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How About Some Takeout?

Last week I had visions of a scrumptious dinner that didn’t involve street people and couples with very young neurotic daughters; however, fate would change all that.

Turkeys at Ingle’s were 58 cents a pound. We bought a nice 20-pound tom and put him in the freezer until the night before I brought him out to thaw.

The huzbund spent the entire afternoon looking for the bird, and an elusive bastard he was. It was an eventful day, as the cat had the son of a bitch cornered three times in various spots of the house.

We still haven’t caught him, but I’m betting we’ll find him wounded under the table by Wednesday.

Fried Dyed and Laid to the Side

To celebrate one of my effing  birthdays, (I won’t mention which one, but in dog years I would already have overdosed on heart worm medication) I decided I needed some help from a professional. Desperate to find a replacement for my longtime hairdresser who at the time was taking a coma herself, I was thrilled to learn that I didn’t need an appointment at a new salon in town.
I was assured it was indeed a full-service establishment, and that my needs would certainly be accommodated.

Sunitha began by informing me that time was stealing my youthful look as Penelope was finishing up my caci treatment. I think it was supposed to be some sort of mud, but I’m a country girl, and once a cow patty, always a cow patty.

My texture was all wrong. My varicose and spider veins were doing battle with each other. They gave me a foil weave, but it clashed with my portwine stain.

They even removed my tattoo of Fago. With a belt sander.

After six weeks I was still picking off pieces of the paraffin body cocoon. The “painless” hair removal resulted in an upper lip the size of a Buick and a sixty day supply of Percodan.

Even though I see a different person in the mirror every morning, that boob job I got in ’75 held up mighty fine.