Tales from the Tank #34

This is the story of Billy Joe and Bobby Sue....Opps...I mean semi-empty nesters with nothin better to do.....

It all began a few years ago in a concession stand at one of the local high schools.  We used to sell those giant dill pickles, you know the ones. One day the physical trainer caught me dumping out the pickle juice and said "Stop! Don't throw that out. We could use it for when student athletes cramp up". So we began supplying the athletic trainers with giant jars of pickle juice.

Seriously?

Apparently there have been many studies on the subject and until recently, I kinda had forgotten about the whole incident until I noticed our pickles slices in the fridge were getting kinda dried out.

Then low and behold I found out why. There in the kitchen was my husband Terry, drinking the pickle juice out of the jar.  "What are you doing!" I exclaimed.  "I had a leg cramp." he replied.  "So you just come to the fridge and drink the pickle juice", I asked. "Yep. If it works for athletes, it will work for me" he replied. "Why can't you just eat the pickles too?" was the next question.  "I'm not hungry", was his answer.

Go figure.

So, a couple weeks ago, yes....we started thinking about how to create pickle juice without the pickles. It's impossible. Oh you can create the brine - but the taste is pretty horrible (trust me). I threw that out.   So last weekend, while at our local grocery store, I bought the Mrs..somebody's dill pickle mix and some cucumbers.

How hard can it be right? I see people posting photos of stuff they've grown and canned. Last summer I  taught myself how to can salsa. Pickles had to be pretty easy.

I must say I am kinda proud of myself - I just followed the directions and am now the proud owner of five pint jars of pickles - and they don't taste half bad and the juice is actual pickle juice.

I'll let you try some, but you only get the pickle. I have to keep the juice for the dude that drinks it in the middle of the night.

Til later.....

Tales From The Tank #33

Dear Diary...I mean blog...

It's been one year since my last post. It's not that a lot hasn't happened.  It's just that I haven't taken the time to write any of it down.

In a nutshell...we re-did the yard for a backyard BBQ rehearsal dinner. Finished restoring our very own popcorn popper/with cart! Actually sold a fish tank. Our oldest son got married.  Our youngest son had some health issues. We experienced our last college football season watching the youngest play. I had surgery. Terry found out he has high blood pressure. Hosted a surprise birthday party for a good friend. I realized I am a bad parent because none of the pictures of the kids are organized  - so I am now figuring out how to create scrapbooks.  Finally culminating in the major event of this week.

The dog pooped her diaper.

What? Your dog wears diapers? Seriously?

Well yes. You see I am also a bad dog parent.  Sophie has not been spayed and now, as an eight year old, I can't see the need.  It's not like she ever goes on a date, so we don't need to worry about "teen" pregnancy issues or anything.  But twice a year, she has to wear a doggie diaper with a sanitary pad.

This is where the story begins....she woke us up at 3 a.m. this past Wednesday.  Terry yelled at her to "go lay back down".  I think she did, but then I heard something so I got up at around 3:30, and once I get out of bed, she gets up, (sometimes she sleeps in Matt's room).  Before I even got to the kitchen and turned on the light, I could smell it. Really smell it. And then I stepped on something squishy.  Yep. Just like a two year old, she blew out the side.  Yuck right?

So, I cleaned up that spot, (and my foot, but not in that order), and then took off the diaper and let her outside.  Now what do I do?  I grabbed a couple plastic grocery bags, sort of shook out the rest of it and then tied the bag shut and put it outside. It was garbage pick up day, so I figured I'd put it in the garbage bin once I got back from gym class at 6:30. I then took the icky diaper downstairs and washed it out.

But wait!   I should check her. Well, needless to say, by 4 am, she was getting a "sponge bath", I had found two more spots in the living room, and by 4:30, I was cleaning carpet and searching for more piles of poop.

By 5 a.m. I had to leave the house for class, and when I got home, I was greeted by a very upset husband. "Why the hell didn't you tell me she @#$# in the house?!!"  Well, I put it outside and was going to put it in trash, and I kinda ran out of time.  "Well just so you know, I had to put the bags of @#$@# you had in the back yard (poop picked up on Sunday) in the garbage, and I grabbed that one, and had to try and smash it down, but the smell was so bad there is now bacon and eggs in the yard by the fence."  EWE.

I'll clean up the poop, but regurgitated bacon and eggs is something else entirely.

"There's also a smell downstairs, you better make sure she didn't poop anywhere else".  GEEZ.

After investigating, (apparently sometime after I left for class), she decided to pee in front of the TV.  Now I have to rent the "Big Green Machine" and clean the carpets this weekend.

Apparently she did not go back to bed...and...

No Matt, she did not poop on your bed.