Ruminations of a Red Dirt Hussy

January 15, 2016

Pigs in the parlor.

Filed under: General — Vadasmaker @ 1:23 pm
Tags: , , , ,

I’ve been sitting on this since before Christmas, hoping to find a way to tell it that doesn’t make me sound stupid. If you read my blog much, you know that not sounding stupid isn’t high on my list of priorities, but damn. I couldn’t even make this up. So what I’m going to do is just throw myself on the altar of stupid.

Jim went to play golf because it was his birthday and that’s what he does. I decided to buy a thing like a vacuum that you can mop the floor with. I thought it might inspire me to mop a floor now and then. When I was looking for info about them online I saw a used one for sale, the very brand and model I was looking for. And it was $45 instead of a hundred and something. The seller said she’d bought it a couple of months prior and used it twice, but she’s a clean freak and didn’t think it did a good job.

Since I’m not a clean freak and was going to buy one come hell or high water, I said I’ll take it. Come to find out, she lives like two blocks from me, which means she could live in a twenties era mansion or, I don’t know, a refrigerator box. Not-that-there’s-anything-wrong-with-that. And I was knocked out by the serendipitous nature of it all. She had what I wanted, lived two blocks from me, and was asking for the exact amount of money I had in my purse at that moment. I mean, seriously. What could go wrong?

However, having once been almost-scammed on Craigslist, I was going to cover my bases. Being me, I thought all those coincidences might mean a serial killer had somehow figured out precisely what I wanted at that moment and used it to bait his trap. A very clever serial killer, I might add, because as you know, at any given moment I’m in want of 4-6 things.

My mother didn’t raise a fool (although you may beg to differ after you finish reading this), so I left a note saying where I was going and dialed 911 on my cell phone, but didn’t push “Call.” I would only do that if it was a serial killer for real. And if I had time before he put the chloroform rag over my face, bound me with my bra, put duct tape over my mouth, and threw me in the windowless white van. And yes, I’m using the sexist male pronoun on purpose. Everybody knows most serial killers are men. Google it if you don’t believe me.

So I got there, and her house wasn’t a refrigerator box, but neither was it a place I’d want to live. Kind of dirty and run down.

I couldn’t figure out how to get to the door. The front gate was intricately bound up in bungee cords and and chicken wire and whatnot, so I figured they didn’t want me to come in that gate. I went to the back and had to climb about ten shaky rock steps from the street. On that gate was a sign warning me to beware of a dog, so I stopped and stood there thinking about it, wondering why this run-down place had what looked like a steel back door with lock you had to unlock with a code.

And holy crap! Out of nowhere came these two pigs, or hogs, or whatever, running hell-bent for leather. Away from me, thank goodness. At the same time, a woman came from the other side of the house. She was maybe in her thirties. She looked like she might be a tweaker, and she was missing a tooth here and there. Looked kind of rough.

Anyway, she said those were mini-pigs–I have seen hogs and these were not those but neither were they mini-anything. They probably weighed 180-200 pounds each, and one of them was so pregnant her belly was literally dragging the ground.

She said they were pets. And that they were housebroken. From her explanation, when a pig is said to be “housebroken,” it apparently only does its business in a particular place. Not necessarily outside. But not just any-old-where, either.

AND THEY SLEEP IN THE BED WITH HER. ONE SLEEPS BETWEEN HER LEGS. I will never again apologize for having any number of cats, even if it’s 100.

I asked her if the one pig was pregnant or just fat. She seemed offended that I thought her pig was fat. She informed me that in just days there’d be another half-dozen or so little pigs around, and she would be raising them inside so they wouldn’t be skittish. Because, you know, nobody likes a skittish pig.

I went home home and cleaned all the nasty, nasty stuff out of that machine only to find that it didn’t work. Did. Not. Work. Did I go get my money back? I did not. I sent her an email and told her it didn’t work, delivering a general message along the lines of “I am so disappointed in you”—you know, like that time when your mom found that bong in your sock drawer? Not that that ever happened to me—but I made a conscious decision to avoid even the appearance of wanting her to return my money.

A woman who sleeps with pigs is not above cutting me up and feeding me to said pigs.

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2 Comments »

  1. This was so surreal!!!

    Like

    Comment by Lily — January 16, 2016 @ 6:20 am | Reply

  2. Sometimes you survive by knowing when to cut and run. Pigs between your legs? Aren’t they all? Ok, I had one or two exceptions in my life – and married them. And knowing when to cut and run. You may be stupid, but I still haven’t figured out how! I am stupid, too, but mine is terminal.

    Like

    Comment by pony tale girl — January 18, 2016 @ 10:26 am | Reply


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