) at my work (a work I used to love, but the love has been decreasing ever so steadily for the last three months or so…) saw a cut in our hours.  A cut, I might add, that was never mentioned before or after the schedule was passed out.  The schedule was passed out and we were just left to our own devices to figure out that, “Hey, I’m not scheduled to be here tomorrow.  That must be a mistake,” wasn’t actually a mistake.  It was planned.  And thought about… and plotted even.  This, in and of itself, is irksome.  It made me furious.  After realizing that my fury would not affect the state of my hours… I tried ignoring it…

… that worked for awhile.  Until this week.  This week… Remember how I mentioned that only two of us saw a cut in hours?  Well… lets talk about those two particular individuals.  You have me.  I am a great worker.  I show up on time.  I do my job efficiently.  I am willing to learn.  I take initiative.  I get things the fuck done.  Then, there is the other one.  He is the opposite of me.  I usually ignore that he gets away with doing absofreakinglutely nothing every single day of his existence.  It pisses me off.  I had gotten to a place in which I was able to ignore it (because again, I have spoken sternly about him to no avail), until This week.  He was late every single day this week by at least 20 minutes.  Tuesday, he came to work an hour and a freaking half late!!!  ONE AND A HALF HOURS!!! That is unacceptable.  As a worker, he is the opposite of me.

I started thinking about this today.  The depression that had been coalescing around my head like a fog creeping up over a pond on a crisp autumn morning thickened.  I bypassed the anger stage.  And then… and then… He had the audacity to tell us that there “are just a lot of things going on in his life right now, and that he was going to talk to the powers-that-be about it tomorrow.” OMFG. Does he not think that there are not a lot of things going on in my life?  Or my co-workers?  I don’t know who the hell he thinks he is, but just because I don’t make a big deal out of my issues and cry and whine to the bosses, doesn’t mean I don’t have any issues.  EVERYONE HAS FUCKING ISSUES.  And if he talks to the powers-that-be tomorrow, and they give him his fucking hours back, I am going to be so fucking mad.  I may go absolutely bat-shit crazy on them. 

I know that the world is not fair, but this isn’t even funny at all anymore.  It’s the worlds least funny cosmic joke of which I have ever been a part. 

I feel ridiculous.  And sad.  And outraged.  And helpless.  And pathetic. 

The worst part I suppose is that I don’t know what to do about it.  I don’t know what it is that I’m supposed to be doing, and it’s even worse when I think about what I thought my life would be like when I was still in college.  What I thought my life would be like way back before all of my hopes and dreams got crushed and I turned into this hopeless, apathetic lump who refuses to do anything because anytime I actively try to do anything important it gets slapped down right back into my face. 

I am writing this because I have no idea what else to do.  I am sure there is no possible way that this can help anything, except I have this sliver of hope that getting it out into the wild will make me feel better.  I haven’t figured out why I get all the crappy breaks.  I must have used up all my luck in my first twenty years… because these last six have pretty much made me want to cry. 

I apologize for the angst.  I will try again tomorrow.  Maybe I will even attempt upbeat.  But, tonight, all you are going to get is downtrodden and sad. 

Lovely.

If wishes were horses...

...mine would fly me away.