Fun ways to spend money:
- Steak, lobster and other delicious edibles!
- New car!
- Puppy collars and leashes!
Not fun ways to spend money:
- Pantry staples that seem to have increased in price, again, because seriously lets see how much you can charge for olive oil (shakes fist at sky)
- Washing your car only to have it snow the next day (See also: super expensive gasoline for said dirty car)
- Well-dog visits with vaccinations (oy vey) and the announcement it is time to schedule a $300 teeth cleaning for said dog
I’ll give you one guess as to the ways I’ve been spending money.
Tomorrow Rhett Butler has his “one year” adoption check up. He will be poked and prodded and weighed and he will get his rabies and bordetella shots, along with an all-in-one that should gaurd him against a litany of maladies including distemper and parvovirus. Responsible dog owners, FTW! We will now tell people who ask “how old is your puppy?” that he is six- six years not six months- and I think next weekend, on his actual adoption day, he is going to get a mini-puppy cake made from peanut butter and unicorn horns. Yaaay Rhett Butler.
B and I have also discussed at great length our decision to put Rhett Butler back on Prozac this week. We had weaned him off of it and I know, I know, our little yuppy puppy on human anti-depressants is so very comical, but while his ThunderShirt does wonders for his fear of storms (and the loud rumbles they produce) it doesn’t help against his agitation, which manifests itself with chewing his back legs to bits, aggression with any animal-based treat (such as a rawhide) and general grumpiness. When he takes just 5 mg of Prozac a day he’s happy to leave a rawhide alone (and doesn’t mind anyone coming near him while he enjoys it), he doesn’t snap at anyone who interrupts his precious nap time and he stops chewing his legs to hairless stubs. Yes, he is going back on Prozac, which means once a month I’ll head down to Walgreens to fill the prescription. Our local Walgreens is especially urban and there is always at least one strung out woman arguing with the pharmacist about their refusal to sell her any more Sudafed. I always love the excuses that follow, as the individual grows more and more desperate (waiting meth labs must run on very strict time tables) and finally security escorts them out.
Anyway, I sit there waiting and a litany of people fill their prescription papers out until finally, as the waiting area grows crowded, a pharmacist will come forward and yell out:
This is my cue to drop my head and shuffle forward gripping my debit card and Mr. Butler’s prescriptions savings card (that I paid for and which makes the cost of his prescription much more manageable becuase he isn’t Medicare eligible). Of course someone always gets in my way as I head up to the counter, so the pharmacist always gets the opportunity to yell it out again:
I said, RHETT BUTLER? PRESCRIPTION PICK UP?
At this point of course I’m summarily embarrassed (WHY DID I NAME MY DOG AFTER A LITERARY SOUTHERN SCALLYWAG, B WAS RIGHT, OTIS WAS A NICE NAME) and shoving my cards across the counter while whispering through clenched teeth,
Rhett Butler is mine, thanks.
The pharmacist looks me up and down with a mixture of pity and scorn, and as I grab, again and again for the bag, she always takes a step back. By this point people are staring, somehow this is more amusing than the meth lab lady, which is odd considering I’m wearing matching shoes and paying with legal tender and not a wad of Monopoly money, but again. People who name their dog Rhett Butler cannot be choosy.
I’m sorry ma’am but you’ll need to review our suicide prevention literature.
This is where my eyes bulge out of my head.
Right, that prescription was written by a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine. It is for my dog.
This is where the pharmacist gets a sick, twisted grin. They live for the yuppy puppy prescription fillers.
Yes, well. Protocol and all, you are filling an anti-depressant. Now if you could review the following 12 signs of suicide and severe depression and just initial here by each of them……
I’m beet red and sweaty by now, wishing I’d taken my coat off before coming inside and wondering why pharmacy pick up is always so far from the front of the store, you would think they’d want the germy people to come and go as quickly as possible. I hurriedly initial each sign and symptom – luckily Rhett Butler has been eating like a champion and I haven’t found any missing prescription bottles that formerly contained anything lethal in large doses – and I give the pharmacist a hairy eyeball. Really now, what else?
At this point I’ve paid, and tucked away my cards and the crinkly paper RX-bag in my tote bag, and I try to back away slowly, embarassed but wondering if B would notice if I took a quick pitstop in the beauty aisle for yet another scrub or potion for the shower. This is when the pharmacist always takes the parting shot, over the bow so to speak, and yells out something akin to Hope Rhett Butler’s depression gets better! Oh and don’t forget this pamphlet on suicide signs! as she shoves a Pepto-pink flyer into my hand. It always contains a clip-art image of sad, sad person and a happy person, as if to remind you that these are your emotional choices in life, and if you pick the sad face, well then, you’d best keep up your appetite and not make threatening statements.
Anyway, I’ve digressed. Happy Happy One Year Adoption Anniversary You Mutt You! May you, and your Prozac, live happily ever after.
Today I’m sharing two recipes due to reader request. First up is a crock pot concoction that I adapted from a Cooking Light – Slow Cooker recipe. The original recipe called for a 3.5 quart crock pot, and so in addition to some other tweaks, I doubled the amount of cornbread it called for to be sure it covered my larger surface area. While I think it worked out just fine, know that a smaller crock pot should use half the cornbread mix, and if you have a larger crock pot just be aware the bread layer will be thicker than the casserole layer. So yummy!
Chili Cornbread & Spicy Black Bean & Corn Casserole
Add all ingredients to your crock pot, stir, cover and cook on “LOW” for 4 hours.
Mix cornbread, egg whites and chilies and pour over the top of the corn & beans in the crock pot. Cover and continue to cook on low for another hour, or until a knife comes out of the center cleanly. Add cheese to the top, cover and cook 5 minutes until cheese is melted. Serve & enjoy!
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Homemade Dog Treats
Rhett Butler is obsessed with these easy, allergen free dog treats and we don’t mind making him a batch every few weeks. They store in an airtight container in the fridge for up to 3 months, but good luck keeping them around that long!
Peel and slice sweet potatoes into “sticks” and arrange on parchment paper covered cookie sheet. (Currently obsessed with Martha Stewart parchment/foil paper combo.)
Bake at 250 degrees for 3 to 3.5 hours, until shriveled and tough. Cool & store!
I think we can all agree that little kids… are kind of weird. They have vivid imaginations and they manage to come up with some…weird shizz.
For a long, long time I was sure I held the title for inventing the Worst Imaginary Game ever, of all time, forever and ever and ever-ever.
My brother and I were a few years apart, and every few days my Mom would mandate that we had to play together. I of course was much older and wiser and did not want to play together so whenever the ruling came down, I’d trudge up to my room. My brother, very excited to get to play with his Big! Sister! would follow happily. Once we would arrive in my room I’d select a book, instruct my brother to sit in front of my bookshelf and I’d start reading.
After a few minutes he would go tell my Mom that I wasn’t playing with him. She would come upstairs and look at me.
What Mom? We are so playing. We are playing LIBRARY.
My Mom would roll her eyes and tell me to play – for real this time- and leave us alone again. I’d then give my brother some pencils and index cards and encourage him to make check out cards…while I read. I could typically keep this game going until the third or fourth time Mom came back to tell me I wasn’t actually playing, and by that time I would have gotten at least a few more chapters read. FTW!
Anyway, I thought this was a clear contender for the Worst Imaginary Game Ever until I was chatting with an old friend and we were discussing the weird things kids do. And that is when she confided in me she had a game she liked to play around age five, where she would fall off the back of the couch and whisper “help” quite feebly until rescue came.
And she called the game playing Baby Jessica.
Ladies and gents, I pass the torch.
Unless of course someone thinks they can out-do her.