Pickles & Dimes

Person Sick of Winter (PSOW): Thank you for meeting with me. I’d have met you outside on our nice cedar bench, but you know.

Contract Killer (CK): No problem.

PSOW: Here’s half your money, as requested.

CK, pocketing manila envelope: Excellent. Tell me a little about the target.

PSOW: Well, its name is Winter, and at first everyone loved it. But that was almost 6 months ago and it’s outlived its usefulness.

CK: I see.

PSOW: Last year at this time it was 81 degrees. 81! Today it’s only supposed to be 46. And tomorrow it’s supposed to snow.

CK: And this is unacceptable behavior?

PSOW: Yes, I have short-sleeved shirts to wear!

CK: Ah. OK, what are some of Winter’s daily habits? Does it have a routine?

PSOW: Oh, who knows? My sources the meteorologists say it’s gone one day, but then it comes back the next. The yard’s been almost completely free of snow five times now, but it always comes back.

CK: Interesting.

PSOW, whispering: What method will you use for the hit?

CK: Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a prolonged exposure to a high-energy light source.

PSOW: Don’t you have anything faster?

CK: Like what?

PSOW: I don’t know – a laser beam or something.

CK: I think you’ve seen too many movies.

PSOW: Well, whatever. I’ll pay you double if it’s gone by the end of the week.

CK: I’ll see what I can do.

PSOW: Thank you.

CK: Hey, do you mind if I take some snow home with me? For background information, of course.

PSOW: TAKE IT ALL.

A few of you inquired about our “Family Fear Factor,” and well, I’m happy to oblige!

Every year, Jason’s parents hold a family campout on their property. They have an outdoor fire pit; a pool, bounce house and mini waterslide for the kids; and even a homemade mini golf course. They wear bright yellow t-shirts that say “STAFF,” and pound stakes into the backyard with campsite numbers on them. They send out a brochure ahead of time saving the date, and list the rules and regulations. (“No fireworks!” “Quiet time is from 12am-5am!”) Everyone pitches a tent in the backyard, and plays badminton, bocce ball, cribbage, dice and cards. It’s always a great time. (Weather permitting.)

A few years ago, after finally hearing enough about how rowdy Jason and his cousins used to be (making their own Batman movies, crashing cars and setting fire to random objects) and how Jason, He Who Does Not Eat Vegetables or Fruits, cockily boasted that he could eat any of the slimy insects featured on “Fear Factor” (Me: “Whatever. You can’t even eat a grape“), we decided to host our own edition of “Fear Factor” at the family campout.

First, Jason & I scoured the ethnic foods section of the local grocery store, selecting super-hot jalapeno peppers, hominy, pig’s feet and cow brain. When we got to the campout, Jason’s mother was more than thrilled to give us access to her kitchen and good cookware to boil the animal parts. We then supplemented our culinary bounty with night crawlers and set the “Family Fear Factor” rules as such: Roll the die. If you roll a 1, you don’t have to eat anything. If you roll a 2-6, you have to eat one of the digestive track-destroying food items. Everyone gets 3 turns.

Jason first rolled a 1, naturally, so he didn’t have to eat anything; in his next round, he ate some of the cow brain. During his last roll, he rolled the number for the jalapeno peppers, but since he doesn’t eat veggies, was let off the hook by having to just take a shot of the juice instead.

I first rolled the number for the pig’s feet, which weren’t bad. But on my next roll, I got the night crawler. After unfurling Senor Chernobyl and rinsing him off, I finally ate him. And you know what? That worm was ten times better than my third roll, the hominy, because god, that stuff was NASTY.

Yesterday we went to my aunt’s for Easter. We were the last to arrive, even though we were a half hour early. As we straggled in carrying our deviled eggs and Easter baskets, my aunt greeted us with, “Would you like to try some goat?”

At first I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly, and my brain speedily cycled through other alphabetically possible variations: boat, coat, moat, tote, vote? Then I saw her holding out a giant ladle filled with some grayish meat: goat.

After Jason (who is a very picky eater) and I (ditto) exchanged startled glances, we shrugged and said, “Sure.”

My other aunt began dishing up alarmingly huge hunks of meat into a bowl with some au jus. My brother received his bowl and asked nervously, “Do you…uh…have a piece that’s…uh…smaller?”

As my aunt explained that her boyfriend from Kenya prepared the meat, I sniffed it cautiously. It smelled OK, and it looked OK. Plus, I once ate a night crawler during a family version of “Fear Factor,” so what the heck, right?

Then I tasted it. And as everyone else said things like, “Tastes like beef!” or “That’s GOOD!” I thought, “This tastes exactly like GOAT.” It was very goat-y. I’m not sure if it was the meat or the juice, but as I chewed, the image of a filthy goat with a dirt-matted tail entered my mind. Blech.

But the ham was delicious.

Yesterday when I got home, I found multiple tiny puddles of liquid on the floor. “Must be puke from Abby,” I thought as I quickly cleaned it up, mentally thanking my stars that all the spots were on the hardwood rather than the carpeting. I checked on Abby, petting her and soothing her while Sunny watched from the living room.

This morning, we fed the cats and gave Abby her cosequin chews to help with her joint stiffness (she’s no longer got a hitch in her step, thanks to them). Sunny lunged onto the counter as I was getting my vitamin, all clumsy paws, deficient vertical jumping skills and grunts, and begged for a treat.

I shook out two, and made her sit in a pathetic attempt to pretend I’m training her like a well-behaved circus animal, and put the treats in front of her. A few seconds later, I saw she was still sitting by the treats. Usually by this point, they’ve been inhaled and halfway digested.

As I stared at her in confusion, she abruptly stood up, ran downstairs and started wailing. And then promptly threw up.

She never throws up. Ever. (Abby more than makes up for this.)

But Sunny threw up 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 times, meowing miserably the whole time. As Jason comforted her and I cleaned up the tiny, frothy puddles spotted with cat food bits, I realized why we thought she was never the Puke Culprit.

She was attempting to clean up after herself by removing all of the evidence, if you know what I mean.

After I assured her that it was OK, I had it taken care of, she finally came upstairs to drink some water and then sat hunched over on the bath mat while I finished getting ready, a sad sack of potatoes made out of whiskers, orange fur and a perpetually wet nose known for burrowing into armpits at 3 a.m.

I hope she’s feeling better soon and back to her usual routine of hogging all the sun spots.

My name is Sunny, ergo I hang out in the sun. It is The Rule.

Hey, check out my impression of a coyote! A disgruntled coyote that someone foolishly awakened and must now dispense the price of ITS WRATH.