Questionable Meat

The sound of dripping at 5 in the morning can only mean one of two things:

  1. A pipe burst, or
  2. Blue wants to go out

Loony has taken to calling the dog Snowpiercer after the inscrutable film of the same name. I think it has to do with the way his pee pierces into high banks of snow.


Clever, no?

Anyway, Snowpiercer came up at zero-dark-thirty and because Shreef is out of town there is no way I’m getting up to do yoga with just anyone when it is cold and dark out.

Who is Shreef? I blogged about him already but I don’t mind posting this picture again because, frankly, it just never gets old.


I fear he might have seen that post because he hasn’t been very active on Instagram lately. Do you think he knows I stalk his feed? Talking about ruining it for everyone.

Anyway, the dog sidled up to Loony and did that pacing/drooling thing that he does when he wants to go out. Because Blue is afraid of hardwood floors, I very cleverly removed the area rug on my side of the bed so he has no choice but to plant himself on Loony’s side when it is time to make demands.

Loony yells at him to go back to bed, which never works, and I pretend to be asleep. Then Blue drools all over his arm and Loony relents and takes him out.

We go through this every morning unless it happens to be a yoga morning and Shreef is in town in which case I set my alarm for 5am so I can walk the dog and service the cats before making my way to the club.

I miss his soothing English accent telling the class (but really just me) that I should imagine him cradling my hips or something or other.

Only 25 more days until he gets back.

God this is creepy.

I had a really funny conversation with an older-than-me woman at the club before one of his classes.

She was all, “Don’t you just looove Shreef?” and I was like, “Uh, yah. He’s totally my boyfriend,” and she was all, “He’s not your boyfriend! He’s my boyfriend,” all aggressive and I was like, “Look Barb, I like you, but I will seriously fuck you up,” and she was like, “Try it bitch. I. Will. Destroy. You.” and it was getting kinda loud and the rest of the class was looking at us so we decided to take it down a notch.

“Can you believe he’s going to be gone for a whole month? What are we going to do?” I asked.

Barb said, “But he’s going to have such a wonderful adventure,” and I’m like, “I know he’s going to England. What else is he doing?” and she was like, “AHA! You call yourself his girlfriend? You don’t even know his travel plans!” so I was like,


That Barb, she’s feisty.

Then Shreef walked into the studio and we had to pipe down lest things get weird.

So that’s the long way of saying that no, I’m not doing yoga right now. Like at this moment. I’m blogging by the light of my Christmas tree and the Little Dog is wedged between my knees.


Speaking of the club, I went to their holiday party last night and got pressured to do karaoke.

But I didn’t because 1) There were old people and children there and my performances are profane and inappropriate 2) The first person sang Raindrops on Roses which would make me singing Erotic City while doing an interpretive dance too much of a tone shift and 3) There was no way I was going to drink and we all know that excellent karaoke performances always start with shots.


I wasn’t drinking because the previous night I got violently ill. As in projectile-ly ill.

I don’t think it had anything to do with the three glasses of wine, two gin and tonics, some of that rum and coke I sneaked from the guy sitting next to me or that half bottle of white I drank with Tabby.

That’s not why I was sick.

All that drinking was spread out over six hours which is only two drinks an hour.

I don’t usually start drinking at 3pm but Emily stopped by to drop off Christmas jam and mentioned that she was on her way to her husband’s company party at the Boulderado and I was like, “As his landlord I insist on being invited.” Even though I hadn’t heard about it until that second. By accident.

I yelled at the kids to put on clean sweatpants and we were off.

I texted Loony so he wouldn’t feel left out.


He joined us and I ate what amounted to Itchy’s birthweight in melted brie and creme brûlée and then foisted the kids off onto Jason when it was his turn to try to get out of the Escape Room and enjoyed a blissful afternoon of open bar and crabcake/shrimp canapés with hollandaise.

But that’s not why I was sick.

We got home around seven and quickly made our way over to Tabby’s house. I hardly ever see her these days since she went and got a real job so I invited myself over. Loony came, too.

She has a proper bar with barstools and mirror in one of her rooms and in the corner is a popcorn maker on wheels. In her house. For just her and Matt.


You know, Tabby, in America we use our microwave to make popcorn. We don’t buy furniture to make popcorn.

So we ate a shitload of popcorn and shared a bottle of wine. But that’s not why I was sick.

We got home and watched a couple episodes of Orange is the New Black, drank a quart of water, and went to bed.

I woke up around two feeling nauseated and proceed to hurt and hurl and hurl into the toilet. Like huuurrrrllll. Violently. With much pressure. Like this…


Since Loony wasn’t sick and the boys weren’t sick and Tabby wasn’t sick and we had eaten all the same foods and it wasn’t the booze because I had spread it out over hours with food so the culprit had to be … drumroll …

The Questionable Meat.


Loony threw the annual Boulder Bird Club holiday party/potluck two weeks ago at our house.

I love these parties because most everyone who comes is retired. In practical terms this means that when I say it starts at 5pm, everyone is there, with their coat off and starting to dig into the food and drinks by 5:12. I’m not kidding, I checked the clock.

By 8pm the house is cleaned up, everyone is long gone and you never would have known that there were 50 people just there. It’s amazing.

One of the guests (a hunter) brought a ton of duck that he had personally shot, cleaned, and cooked with jalapeños. It was delicious but there was a ton left over.

I hate to waste food, especially wild caught duck, so I resolved to finish it off in my lunch salads. But there was so much.

So I’ve been enjoying roasted duck with jalapeño and avocado salads on mixed greens every day. For two weeks.


Is it surprising that I got violently ill? No. Did I have it coming? Probably. Was I going to do a bunch of shots at the club holiday party just so I could make a bunch of old people feel really uncomfortable while I ground out Darling Nikki?


Hells no.

Did I do handstands that day? No.

Will I finish off the last of the duck because, believe it or not, there is more?

What do you think?


3 thoughts on “Questionable Meat

    • It might not have been the duck. I’ve been under the weather for the last few days since the “incident” and by all accounts there has been a gastrointestinal aspect to the nastiness going around. I’m still abstaining from the duck, though.

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