BARF!!!

I have been threatened.

Holly sent an e-mail, challenging the four sisters-of-the-heart, the next time we are together, to eat a “teensy, tiny, eensy, ittsy, bittsy” bite of a calf fry. Should we refuse, she will out us in her blog and call us names.

I know calf fries by the name of mountain oysters; Az called them Rocky Mountain Oysters. Holly’s Dearly Beloved described them as a little grainy, kind of like liver (which ends the discussion right there for me), and a light meat—but not as light as chicken or rabbit. Az said they reminded her of chicken gizzards (which again ends the discussion as far as I’m concerned). Cait said she thought they tasted like chicken fried steak.

You know what that means, don’t you? I’m the only one that hasn’t/won’t eat them.

I told Holly if I had to eat them I would puke on her. She said fine, as long as I don’t puke in her nice, pretty car. (It’s a convertible, it’s not like she can’t air it out!) She said I could try it with some wine. I told her I’d puke fries and wine on her. Then she suggested that I could get drunk. I told her then I’d puke all kinds of stuff on her.

She’s laughing at me the whole time.

I don’t butcher the cows, so I don’t have a problem eating hamburger or steak. However, I know where those calf fries come from and have helped harvest them. Uh-uh, no way, I am NOT gonna eat them.

I don’t do puke, either, even my own kids’. You know, when you work in the ER, you just have to deal with stuff. I don’t work in the ER anymore, so I don’t have to deal with stuff anymore. To this day, I have a clear picture of myself, pregnant, standing next to Bed 6, everyone else is on break, and a drunk is puking all over my hand.

Nope, I don’t do puke. Or calf fries/mountain oysters.

So, she’s going to call me a Weiner and a Wanker. Now you don’t have to bother going to her blog today.

Flo