Category Archives: Cows

Buying (and marrying) the cow

You totally get two posts today. You’re the luckiest.

I’m writing this a couple days in advance – you know, as I do – and have a job interview today, which is super-duper-scary. I haven’t had a job interview in almost seven years. I’m not ever quite sure what to say, or what they *want* me to say, or how best to represent myself, or what you’re supposed to wear, and when I’m nervous I talk too much and laugh obnoxiously. I’m trying to reassure myself by telling myself that no one enjoys job interviews. Well, maybe job interviewers do, since they have all the power. I can’t imagine an interview is as awkward for an interviewer, right? I’ve never interviewed anyone. Have any of you interviewed anyone? Is it easier to be on the other side of the desk? It must be, right?

Oh, THIS looks scary. I would not like this at ALL.

So in a couple of hours, I have to get all professional-looking with PANTYHOSE! and a SKIRT! and shoes with HEELS on them! (well, the heels aren’t very high, let’s be honest – I’m not much of a high-heel kind of chicky, they’re too unstable) and then I drive on down to the office and meet with the people and hope they like me and hope I don’t embarrass myself. Eee! Nervous-making!

Damn you, pantyhose. So CONSTRICTY.

I am also telling myself it’s not the end of the world if I don’t get it, that everything happens for a reason, blah blah blah blah, but it’s not helping much. I still have a very nervous tummy filled with all MANNER of butterflies. I’ll let you know how it goes. Unless it’s totally the worst. Then I probably will pretend it didn’t happen.


This is going to be random-crap-day. When you’re home most of the day, you don’t have a lot to blog about, I’ve noticed. I’d better find a job soon, yeah? Or you’re going to start getting posts full of “IT IS 1PM! I MADE SCRAMBLED EGGS ZOMG!!!1!” You can argue I was only one step away from madness already. You might even be right.

Yesterday, BFF sent me this article. Yes, this is the whole article. He thinks the last sentence is the best. I tend to agree, although there’s another sentence in it I love almost as much.

An 18-year-old boy in Bali who was caught having sex with a cow was forced to marry it in front of hundreds of people, according to video from Buzz: 60.

The teen said he thought the cow was a beautiful woman and it wooed him with compliments, the video says. Officials didn’t buy it, deciding on the marriage as punishment.

The teen passed out during the ceremony and the town decided to drown the cow.

(As you can see, BFF gets me, because he knew I would love this article a great deal.)

Ooh, look how pretty Bali is. I want to go to Bali.

“…thought the cow was a beautiful woman and it wooed him with compliments” is my second-favorite part of the article, in case you were wondering. (Of course you were.) Wooed him! With compliments! “Oh, young man from Bali!” (Shit, I need to come up with a name for him. INTERNET! I NEED YOUR HELP! I asked the internet and it says a name for someone in the Brahmana caste in Bali might be “Ida Bagus Ngurah” and I’m pretty sure if you had sex with a cow you’d be a member of the Brahmana caste. Because isn’t a Brahma a type of cattle or something? So this kid’s name is Ida Bagus Ngurah henceforth. HENCEFORTH SAYS I. I’m going to call him Ida, though. “Oh, Ida!” says the cow. “You have such lovely eyes and such intelligent thoughts! Please be my interspecies friend! There is no one I love more in the whole world, as you are the sunshine of my life and the grass in my field!”

Wink wink! Those are some sultry eyes!

But those damn officials! They did NOT BUY IT. Nope! Because he tried to get the milk for free, they made him totally buy the cow. My mom always SAID that wouldn’t happen. HA HA MOM. It happens in BALI.

Look how depressed that cow is. The MOST depressed.

Then our friend Ida I guess got overwhelmed during the ceremony – probably because of his overwhelming love for his lady-friend – and swooned like a Victorian lady, and then – and this is perplexing – the town decided to drown the blushing bride. That part’s a little confusing. Why are they drowning the cow? That poor cow. It just wanted to be LOVED. It complimented the object of its affection with the intention to woo; it won its quarry; and then, on the HAPPIEST DAY OF ITS LIFE, it was DROWNED. This is the worst wedding day ever. You’re all happy and getting married and then BAM you’re getting drowned by a crowd of townsfolk. Dammit, Bali. I’m never coming there to get married to a cow NOW.

*sniff* I’m just going to go over here and…DROWN, then.

I am back from the job interview! This is like a post full of time-traveling, isn’t it? Are you confused? Don’t be confused. I saved the draft and went to the interview and came back. LIKE A BOSS.

I don’t want to talk about it too much because we all KNOW that blogging plus work = BAD BAD NEWS but I think it went well. I think you either leave a job interview with a good feeling or a bad one. A good feeling doesn’t mean you have the job, of course. And a bad feeling doesn’t mean you’re down for the count. (My last job? I had the WORST feeling when I left that interview. I was all, “They HATED me. I’ll NEVER hear from them again.” Two days later, I had the job. AN OMEN FOR BAD THINGS TO COME? Perhaps.) But I feel like it went very, very well. I liked the people I met with; I feel like I answered the questions they asked in the way they wanted, and truthfully, without coming across as a simpering sycophant; I feel like I was a good fit for the position; it’s close to home, I like the location and the hours and the company size and – and you’re going to laugh at me – it felt COMFORTABLE. I live my life on hunches and guesses and whims, sometimes. It’s what I do. I like a healthy dose of both magic and whimsy in my life. So I left with a very good feeling, like everything just clicked. Will I get the job? I don’t know. The person who hires is out until next week so they said they might not get back to me until late next week either way. But at least I left knowing I did everything I could do and it went well.

Ooh, look, like the Hoff, I have a GOOD FEELING. Don’t you hassle him. DON’T YOU DO IT.

(BUT, I was as nervous as a…hell, I don’t know, nervous-person, and had to keep my hands tightly-laced in my lap the whole time because they were shaking so badly, and they had me fill out a lot of paperwork before they talked to me and if they’re hiring based on handwriting, they’re not going to hire me because I was shaking SO BADLY my handwriting looked like a third-grader’s. Also, at one point they asked me a question? And kooky Amy came out? I can’t HELP it. I can only hide her for so long, you guys. They asked me what I’d think about doing something, and that something sounded AWESOME, and I said, “I’d get to DO that? How awesome would THAT be?” Luckily, they laughed – nicely, not weirdly – so I think kooky Amy was welcome. To an extent.)

So cross your fingers. I think this place would be good. I mean, if it doesn’t work out – well, things sometimes do, and sometimes don’t, I suppose – it won’t be the END of the world, but it’d be nice to put one in the win column, especially after last week.


Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go geek out over the fact that I WROTE A BOOK and IT’S ON SALE TODAY YOU GUYS! Here, in case you missed my early early EARLY morning post, like EIGHT A.M. ZOMG, here’s the one where I freak out all over THAT news. Love your faces. Have a fantastic day!

Seeing that would have put me in a good moooo-d.

I totally have some stories. So really this is kind of random crap Monday but these are all stories that I have to tell you because they’re totally the most funny and/or interesting and/or annoying.

You know, someday? I’m going to get one of those tablet-thingys where I can draw really awful illustrations to accompany my posts, because really what my posts need are additional added horrible illustrations. You know what I can’t do? Walk like I’m not 95 years old on ice? Well, that either. Draw. I totally can’t draw.

How not to treat your patrons (unless you’re WANTING to lose customers, then go ahead, I guess)

So this weekend, I went to see a play. It was a good play, at a good theater; I left pleased with the performance. I did NOT leave pleased with the customer service.

Here’s the scoop.

I showed up. The usher (the ushers are volunteers, and, as such, some are more skilled than others; I try to cut them some slack. We all draw from the same pool of volunteers. I see some of my theater’s volunteers over there, from time to time. You take what you can get, volunteer-wise. You’re not paying a volunteer. Some work like it’s a job; some are there because, in exchange for volunteering, you get a free ticket, so they go through the motions accordingly in order to get their free ticket; some act like they’re there on a prison work-release program, and I don’t 100% understand why they come at all, no one’s forcing them) was having trouble seating people, because she didn’t understand left from right. That’s rude-sounding, and not meant to be – the theater’s somewhat in the round, so I can see that it might be a little confusing, which side is right and which is left. Also, there’s the whole stage left/stage right vs. audience left/audience right thing. I get it. So I seated myself, because I’ve been there before and I knew where my seat was.

About fifteen minutes later, she came up to me, very fluttery, with a couple of patrons. “Um…” she said, looking like she was about to combust.

“Yes?” I asked.

“I think you’re in these people’s seat,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Do you have a ticket?” she asked. Now, I really wanted to say, no, no I don’t, I’m a street person and I’m gate-crashing, but I produced it. She looked at mine. She looked at theirs. She looked like she was going to cry, because we all had the same seat number on our tickets.

At that point, she called over Officious Jones.


Officious Jones was an usher I’d been watching while seated, waiting for the show to start. Apparently, he thought that he ran the theater, even though he was an unpaid volunteer. He was cock-of-the-walking around, chest puffed out, yelling at the other ushers, attempting to herd the patrons into orderly lines when they were already in orderly lines, and generally being a pain in the ass. Also, an elderly woman walked in with snow on her shoes – it snowed here on Saturday – and he TOOK HER TO TASK for tracking snow into the theater. She apologized, and he told her “well, you’ll know not to do it again.” Yep. I was loving Officious Jones.

Officious Jones came over.

“Do you have a NAME?” he asked me. (Our names aren’t on the tickets.)

“Yes,” I replied.

He stood there. His face was getting red.

“Oh, did you want me to give it to you?” I asked. (People like Officious Jones make me obstinate. Well, let’s be frank, most people do, but people like him ESPECIALLY do.)

He grunted out a yes.

As Officious Jones stomped off, I gave my seat to the very nice couple who were waiting (they said they always had these seats, and were season subscribers, and there was an empty seat next to mine, and as I was just one person and they were very, very old and I’m really quite nice and actually very understanding, I KNOW SHOCKER, I let them sit) and stood waiting for the verdict.

Officious Jones stomped back in.

“The PROBLEM is,” he huffed, “you purchased your ticket for YESTERDAY’S show.”

(The tickets, because they recently switched over to a new e-ticketing system, don’t have a date printed on them.)

“Really. That seems unlikely, considering I worked yesterday. Why would I have purchased a ticket for a show that was occurring during a work shift, when I’ve worked the same shift for almost seven years now?” I asked him. Officious Jones didn’t enjoy this answer.

“THE COMPUTER SAYS YOU DID,” he hissed. “But since you’re here, I’ve been authorized to give you THIS SEAT” (and he pointed out a seat that was actually better than my original seat.) He waited until I sat, I guess to make sure I didn’t cause a ruckus or try to steal other people’s seats or strip naked or track in snow or something, GLARED at me, then stomped out.

OK, here’s the scoop.

I’m a paying customer. It is not my fault that your e-ticket system doesn’t have a date on the e-ticket; it is not my fault that your computer system says I purchased a ticket for a show that I KNOW I did not purchase a ticket for (and I didn’t keep the original email, so I can’t confirm or deny that I bought the ticket for yesterday’s show, but I can’t imagine I wouldn’t have – I’ve never made a mistake like that before, and I’ve been buying online tickets for years, I do it with a calendar at my side and write the dates on the calendar as I purchase because I see a number of shows a month and I want to keep it straight what I’m going to see when.) As a paying customer, I should be afforded a certain level of courtesy. That level of courtesy means that you do NOT treat me like I’m attempting to rip you off or that I haven’t bathed in a month or that I’m putting you out by being there. Our local theaters are in trouble. You need all the paying customers you can get. The tickets for this theater aren’t cheap. If you continue to treat your customers like garbage, you’re going to lose them, and we’re going to lose another theater venue in town.

At my theater, the patron is always right. Even when they’re an annoying, lying asshat. We bend over backward to make sure they’re accommodated. Once, we had a woman who refused to get out of a seat that wasn’t her ticketed seat. She made a huge stink over the whole thing. Could we have also raised a stink and probably physically ejected her or called the cops or something? Yep. But we didn’t. And you know what? She’s still a patron. We’re careful to make sure she sits in her ticketed seat every show, but we still get her money every time. We NEED that money. Theaters are going under every day.

Are patrons often asshats? Yep. In that case, we paste on a smile, we make them feel like we made the mistake, even when we didn’t, and when they’ve been seated with grace and style, we bitch about them until the air is blue WHERE THEY CAN’T HEAR OR SEE US. Because they are PAYING DAMN CUSTOMERS.

So, Officious Jones, you are very, very bad at customer service. Also, I didn’t whip out my credentials when I was there, because I am not an asshole. Oh, how I wanted to say, “Can I talk to your supervisor?” and tell them I’m the Artistic Director of my theater. Or that I know the person who runs your box office. BUT I DIDN’T. I totally behaved myself. Well, other than being a little stubborn, but I don’t think you can blame me, you were being a jackhole.

Also, to the ladies seated behind me who commented “There sure is a lot of talking in this play!” Yes, yes there is. It’s a play. About family relationships. Probably not many explosions. If you want explosions, I’d go to the movies, I’m sure something there would satisfy you. Also, YES, one of the actresses stars in the local Raymour & Flanigan furniture commercials. But you don’t need to point it out EVERY TIME SHE COMES ON STAGE. “There she is! AGAIN! The FURNITURE lady!” Shhh.

Murder most rodenticidinal IN MY FAMILY

My great-granduncle probably didn't die in the house.

So I was telling my mom about the Rough on Rats post from yesterday and she said, “Oh, like your grandmother’s uncle?”


So I said that – “WHAT?” and got this story:

My grandmother’s uncle – so my grandmother’s mother’s brother, my great-granduncle, I guess? was married to a woman. The woman, as it was BACK IN THE DAY, made all his food and drink, of course. He was known to not want to eat or drink anything anyone else made, when he was visiting others. It was his thing. “My wife makes MY coffee! The way I like it!” he’d boast, while turning down offers of coffee when visiting people.

Well, he died. And the wife remarried. And that husband grew very ill, similarly. And the doctors thought, hmm. And looked into it. And ran some tests. And found ALL THE ARSENIC in her new husband’s system. So they exhumed my great-great-uncle and found HE’D BEEN ROUGH ON RATTED.

Well, I don’t know if she actually USED Rough on Rats but my mom says it was totally a rat poison of some sort. Probably Rough on Rats. Let’s do the math. My grandmother is in her late 80’s. This happened when she was a child. Rough on Rats was around when she was a child. THEREFORE I’VE DECIDED IT WAS ROUGH ON RATS.

My mom says my grandmother still has the clippings from the paper and that my grandmother, who LOVES to tell stories, would be HAPPY to tell them to me the next time I see her and show me the clippings. THIS IS TOTALLY EXCITING.

When I told my dad he said, “Glad that’s not MY side of the family” but I said, “that woman wasn’t ON that side of the family, DAD, she was MARRIED to someone on Mom’s side of the family, I’m not genetically related to her or anything, damn” and he said “same thing” but it’s not, really, Dad.

Although I totally want to be related to the Black Widow of Upstate New York. HOW EXCITING. I can’t wait to see the clippings and hear my grandmother’s story. More on this as it develops! Rough on Rats in my FAMILY you guys!

Well! That was…unexpected! AND ALSO AWESOME! 

My uncle recently purchased a truck. He needed to get it inspected. He lives in the boonies, as do most of my people. The garage he brought it to was teeny, and cold because who heats a whole garage? And the inspection was taking a while, so with the cold and the waiting he eventually realized he had to pee like a mofo.

So he asked the guy, “Can I use your bathroom?” and the guy was all, “Sure” and waved him back to it. On the way back, my uncle saw a lot of what looked like cat litter on the floor of the garage. “Odd,” thought my uncle.

The bathroom door was broken and would not shut, but listen, if it’s cold and you have to go to the bathroom, no one cares much. That time I had to pee because effing AAA wouldn’t come and rescue me from the side of the highway and I still have not forgiven them, the bathroom door at the gas station when I finally got to pee was broken and I was totally Honey Badger did NOT give a shit, you know?

So he was in the bathroom, and all of a sudden, the door opened while he was in there, and! Well, THAT’S off-putting! And guess what came into the bathroom?

Awww! Squish!


The garage guy was bottle-feeding a baby calf that the momma cow had rejected (I assume the garage guy was also a farmer, we’re pretty multi-tasky, up there in the North Country) and the litter on the floor was apparently because the calf was pooping all over or something, I don’t know, that seems odd, but whatever, BABY CAAAALLLLFFFFF!

My mom, who told me this story, didn’t seem to think that my response of “I would have screamed, because who would have expected that there? Then totally cuddled its little nose and asked the guy if I could bottle-feed it!” was appropriate, but I would have. Aw, little wee calf! I love cows!

Listen, although I love living in civilization, I have to say, awesome things like a calf walking in on you while you are peeing in a rural garage do not often happen here where I live. We don’t get a lot of livestock situations here. That’s kind of sad.

Happy Monday to all and to all a happy week! May you all avoid dictatorial ushers, murderous wives, and get to pet all the adorable baby calves you desire!

The Only Thing to Do Is Jump Over the Moon

I am not a fan of beef.
I’m not a vegetarian, by any means. Bring on the pork products; I’ll eat my weight in them. I also like chicken a great deal, and most fish is a-ok by me. But I can do without beef. Hamburgers once and a while are fine (especially with bacon, which is the world’s perfect meat); pot roast is not the worst thing in the world, but there is usually celery involved in the cooking of it, and there is nothing worse than the flavor of celery (and those STRINGS IN CELERY WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT’S HOLY ARE THOSE); and I can handle steak, but only if it’s covered in either ketchup or barbecue sauce and cooked very, very well-done, because if there’s a hint of blood on my plate, I am out of there. I don’t want anything that’s still bleeding on my plate. I am not a cannibal. This is not the stone ages, and we have fire now, thank you very much.
All of this to say: if I were to never eat beef again, I wouldn’t miss it in the slightest.
So imagine my surprise when I found out that I am probably dying of Mad Cow Disease.
I used to give blood regularly, and then fell out of practice a while ago. Nothing really spurred the change, I just got busy, I suppose. I also have weird veins that are very deep in my arms, and it usually takes someone with the patience of Job to find one. Add to that the fact that I am as pale as a cave-dwelling albino, and I bruise with even the slightest bump (so when I’ve given blood, I usually have a spectacular bruise that lasts anywhere from 2-4 weeks and look like a junkie – a pale, pale junkie), and you have the recipe for avoiding the voluntary donation of blood.
There was a blood donation drive in my work complex, and we were given a couple of hours off if we chose to participate. Listen, time off is one of my favorite times. I’d do just about anything for it. Including let someone bruise me up like a bad apple and steal my life juices. So I went to the donation drive with the promise of time off dancing happily in my mind.
Have you filled out one of these Red Cross donation questionnaires lately? They are all-inclusive, let me tell you. Here are some (just a few – there are a LOT of them!) of the requirements you must meet:
·         You must be able to breathe through your mouth. (I was. I am. WHO ISN’T, though, is my question? And bless them for thinking of others when they have a major, major issue of their own such as, oh, I don’t know, NOT BEING ABLE TO BREATHE THROUGH THEIR MOUTH)
·         You can’t be a man who has sex with other men; you can’t be a prostitute; you can’t have sex with gay men or prostitutes; and you can’t be a junkie (I’m not any of these things, nor have I done any of these things, and yes, I understand the need to ask them, but whew! Nosy! I really, really wanted to ask the man at the desk questions like “Is it prostitution if they paid me in cigarettes or, say, Jolly Ranchers? Say, do YOU have any Jolly Ranchers?” and “My husband says it’s not gay if he and his lover kept their eyes closed the whole time, so I’m good, right?”)
·         All other STD’s, just as a FYI, but AIDS? Are ok. Interesting!
·         You can’t have had a tattoo in the past 12 months. (Good thing I waited on that “I Heart You Mom” tattoo I had my eye on! Also, there would have been a tiger. And a ship.)
So I’m filling out the form, and I get to this one:
From January 1, 1980, through December 31, 1996, you spent (visited or lived) a cumulative time of 3 months or more, in the United Kingdom (UK), or from January 1, 1980, to present, you had a blood transfusion in any country(ies) in the (UK).
I spent a semester abroad. We lived in London. It was from January to May 1995. (As an aside – worst semester of my life. I lived in a flat with two friends and two strangers who ended up being mean frat-boy bullies who made my life a living hell, and ended up coming down with mono that lasted for a full six weeks – which I didn’t even get from kissing, FALSE ADVERTISING, MONO! –  so I didn’t even have the energy to get out of bed. I couldn’t wait to come home.) I hadn’t given blood since being back, so hadn’t run into this question before. I brought my paper up to the man behind the desk, a stony-faced individual, and we had the following conversation.
Me:        Hi. I’m wondering about this question?
Him:       What.
Me:        I spent 5 months in London in 1995.
Him:       (Horrified look, as if I am a leper) You can’t give blood. (Tries to take my paperwork, clipboard, and pen back from me, forcibly.)
Me:        What? Why?
Him:       You could have Creutzfeld-Jacob Disease.
Me:        I’m sorry. That’s – I – Mad Cow Disease? What?
Him:       If you lived in the UK in the time specified for more than 3 months, you could have been exposed. We can’t have you giving blood.
Me:        How would I get exposed to something like that? I wasn’t on a farm work-study trip. We were studying Shakespeare.
Him:       From eating beef.
Me:        Oh, ok, then. Then I’m good. I don’t really eat beef. I know I didn’t
                while I was there.
Him:       Doesn’t matter.
Me:        I’m sorry? Why?
Him:       You could have been exposed from eating food cooked close to beef. You can’t donate blood.
Me:        Ever?
Him:       Probably not. Check the Red Cross website. If the ban’s lifted, feel free to come back. (Then he CHUCKLED. Me DYING of Mad Cow Disease TICKLED him.)
Then I left, dejected. Not only did I not get my two hours off (you had to show one of those “I donated” stickers, which, even though I was very nice about begging for, the man wouldn’t give me) I was now dying of Mad Cow Disease. The symptoms of which are, and I quote from the Internet, which is never wrong, “muscle spasms, lack of muscle control, memory problems, unsteady gait, decreased milk production, and eventually the animal dies.” I may have mixed together the human and cow symptoms, but I did it for EMPHASIS. So you know how TOTALLY SERIOUS MY MAD COW DISEASE IS. I could STOP PRODUCING MILK, everyone. How will I feed my calves? And eventually “the animal” dies? Way to have empathy for me, INTERNET. Oh, you were talking about the cow there? Ok, then. Still.
Also, I often forget things, and I have an unsteady gait at times. So odds are good I’m just about a goner.
The moral of this story is, you should give blood, because you find out very interesting things about yourself. It’s like a personality quiz! And I failed it!

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